Neurotica (13 page)

D
an pushed the plunger to the bottom of the cafetière and poured his coffee. He had his second
appointment with Virginia Livermead in just over an hour. He'd
told Anna he was going off to interview the chairman of the
Bank of Bolivia in town and would be back just before nine in
time to read to the kids. He picked up his mug and went upstairs
to e-mail the piece he had just finished writing and get
changed.

As he did up the cuffs on his denim shirt, Dan realized
he was looking forward to his next session with Virginia. He
had to admit she was a bit earnest and seemed to lack even
the slightest vestige of humor. He also wasn't sure he trusted
her when she put on her caring, full-of-empathy face. Nevertheless,
she was easy to talk to, she listened and she'd reassured him
that he wasn't going insane.

Dan dropped his keys into his jacket pocket and went
downstairs. He yelled good-bye to the children, who were in
the living room glued to Cartoon Network, promised them he
would be back in time to read them a story, then poked his head
round the kitchen door. Anna and Brenda were still sitting at
the kitchen table talking Tory bastards. Gloria appeared to have
volunteered to stay and make supper. She was busy chopping
onions for a bolognese sauce, and managing at the same time to
go through the fridge checking the dates on all the packets
and throwing almost everything she picked up into a black
dustbin liner. Anna hadn't noticed because she was on to her
third glass of red wine. Dan said his good-byes and asked Anna
to leave him some spag bol and he'd heat it up in the microwave
when he got home.

D
an got back just after nine. He barely spoke to Anna—Brenda was already in bed—simply said goodnight
and went straight upstairs. Once again Anna could see the tense,
preoccupied look on his face. She wondered whether perhaps Dan
hadn't been off doing an interview and instead had been seeing
some specialist who had just given him bad news.

In fact Dan's facial expression owed more to physical and
mental exhaustion than anything else. He had spent most of his
hour with Virginia in tears as he revealed more and more
excruciating stories about his mother. By the time he put his
key in the door, his brain was still swimming with emotion.
All he wanted was a glass of Scotch and sleep.

The children, who had been sitting in bed waiting for him
to get back so that they could have the story he had promised,
heard him come upstairs, go to the loo and put himself to bed.
He hadn't even come into their rooms to give them a goodnight
kiss.

Both Bloomfield children possessed a highly developed
sense of justice and fairness. That very evening Amy had gone
to bed crying because Anna had refused to buy her a Britney Spears backless
minidress. She had taken her
mother's decision particularly hard as she was still trying to
come to terms with not being allowed to have her ears pierced.

“Look, Amy,” Anna had said re the ear-piercing,
realizing, but suddenly not giving a damn, that she was about
to sound like so many of the other snotty middle-class mothers
in Richmond, “the kind of girls who have their ears pierced
at your age live in public housing where the Alsatians drink
Special Brew and the streets are full of Y-registered
Sierras with Confederate flag bumper stickers.”

Amy, being eight, had got lost round about “Special
Brew.” She gathered, nevertheless, that her pierced-ears
application had been denied.

Josh took gripes with his parents particularly seriously,
and kept scrupulous mental records, going back years, of all
the crimes they had committed against him. These included still,
even though he was ten, being bought Marks and Spencer tracksuits
with pictures of Disney characters on the front, and being forced
to eat from the children's menu in restaurants. The last time
a waiter had asked him whether he would prefer mermaid or
nuclear-submarine-shaped fish nuggets, he had jumped up from
the table in disgust and sat out the rest of the meal in the
gents.

His worst grievance also involved food. It went back to
an evening just before Christmas, when Anna had insisted he eat
lamb casserole, which he detested.

Josh had invited a friend over for tea. Anna had said that in
return for him agreeing to finish everything on his plate, she
would allow the two boys to eat sitting on the floor in Josh's
bedroom. They leaped at the offer because this meant they didn't
have to break off from building Lego antipersonnel mines. This,
in turn, gave them a brilliant excuse to destroy Amy's pink plastic
Barbie and Ken trailer.

