Chapter 53
I decide to make dinner for the kids before I have a conversation with Leo. That’s THE conversation. This doesn’t feel like a discussion any of us want to have on an empty stomach. So, as Jacob does his homework at the kitchen table, I throw together a spaghetti bolognese, not having the energy for anything fancier today.
‘Mum, shall we make Tanghulu tonight?’
‘What’s that, Jacob?’
‘Chinese candied fruit. All you need is some bamboo skewers, some pieces of kiwi, strawberries and grapes, and some sugar water, which you need to keep at 300 degrees Fahrenheit for ten minutes.’
‘Let me guess. Did you see this on YouTube?’
‘Yes! Do you want the recipe?’
‘Not really, sweetheart,’ I confess. ‘But we’ll do it another time, all right? Now crack on with that homework,’ I say, placing a lid on the bolognese as Leo appears at the door and says, to my surprise: ‘Can I talk to you, Mum?’
This is a new one – I’d put the chances of him actively seeking out a heart-to-heart with me as somewhere around the nil to one per cent mark.
‘Of course you can. Just give me a minute.’ I tip out the cooked pasta, turn the sauce off and decide to strike while the iron’s hot.
We go into the front room, away from Jacob, both preferring to keep the youngest member of the family blissfully unaware of recent events. As Leo sinks into the sofa opposite, the grave look on his face makes a feeling of deep unease run through me. A series of possibilities swipes through my head from left field. Like, he wants to leave home to join the Army. Or live in Bangkok to train in Muy Thai like he told me he planned to do at thirteen. Or, God forbid, go and live with Brendan.
‘Are you ready to talk about Saturday night?’ I ask.
But he doesn’t reply.
‘Leo?’
When he finally raises his eyes, they are already pink.
‘Oh, Leo.’
I go and sit on the sofa next to him and before he can argue, I wrap my arms around him. He doesn’t resist and from the movement of his shoulders, I think he begins to sob.
‘I’m sorry,’ he mumbles. An actual apology.
‘I know.’
Eventually, he pulls away and clears his throat. But it seems that he still can’t talk, or doesn’t know what to say.
‘I imagine waking up in that hospital scared the life out of you, didn’t it?’
His mouth turns downwards and he puts his knuckles in his eye sockets to give them a hard rub.
‘I never want to feel that sick again in my life.’
‘I bet you don’t.’
‘Why do people even drink?’ he asks, incredulously. ‘It’s . . . horrible.’
‘It certainly can be. Especially if you have that much. The problem is that it can be hard to judge.’
He shudders. ‘I can’t believe Grandma saw me like that. I am never doing that again. I mean it.’
The look on my face must suggest I find this hard to believe.
‘It’s true,’ he leaps in. ‘I don’t want to be some arsehole who messes up his life.’
‘Okay . . .’
‘So I’m staying at sixth form,’ he declares. ‘I’ve decided. I’ve looked at the rugby academy’s academic results and I know they’re awful. So I’m not going to go.’
I let his words settle in my head. I’ve been pushing him to study and work hard for his GCSES for good reasons – namely that I want him to have options and truly believe that education is the route to a life well lived.
So I should be delighted that, as unpleasant as this whole experience has been, it’s clearly been the wake-up call he needs to knuckle down.
Equally, I am suddenly aware that this is not my future we’re talking about. It’s his.
‘Is that what you really want, Leo? Because . . . I know what I said. Yes, it’s not the place to go if you want to get great A level results and go on to university. But I also know how much you love sport. I suppose what I’m really saying is . . . this is up to you .’
He takes a moment to take this in. ‘Really?’
‘One hundred per cent. This is your future, your decision. Wherever you end up – whether it’s sixth form, rugby college, or joining the circus . . . I’ll support you.’
His mouth seems to harden as he fights back emotion. ‘Okay. Thanks.’
‘You don’t need to rush into any decisions.’
He nods, looks at his hands.
‘Come here,’ I say and pull him in for another brief hug.
‘Just so you know, on balance, I’d rather you didn’t join the circus,’ I say.
He snorts and pulls back. It’s so nice to see a smile on his face. ‘What’s for dinner?’
‘Spaghetti bolognese. It’s nearly ready if you want to go and set the table.’
‘Sure.’
The three of us sit down to dinner together and I dish up. As the boys begin to tuck in, Jacob tells us a joke he heard on YouTube.
‘What do you do if you see a fire man?’
Leo looks at me sideways and smiles.
‘I don’t know matey, what do you do?’ he says.
‘Put it out, man! ’
He’s so delighted with himself that it doesn’t matter how unfunny this is, all Leo and I can do is join in.
‘I’ve got a better one,’ Leo says. ‘What’s the best part about living in Switzerland?’
‘I don’t know,’ Jacob replies.
‘Neither do I but the flag’s a big plus.’
His little brother roars with laughter, even if the private frown on his face afterwards suggests he doesn’t get it at all.
So begins our terrible joke competition. The worst one wins.
I wrote a song about a tortilla . . . but actually it’s more of a wrap.
What do you call a crocodile that’s also a detective? An investigator.
They go on and on. They get worse and worse.
And all the while, as I watch these boys, it strikes me that I really have no idea whether Leo’s good intentions will last, or indeed whether he’ll decide to devote his life to sport or academia.
I also know Mum was right.
Before I had kids, I assumed that raising a child would be like taking a piece of Play-Doh and moulding it into your desired shape.
But by fifteen, Leo is already his own person. In all honesty, he always was. All we parents can do is our best, in the hope that our best is good enough. I never expected it to be easy. I also didn’t expect it to be this hard. But in the meantime, there are moments like this.
When my boys and I are laughing, and my heart is so full it could burst.