23
Things were going pretty well, even if she said so herself. Her and Spike were being civilised and accommodating on the organising of access visits to Rowan, Polly was being friendly to Bam (even though she still found her annoying – sorry, but she did), and Max was proving to be a naughty-but-nice boyfriend, and she was enjoying their times together and managing to avoid any discussions about parenting and Ben. So what if Polly’s heart fluttered whenever she saw Spike or heard the sound of his voice? That would soon fade, and then he’d be back off, leaving them all to return to normal. Just a matter of time.
One night Polly and Max trooped along to the open mic night at the Angel Café, where Polly was keen to perform a new poem she’d written called “We’re All Middle Class Now”. It had some lines she was particularly pleased with:
“Keep Calm, Carry On our – Such Fun – jolly motto
We’d rather self-harm than fill in the Lotto
Our kitchen’s festooned with Union Jack bunting
We don green Hunter wellies for shooting and hunting
We drip with Cath Kidston, with Boden with Toast
Our Phoebe is gifted, we don’t like to boast!
We knit Kindle cosies, we’re oh so “ironic”
We swear loads at parties, we drink gin and tonic…”
When Polly had finished performing her poem, she returned to her seat. Buzzing. Spike and Bam had arrived earlier, threatening her equilibrium and calm with their presence. Not good to get rattled just before going on; but he’d merely waved at her as he stood alongside the bar, his drink on the counter, turning to watch her perform. Polly was aware of his presence during her performance, yet somehow it hadn’t thrown her. Instead the delivery of her poem went down well – even though she said so herself.
Max, on the other hand, didn’t say anything. Not a ‘Well done,’ or an ‘I liked it.’ No, he just said, ‘What d’you want to drink?’ She knew she shouldn’t mind, and that he probably didn’t realise how vulnerable it felt to get up and perform, and how marvellous it was to have support and encouragement from your loved ones. In spite of her best intentions to not mind Max’s omission, a wet blanket of disappointment threatened to envelop her. ( You know why he didn’t say anything, don’t you , whispered that horrid little voice inside her. It’s because he hated it, that’s why .)
As Max made his way to the bar, passing Spike and giving him a nod of recognition, Spike caught Polly’s eye. He turned to say something to Bam and then started to thread his way through the tables, towards Polly.
‘Well done, Poll,’ he said, leaning over her slightly, causing her to catch a heady whiff of his familiar scent.
‘Cheers.’ She scrambled to her feet to give him a hug, determined to ignore the way her nerve endings went Ahhh, once she was in his arms. Embarrassed and hoping that he hadn’t spotted her discomfiture, she patted him on the shoulder. ‘It’s always nice to hear when someone enjoys your poem,’ she said.
‘Sounds like you’re back on form. Very witty. You’ve a way with words, so,’ and he gave her a grin. ‘I liked the line about glamping. Spot on!’
Polly was positively beaming now. ‘Thanks. You’re a real pal.’
‘I’d better get back.’ He cast a smile back over his shoulder to Bam, who raised her glass in salute.
‘You want to join us?’ said Polly. ‘Me and Max, I mean?’
‘No, you’re all right, Poll. Wouldn’t want to be the gooseberries now. We’re off in a mo, as it is.’
He kissed her lightly on the cheek and she felt as if she’d been subjected to a small laser burn. She closed her eyes for a moment. Pull yourself together. Eejit .
Spike returned to Bam, and soon his laugh – that same old laugh – came drifting over to her, even as she watched Max return, manoeuvring his way back to his seat.
‘Was that Spike?’ he said, looking over to where both Spike and Bam were taking their leave. Both Spike and Bam mouthing ‘Bye.’
‘What did he want?’
Polly could have said, ‘To congratulate me,’ but she didn’t. Instead she answered, ‘Oh, nothing much.’
Max leant in to nibble her ear. ‘I loved your poem. You clever minx, you.’ He had a gleam in his eye, and Polly felt rotten that she’d harboured doubts about his support.
