‘Er, just paracetamol.’
‘You could probably do with something stronger.’
Yes, too bloody right, like something to render me unconscious for a very long time, perhaps until the blessed release of death …
‘Anyway,’ she adds perkily, ‘all I was saying is, I’ve just seen an ad for a dog that some guy wants to rehome – family-friendly, lovely with people and other dogs, sounds perfect. There’s a photo of him and he looks adorable – a big, shaggy, cuddly thing. And I thought, seeing as I’m based at home now, and considering the kids are struggling to make friends …’ She pauses. ‘I think,’ she adds softly, ‘they deserve it.’
‘I, er, dunno,’ Rob mutters.
‘You mean you don’t think it’s a good idea?’
He tries to clear his parched throat. ‘I, um, don’t see the point …’
‘Of course there’s a point! He’d be
theirs
, they could learn how to look after him. Animals are good for children, everyone knows that …’
‘No, I know there’s a
point
to dogs, if you’re blind or in the police force or need drugs sniffing out but—’
Kerry bursts out laughing. ‘You’re mad, Rob. But yes, dogs can be useful, which just shows how intelligent and easily trainable they are.’
‘Kerry, I …’
‘Think how excited they’d be!’ she cuts in. ‘Oh, I know that picking up poo with the little black bag isn’t hugely appealing but I’m sure we’d get used to it. It’s probably like baby poo. You know how changing other people’s babies’ nappies is completely disgusting?’
God, can’t she tell there’s something terribly wrong here? How can she go on and on like this as if everything’s normal?
‘ … But your own – well, that’s different. When it’s come out of someone you love, it sort of loses its disgustingness, doesn’t it? Isn’t that weird, Rob, don’t you think?’
Not half as weird as me allegedly making a girl pregnant and having absolutely no recollection of doing it …
‘Not that I’m saying it’ll be like having another baby,’ Kerry laughs, clearly oblivious to his pain. ‘I suspect it’ll be a
tinier
bit easier than that. Like, there’s no weaning or night waking, hopefully, or strangers marching up to you and telling you he should have a hat on or a warmer jacket …’
Stop it, stop it, stop it. Please stop talking about
babies …
‘D’you remember all that?’ Kerry asks fondly. ‘You’d come home from work and I’d be ranting on about some woman in the park who’d told me to put brandy in Mia’s bottle.’
‘Er, yeah …’
‘And you were
really
helpful,’ she sniggers. ‘You said, just tell them to fuck off.’
‘Er, Kerry, I really need to talk—’
‘So, listen, shall I phone that guy from the ad?’
‘Which ad?’
‘The dog one! Oh, go on, let’s do it …’ She pauses, and he can tell she’s smiling. There are faint street noises in the background and he pictures her green eyes shining, her dark hair blowing messily in the breeze. Tears spill onto his cheeks and he quickly wipes them away. ‘If we do,’ Kerry adds, ‘let’s make it a surprise and not say anything until the dog’s actually here. You won’t tell them, will you?’
‘No …’
‘God, I’m so excited! Oh, Rob … this just feels right, you know?
Everything
feels right. I’ve had a few enquiries from my ad, did I tell you? I just need to spruce up the music room, then I can start booking some pupils in.’
‘Er, that’s great.’
‘Well, it all feels positive anyway.’ She pauses for breath. ‘It’s still lonely here without you but soon we’ll all be back together, a proper family …’ She tails off, but this time Rob can’t respond. ‘Sorry, sweetheart,’ she adds. ‘I’m ranting on and you’re stuck at home with a horrible migraine. I’ll shut up now and let you get some rest …’
‘Okay,’ he says dully.
‘And Rob, I love you, you know that, don’t you?’
He opens his mouth, but more tears are falling and all he can do is make a strange, puppy-like yelp.
‘Rob? Are you okay?’
He clears his throat, his face now utterly wet as he says, ‘Kerry, I’m so sorry. There’s something you have to know.’
They say grief comes in stages. Maybe it does, if it’s the kind associated with running out of eye cream or scuffing the toe of a favourite shoe. Not a husband saying,
I know how this sounds but I promise you I can’t remember a thing … yes, it does seem impossible but it has happened before – er, yes, with you … Only once or twice during the early days when we’d been out and come home drunk – no, of course I didn’t admit it, you’d have been horrified …
And that had been that. Thirteen years together melted away in an instant, like candyfloss on a tongue. As for the ‘stages’ – anger, grief, depression in whichever order they’re supposed to come – Kerry hasn’t had time for anything so orderly. The rest of yesterday had passed in a blur (she was too blown away to even cry). Rob had called twice more, sobbing inconsolably and begging to drive down and see her; she’d had no option but to cut him off mid-flow. After collecting the children from school, she’d spent an hour on the phone to Anita, and the rest of the evening had been spent Acting Normal in front of the children. It was only later in bed that she’d allowed herself to cry – and, once she’d started, she’d feared that she might never be able to stop. And now, at 8.10 a.m. on a grey Wednesday morning, Kerry must continue to behave as if nothing untoward has happened. Her marriage may be over but she must still brush hair, put out juice and cereal and locate gym shoes and playtime snacks deemed acceptable at Shorling Primary (e.g. little pouches of dried apricots from the wholefood store; crisps, it would appear, are regarded as the devil’s work).