Several weeks later, the man from Rentokil came to investigate
the nasty smell in Josh's room and discovered a mound of
putrefying lamb casserole behind Josh's wardrobe. As a consequence,
Dan stopped his pocket money for three weeks. Josh's reaction
was to thump his father repeatedly on the back and scream all the
swear words he knew.

“Mum knows I think lamb's puke,” he'd howled in between
throwing punches at Dan. “If I'd eaten it I would've thrown
up and
she'd
have punished me. I only hid it so's not
to make myself ill and not to get into trouble for getting sick
all over my room.”

He then accused Dan and Anna of being wicked and evil for
stopping his pocket money. They refused to listen, concerned
only with their son's dishonesty, the Rentokil man's call-out
fee and the cost of new wallpaper and carpet for Josh's bedroom.

Tonight, Josh was almost as angry as he had been over the
casserole fiasco. It wasn't simply that he was annoyed with his
father for breaking his promise about reading them a story; the
truth was he felt Dan was severely neglecting him and Amy.

His father never seemed to make time for them anymore. He
was either too tired, too miserable or too ill. His mother was
behaving strangely too. Sometimes she seemed very happy, almost
in a sort of dream. Then she would suddenly get snappy and
irritable. She also seemed to be working more than usual. He
couldn't remember the last time she'd cooked a roast dinner. All
they got lately were microwave packets or supermarket pizza.

Josh toyed with the idea of waking his father and demanding
an explanation for the broken promise, but decided against it
as it carried a significant risk of attracting one of his father's
rare, but heavy-duty, bawling-outs. He decided it would be
safer to remonstrate with his mother.

Josh pushed back his Manchester United duvet with his
feet, heard his
Thousand Best Jokes for Kids
thump onto
the floor and then went charging downstairs into the kitchen,
where Anna was stacking the dishwasher.

“I hate you,” Josh shouted at her from the doorway. “You
two are the worst parents in the world. You are bloody bastards
and I don't want to be your son anymore.”

Anna turned round, looking more startled than annoyed.
“Josh, calm down. What on earth is the matter?”

“You know what the matter is. You and Dad have never got
any time for us anymore. You never do anything with us. You're
always too busy and
he's
always too ill. I hate you.
I hate you. I don't want you for parents anymore.”

By now, Josh had got himself so worked up that he was
red-faced and sobbing. Anna put down the dirty plate she was
holding and walked over to him. She tried to put her arm round
him, but he punched it away.

Anna was barely aware of the blow. All she could feel was the
familiar sensation of descending guilt. Nevertheless she managed to
retain a semblance of parental authority.

“Look, Josh, I'm not prepared to speak to you while you
are being so foul. You either calm down and we have a proper
discussion or I am simply going to ignore you.”

Threatening to ignore Josh usually calmed him down in an
instant. The thing he hated more than anything was losing his
audience.

Anna was about to suggest making them both some hot
chocolate when she heard Amy thumping down the stairs.

“Christ, now the other one's here,” Anna hissed to
herself.

The next moment a drowsy-looking Amy was standing next
to them in her ancient, faded Pocahontas nightie.

“Mummy, shut Josh up,” she whined. “I was almost asleep.
Why didn't Daddy come and say goodnight? I wanted to
tell him about how me and Thomas Cooling snobbed in the
playground.”

“It's snogged not snobbed, you baby,” said Josh in a
nerna-nerna ner ner voice. “See, even Amy hates
him.
”

“I don't hate Daddy. I love my daddy and he loves me. You're
just a big fat poo. And Mummy does do things with us. She takes us
swimming, and Daddy takes us to the roller disco.”

Before Anna had a chance to intervene, Josh was shouting
again.

“Everybody else I know has parents who do proper things
with them like camping trips and going mountain-biking together.
It's abuse, that's what it is, not spending time with your
children. You and Dad are bloody child abusers, that's what
you are, and I hate your bloody guts. I want to be adopted.
Bloody child abusers. I'm phoning Childline.”

With that Josh picked up the cordless phone from the worktop
and stomped out of the kitchen, heading upstairs.

“Right, you do that. You bloody do that,” Anna screamed
after him. “Arrogant little jerk.”