*
Polly and Max were trying another picnic with the kids. According to the forecast on the news last night, the weather was set fair. As she threw open her verandah double doors to greet the morning, the morning blew drizzle back in her face.
Brrr. Not to be daunted, she turned to her daughter and set about buttoning – or should that be toggling – up her red duffle coat. ‘Don’t you look cute, Ro Ro. Just like Little Red Riding Hood.’
But Rowan wasn’t listening as she fidgeted and twisted around. ‘Hold tight,’ said Polly, fastening the last toggle, while Rowan rooted about in her pocket, pulled out a lemon fruit pastille and popped it into her mouth before Polly could take it off her.
‘Ugh, Ro. That’ll be all mucky.’
Rowan merely chuckled and carried on chewing.
Polly slipped Rowan’s pink boots – covered in purple daisies (chosen by Rowan) –onto her feet. In the past, Rowan had not shown much interest in clothes, happy to let her mother choose. But lately, she’d begun insisting on choosing her own; and an increased demand for pink had crept in, which Polly wasn’t mad keen on.
Brrrring went the doorbell. That’ll be them .
She opened the door, and in bound – a wolf!
Polly shrieked, and Rowan threw both hands up in a startle reflex as a dog barked in her face.
For a moment, Polly thought she might well be in an Angela Carter book – but – ‘Down, George!’ ordered a grinning Max, as he strode after his hound; Ben charging in behind him, pushing past Polly.
‘Yaaarrrrr!’ Ben shouted as he jumped on George’s back.
‘God sake, Ben,’ said Max, pulling him off. ‘Leave poor George alone.’
By now George was sitting on his haunches, giving a delighted Rowan’s face a good licking with his pink tongue. Oh God, oh God , thought Polly. She turned to Max.
‘A dog? You never told me you had a dog? Or is he some stray that followed you here? And,’ she said, gesturing to the dog, ‘can you please stop him slobbering all over Rowan!’
Max placed his arm around her shoulder. ‘Don’t worry. This is George. He’s harmless. He’s Claire and Ben’s dog. She’s had to go away overnight, so I’m looking after him, as well as Ben. Aren’t I, George?’ Max said, ruffling the dog’s ears, causing George to set about having a good scratch. Rowan, clearly delighted at such doggy antics, beamed while Ben ran around the kitchen in circles.
‘Woof! Woof!’ joined in George.
‘Christ,’ was all Polly could say.
‘Stop worrying. Fresh air for George – whoops – and Ben,’ added Max, as he grimaced in the general direction of Ben, who was sitting cross-legged on the floor, emptying out the contents of Polly’s saucepan cupboard. ‘We’ll have them tired out in no time.’
‘You sure the dog’s okay?’ she hissed, as if the dog could hear and possibly disapprove. ‘Does he like children?’ Rowan was bent over, peering straight into George’s eyes, while George lifted first one eyebrow, then the other, and finally opted for licking the end of Rowan’s nose.
‘Like them?’ half laughed Max. ‘Oh yes. Especially with crunchy dog biscuits!’
‘Hilarious.’ But Polly wasn’t – actually – finding this funny at all. She’d not had a dog when she was a child, and tales of dogs ripping children’s faces off all too easily sprang to mind any time she passed a big one – like an Alsatian!
‘But it’s an Alsatian,’ hissed Polly, as she pulled Rowan over to stand next to her. ‘And they can – well – they can be vicious, can’t they? The police use them and everything…’
‘Don’t hurt his feelings, Polly,’ said Max, as George did his eyebrow-raising thing again in some sort of doggy attempt to look appealing, she supposed. ‘George here is a rescue dog. He’s a cross between a German Shepherd and a Border Collie. Aren’t you, boy?’ Ruffling his ears again. ‘He’s got a sweet temperament. In any case, Claire had his knackers lopped off.’ Max gave George an “ouch” look. ‘I’m sure she’d have liked to do the same to me an’ all.’
And there it was. That slight edge to his voice. But then he turned on his smile. ‘Just kidding.’
The dog let out a low rumble.
‘He’s growling,’ said Polly, not moving away from the safety of Max’s side, and keeping Rowan close.
