Chapter 6
Enzo is a pack-the-night-before man. A few basics flung into a case and that’s it.
Not Mathilde who adores clothes and, at nine years old, has developed her own very particular, somewhat eccentric style with no input from him or even her mother (Laura is a classic dresser and Enzo throws on whatever is clean and to hand).
In contrast, Mathilde mixes eye-popping patterns with fluffy things and shimmery things and bright tights.
The effect, he has to admit, is quite wonderful.
But it also requires an extraordinary amount of thought and planning, and she has spent every spare moment of the past few days preparing for the school trip to Scarborough, packing and re-packing her rucksack more times than he can count.
Enzo hopes he’s a good dad and he certainly tries his best. But does a forty-two-year-old teacher have any opinion on whether the mushroom-patterned top should be substituted for the silver sweater, and if clothes should be folded or rolled?
He does not! He can feign enthusiasm for Mathilde’s new wash-bag made from recycled sea plastics, and of course he’s happy that a tree is planted for every order.
But he remembers his own school trip to the Pyrenees, when they’d slept under canvas on hard, rocky ground and his socks had entirely disintegrated inside his boots.
On the last day he’d stolen a fork from the kitchen crew to drag through his matted hair. It had been the best week of his life.
Finally, Scarborough Day has arrived. On a normal school day when Enzo has Mathilde, he’ll drop her off at her school’s breakfast club before driving farther out to the secondary school where he works.
However, on this drizzly Tuesday morning, Mathilde’s best friend’s mum has offered to drop off the girls at the coach.
For his morning to run smoothly, Enzo must have his wits about him.
His plan is to dispatch Mathilde at Honey’s and make a speedy getaway.
However, as he feared, Saska, her mother, has other ideas and he is virtually hauled by the collar into her kitchen where a coffee is pressed into his hands and her exuberant labradoodle zooms in on his crotch.
The girls whoop and hug and clatter upstairs to Honey’s room. ‘Is Mathilde excited?’ Saska asks. ‘Honey’s been counting the days.’
‘Oh, yes. She’s been talking about nothing else.’ Enzo sips scalding coffee from a rough-hewn ceramic vessel, devoid of handle and looking like some ancient object discovered by archaeologists. He recognises it as Saska’s own work.
‘So they’re back on Saturday afternoon,’ she goes on as Enzo tries to gently steer the salivating hound away from his genitals.
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘Which means you’ll be free for litter pick in the morning?’
‘Saturday morning?’ Enzo tries to appear as if he’d remembered. ‘Yes, I hope so. I really do. If I can, I’ll definitely be there.’
‘I know you enjoy it, Enzo.’ She grins and tosses back a mane of crinkly russet hair.
‘Er… yeah! Sure. I really do.’ In fact, he is not averse to joining the regular crew, donning a hi-vis tabard and spending an hour or so filling bin bags with rubbish.
When he first moved to Scotland with Laura – they’d met on a walking holiday in the Dordogne – he was keen to settle into life here in Glasgow and do his bit for the local neighbourhood.
And after he and Laura split up, on the weekends Mathilde was at her mum’s, he was sometimes grateful for this community enterprise just to get him out of the flat on a Saturday morning.
Snapping at litter with a little grabber device – heck, after a brief and dismal foray into online dating, he’d found himself almost looking forward to it.
One time he’d discovered a mixtape of nineties indie tracks, complete with hand-illustrated card insert, lying in the gutter.
Never mind that he didn’t own a tape player.
It had still been the highlight of his week.
However, in recent times, he’s been conscious of Saska’s laser beam spearing into his forehead whenever they see each other out and about.
Enzo, Enzo, hiiii! Could I interest you in— It’s as if the very sight of him triggers a ‘Poor hapless male!’ alert in her and she feels compelled to muscle in. As if, left to his own devices, he’d wither and die alone in his little flat.
He places the mug on her worktop, momentarily impressed that it can remain upright despite its convex bottom, and readies himself for escape.
‘The thing is… Digby, leave Enzo alone!’ Saska touches his arm. ‘It’s not just a normal litter pick this week.’
‘Oh, isn’t it?’ He frowns.
‘No, I’m planning a little… thing afterwards.’
‘Right!’ Of course she is. Saska has a hand in everything around here: amateur dramatics, an improvisational band (Come along!
Anything goes! You can play a cheese grater if you want to!
) and not only the weekly litter pick, but the numerous social activities she manages to bolt on to it.
Litter pick coffee mornings, litter pick picnics, and even a pickers’ Christmas lunch in the pub where she’d manhandled Enzo into the vacant seat next to a startled woman in a tie-dyed shawl.
‘Sit next to Claire,’ she’d ordered him. ‘She’s on her own like you!’
‘We’re starting litter pick singles,’ she announces. Does this mean what Enzo thinks it means? ‘Just a casual thing over coffee, back here after we’ve done all the hard work,’ she adds. ‘A chance to mingle and chat in a relaxed environment…’
‘That sounds great .’ Enzo makes for the hallway and calls upstairs to his daughter.
‘What is it, Dad?’ Mathilde has appeared on the landing.
‘I need to get off to work, love. Come and give me a hug because I’m not going to see you till Saturday!’ He’s not proud of using his daughter as a diversion, but needs must.
She hurries down towards him and they hug. ‘Bye, darling,’ he says. ‘Have a great time and remember to keep your diary, won’t you? Me and Mum want to hear all about it.’
Mathilde is vibrating with excitement. ‘I will. And look after Spike!’
‘’Course I will. Don’t you worry about that.’ He opens the door and steps outside. ‘Thanks, Saska,’ he adds as she and Digby follow him out. ‘I really appreciate?—’
‘No worries at all.’ She shoos the dog back indoors. ‘So, with litter pick singles? You will come along, won’t you, Enzo? It’s so hard to get men to come to these social things, I never understand why…’
‘I’ll try,’ he says, realising he’ll have to conjure up an excuse, and also that Digby must have drooled on the front of his trousers. If he cranks up his car’s heating, will the wet patch have evaporated by the time he gets to school?
‘If it works out, we’ll make it a regular event,’ Saska adds.
‘Great!’ On the pavement now, Enzo is less than three metres from the sanctuary of his car.
‘There’s that common ground, isn’t there? A shared community spirit?’
‘Yes, absolutely.’ He fishes out his key and unlocks the car, hoping the beep and brief flash of lights will signify to Saska that very shortly he’ll have a class of thirty-two first years, not waiting for him exactly (most have zero interest in learning French) but to whom he is contractually obliged to present himself.
‘See you on Saturday then.’ She beams at him. ‘Litter pick at nine-thirty sharp, okay?’
‘Of course.’ Enzo forces a smile, relaxing only when he has driven away.
However, by the time Saturday rolls around, it’s not Saska’s litter pick – or the ‘singles-mingle’ or whatever it’s called – that’s burning at the forefront of Enzo’s mind.
It’s Mathilde’s beloved cactus. Because at some point – without him actually doing anything – he seems to have killed it stone dead.