Anna couldn't decide whom she wanted to thrash more, Josh
or Esther fucking Rantzen. Every time she and Dan told him off,
Josh ended up phoning Childline for a second opinion. Josh had
become such a regular caller that he even had a counselor he
asked for. Claire.

Anna always listened in on the extension to Josh's
conversations with Claire, who, thank the Lord, was a frightfully
sensible young woman. From the moment Josh had started phoning
Childline, which he clearly perceived as grievance procedure
for when he couldn't get his own way, a sort of junior ACAS, Claire
had somehow grasped immediately that he wasn't being buggered,
beaten or emotionally violated. Although she always listened
to everything he had to say, she invariably managed to make him
see that he had been a naughty boy and that maybe his parents
had a right to be annoyed with him.

Deciding to leave Josh to his own mad devices and hoping
Claire would calm him down as usual, Anna took Amy back to bed
and read her a few pages of Roald Dahl. This was followed by a
frantic search for Amy's favorite Beanie Baby, without which
she could not possibly go to sleep. They eventually found it
wedged between the bed and the wall. Finally, clutching the Beanie Baby, Amy gave Eminem, who was Blu-Tacked to her headboard,
a long, lingering snog, before sliding down under the duvet. As
Anna plumped it round her, she gave her a goodnight kiss and a hug.
She found it almost impossible to believe that the three-year-old
who had once asked her if fish fingers could swim was now
puckering up to repulsive, tattooed pop stars.

Anna switched off the light, said a final “Night, night” and
gently closed Amy's door. As she walked along the landing towards
Josh's room, she expected to hear her son on the phone to
Claire at Childline, going through a litany of Bloomfield
parental misdemeanors. Instead, there were two voices: Josh's
and Dan's.

The bedroom door was open a crack. Anna stood outside and
listened.

“So, Dad, do you absolutely promise, cross your heart
and hope to die in a cellar full of rats, that you aren't going
to die?”

Dan ignored the internal paradox of Josh's request. “Josh,”
he began gently, “you're old enough to understand that nobody
can make those kind of promises. But I promise I'll do my
best.” He sounded truly regretful; as if it had come as a shock
to him that his hypochondria had even been affecting the children.

“And will you promise to at least try to stop feeling
ill all the time, and when the weather gets a bit warmer can we
buy a two-man tent from Milletts and go camping for a few nights,
without Amy .   .   . just you and me?”

“I promise.”

“And next time Mum gets one of her big checks from the
Sun
or the
Mirror,
can I have a Sony X-Box?”

“Josh, you've got a lot of apologizing to do to Mum before
we even think about buying presents.   .   .   .”

“But will you think about it?”

“Yes.”

“And if I say sorry for the things I said to Mum and am
really good from now on, will I probably get it?”

Dan sighed. He knew Josh had the energy to go on nagging
all night. “Probably. Now go to sleep.” He bent down and kissed
him.

Josh fell asleep thinking that for child abusers his parents
were, nevertheless, total pushovers.

T
hanks for calming him down,” Anna said as she and Dan got
into bed.

“ 'S OK. When I heard him having a tantrum downstairs, I
realized I'd messed up. It wouldn't have killed me to have at least
gone in and said goodnight to the kids.”

“Don't beat yourself up over it. We all break promises to
kids now and then.”

“S'pose. At least I dealt with it rather than letting
that Claire woman do it. God knows what she must make of
us. .   .   . I've gotta go to sleep. Turn off the light
when you've finished reading.”

Dan turned over, his back towards Anna.

Anna propped herself up on her elbow. She decided the time
had come to confront Dan and find out what was worrying him.

“Dan, don't go to sleep yet,” she said, poking him
between the shoulder blades. “There's something I want to talk
to you about.”

Dan grunted and made a swiping motion with his hand, but
didn't turn to face her. Anna poked him again.

“Dan, come on, turn over. Please, I need to talk to you.”

Dan didn't move.

“Right then,” she said, getting irritated, “I'll talk
to your back. I've been getting really worried about you. You've
been behaving strangely for over a week and I'm beginning to
think that maybe this time you're really ill only you're too
frightened to tell me because you think I won't be able to handle
it or else I won't take you seriously. Dan, if you're ill I must
know, otherwise I can't help you.   .   .   .”