‘That’s not a growl, is it, Ben?’
‘No, Daddy,’ said devil child, who’d been banging Polly’s Jamie Oliver non-stick frying pan on her Belfast sink.
‘Put that down, Ben,’ said Max. ‘Sorry,’ he mouthed at Polly. ‘That was George speaking to us, wasn’t it, Ben?’
Ben chose that moment to charge from the kitchen up the stairs, followed closely by Rowan, with George lolloping behind them.
‘It’ll be fun,’ said Max, turning to Polly, who smiled an uncertain smile back at him.
*
They set off up the path into Leigh Woods, an area of woodland covering acres of land opposite the Clifton side of the suspension bridge. Polly kept smiling to herself. What could be more grown up, and responsible urban family, than a walk with a bona fide boyfriend, his child, her child and a dog? All they needed now was a bottle of pop and a packet of crisps to make it complete, she thought, remembering that daft childhood song the kids around the Greenham Common campfire used to sing. She resisted the urge to text Mel and let her know just what she was up to.
Max strode alongside her, up the rocky path overhung with trees freshly sprung into leaf. He had firm hold of her hand. ‘C’mon, slow coach.’ She quickened her pace to keep up.
‘You try and walk fast in boots two sizes too big.’ She’d borrowed the ones Mel had left behind at her house.
Up ahead, a meadow hove into view as they neared the end of the path-cum-tree-lined-tunnel. The clearing was bathed in bright light, its grass long and dotted with wild flowers. As they stepped into the sunshine, Polly was hugging herself about how bloody marvellous it was to have an actual card-carrying boyfriend.
‘You okay?’ he said.
‘Oh yes,’ she smiled.
‘Polly? Why do you keep smiling?’
‘Oh nothing,’ she said, all dreamy.
‘I’ll give you nothing!’ And he chased her around the meadow, in the middle of Leigh Woods, kids chasing after them, dog barking and bounding alongside, until they all collapsed on the ground in a giggling heap.
‘Phew. This is great,’ said Polly, when she managed to catch her breath. She pulled a blanket from the rucksack which Max had so gallantly insisted on carrying, and spread it on the ground. Gesturing at the day, she said, ‘The sun is shining, the birds are singing…’
‘And by the look of things – the dogs are shitting!’ said Max, catching sight of a crouched-down George. ‘Poo bags! Quick!’ he ordered, clambering to his feet as Polly rooted around in the rucksack. He dashed across, scooped up the deposit and held high the poo-filled bag. ‘Lovely and warm,’ he called.
‘Ugh, that’s disgusting.’
He made as if to run towards her, causing her to jump up to her feet with a squeal; then he swerved at the last minute and sprinted across to a bin, where he did the drop. Finally flopping down next to Polly, he said, ‘Joys of dog ownership,’ and kissed the end of her nose.
‘God, nappies are bad enough,’ said Polly. ‘Here. Hands. Use one of these wet wipes.’
Polly and Max laid out the picnic things. It was quite a palaver, what with George having his nose into everything; and Ben wasn’t much better.
‘Gerroff,’ Polly kept saying, pushing first one then the other away from the sandwiches, while Rowan sat and waited with the patience of a small blonde Buddha.
‘Here you are, Ro.’ Polly held out a cheese sandwich, but George was quicker. He promptly snatched it from Polly’s hand and wolfed it down.
‘Bad dog,’ said Rowan, wagging her finger at George, who sat with a “Who? Me?” expression on his face. Polly was agog. She had no idea a dog’s face could be so expressive.
Ben was already on his third and fourth sandwich: one cheese and one ham grasped firmly in each hand, as he expertly held them in the air out of George’s reach. In his excitement, George knocked Rowan over, nicked her sandwich, licked her face and was now standing four-square over her, like a four-legged gazebo. Polly turned to Max, who lay on his back, eyes closed against the sunlight. ‘Can you please do something about George?’
He squinted through one eye at her then sighed. ‘Okay,’ sitting up. ‘Keep your hair on.’ Clipping the lead onto George’s collar, Max held it down until the dog gave up and lay on the rug.
‘Better?’ said Max.
‘Yeah, well. Dogs shouldn’t be allowed to lick faces,’ said Polly.
‘Don’t be so precious, Polly,’ said Max, who’d managed to catch Ben on a run-past and was now wiping his child’s face and hands with a wet wipe. ‘You have to expose your kids to dirt. It’s good for their immune system.’
‘Dirt, yes. But not dog saliva.’
‘Fine. You made your point.’ He stretched out on the blanket once more. ‘You’re too protective of Rowan, you know. Can’t wrap kids up in cotton wool.’ He placed his hands above his head as a cloud passed over the sun.
‘Anyone for a drink?’ called Polly, trying to sound cheerful while wishing she had something stronger than fizzy pop for herself.
*
Soon, the food was over, the picnic packed away, and the small troupe of Polly, Max, Rowan and Ben – followed by George – set off along the gravelled pathway heading into the trees. Leigh Woods was alive with leaves that rustled, even though there didn’t appear to be a breeze, and with birds which chirped away merrily yet were nowhere to be seen. Sure isn’t Kansas , she thought.
She found woods spooky at the best of times and would never have ventured into them with just herself and Rowan. For Polly could remember only too well the horror of the mother, two little children and a dog who’d set off down a woodland lane where they met a grisly fate at the hands of a hammer-wielding madman. She placed her arm through Max’s, feeling the reassurance of his big muscular body. Rowan and Ben were a little way ahead.
They passed a section lined with ancient ferns. Very like those in the film Jurassic Park , she noted, where those small bird-like dinosaurs had hidden among pre-historic fronds. She half expected to see one stick its head above the foliage, cock it to one side then leap – talons unsheathed, teeth bared – onto her plumply young Rowan. She shivered. ‘Don’t go too far, Rowan. Rowan!’ But she didn’t hear. Ben tapped Rowan on the shoulder and pointed to Polly. Rowan ran back to her mother. ‘Stay close,’ Polly said, making sure she was talking into her daughter’s face. Rowan nodded and ran off to join Ben.
It was getting chilly in the woods, where the sun filtered weakly through oak and ash, and other woodland trees whose names she didn’t know.
‘I often jog in these woods,’ Max said. ‘Sometimes I take Ben mountain biking.’
Polly, at all times aware of just where the children were, had seen them charge along a path to their right, she steered Max down it.
Ben and George were up ahead, the dog having found a large puddle from the rain the night before, and was now rushing up and down it, mouth like a shovel as he ploughed through, deluging himself in muddy water, tail wagging, clearly delighted with it all.
‘Where’s Rowan?’ said Polly. ‘I can’t see her.’
‘She’ll be with them,’ said Max, as he fiddled with the rucksack’s straps.
‘No. No. I don’t see her,’ said Polly, struggling with the panic starting to churn her stomach. ‘Seriously. She’s not there.’
‘Rowan?’ called Max, stepping ahead of Polly. ‘Rowan, come here! Stop messing about!’
They reached Ben. ‘Ben?’ said Max, a grabbing his son’s arm. ‘Where’s Rowan?’
But Ben was engrossed in poking his stick at the remains of a dead jackdaw at the bottom of a tree; he squirmed in his father’s grasp. The dead bird, maggots crawling out of its split guts, was just too good a spectacle for him to ignore.
‘Ben!’ shouted Max, pulling his child so that he whirled around to face him. ‘Ben. Never mind that dead bird. Look at me. I said look at me. Where is Rowan?’
‘Boo!’ shouted Rowan, as she suddenly popped her head round from behind the tree. With one startled look, she took in her mother’s concern and began to chortle. ‘Boo!’ she shouted again, clearly delighted with the effect she was having.
Max let go of Ben. ‘See?’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘She was fine all along. Nothing to worry about.’
By now Polly had her arms around the bemused Rowan.
‘I don’t know,’ said Max. ‘All that fuss about nothing. Have you ever considered that Rowan might choose not to hear you?’