The landline rings and, without thinking, she grabs it. ‘It’s me,’ Rob croaks.
‘What d’you want?’
‘I need to talk to you …’ His voice is thick and hoarse, as if he’s been up all night.
Kerry blinks rapidly. ‘I can’t, not now …’
‘Please listen to me,’ he implores her. ‘Okay, it happened, but you have to believe that I can’t remember anything—’
‘Does that mean it doesn’t count?’ she snaps.
‘No, of course it does, I didn’t mean …’
‘Mummy, who’s on the phone?’ Mia demands from the breakfast table. ‘
What
doesn’t count?’
Kerry rubs her eyes and growls, ‘I’ve got to go,’ before abruptly ending the call.
‘Was that Daddy?’ Mia asks, grinning.
‘Yes, darling.’
‘Why did he phone?’ Freddie wants to know.
‘Oh … he just wanted to check something …’
‘Why didn’t he want to speak to me?’ Mia tosses her spoon into her empty cereal bowl.
Kerry blinks slowly. ‘He was in a rush, sweetie.’
Mia nods, apparently satisfied with this. ‘Remember it’s the feast today, Mummy.’
‘What feast?’ Kerry asks, hoping her pink, swollen eyes will continue to pass unnoticed.
‘The
feast
. I need my stuff, Mum. It said in that letter.’
‘What letter?’ Kerry chooses to ignore the fact that Freddie has picked up his bowl and is noisily slurping chocolate-tinged milk.
‘That letter from school,’ Mia says with a roll of her eyes. Ah, yes, Kerry vaguely remembers now. How remiss of her to allow torturous thoughts of her husband having energetic sex with a girl who was born in something like 1992 – she’s not even old enough to remember Britpop, for God’s sake – to take precedence over preparing for Miss Pettifer’s Egyptian banquet. Now, as she focuses hard, she vaguely recalls Mia’s teacher’s request for the kind of delicacies people would have enjoyed four thousand years ago, but she’s darned if she can remember what they are. The letter doesn’t appear to be lurking in the teetering pile of unattended-to mail on top of the microwave. Nor is it hiding in what Mia has christened the ‘everything drawer’ which, although they’ve only lived here for six weeks, is already jammed with take-away menus, matted hairbrushes and any random small item which has yet to be allocated a proper home.
‘We’ll have to forget about it,’ Kerry says briskly. ‘I’m sure everyone else will bring lots of things to share. I’ll write a note to Miss Pettifer saying I’m sorry but I totally forgot.’
Mia stares at her, aghast. ‘You
can’t
do that.’
‘Why not?’
‘I’ll be the only one!’ Mia’s mouth crumples and her dark eyes fill with tears.
‘Darling …’ Kerry puts an arm around her daughter but is abruptly shrugged off. ‘I’m really sorry but it’s quarter past eight and there isn’t time to get anything together.’
‘No one’ll let me share,’ Mia cries. ‘They’re not my friends …’
‘What makes you think that, hon?’
‘They’re just not!’ she shouts. ‘I’ve
got
to take something. We can buy stuff on the way to school …’
‘We could,’ Kerry says, feeling helpless, ‘but we don’t know what to buy.’
‘Stuff the Egyptians liked,’ Freddie offers helpfully.
‘I know, Freddie, but I don’t know
what
they liked.’
‘Why not?’ He throws her a disdainful look.
Because, sweethearts, your father has made someone else pregnant. Although I know that’s a shoddy excuse and, if I were a proper mother with one of those hyper-efficient maternal brains, I’d still be able to locate a typical menu from a pharaohs’ feast …
‘I can’t remember,’ she says, feeling horribly close to crying herself. The landline rings again; Kerry lifts the receiver and bangs it straight back down again.
‘Google it then,’ Mia commands.
Kerry tries to blink away the moisture that keeps blurring her vision. She thought she’d been doing so well today, breezing through the morning routine as if nothing untoward had happened. Now she’s hastily Googling ‘Egyptian food’ but all she can find is a theme restaurant called Cleopatra’s in nearby Sandhead where it appears that the waitresses wear gold crocheted headdresses.
Now Mia and Freddie are both looming over her as she scowls at an image of Lamb Koftas – ‘poos on sticks’, Freddie announces delightedly – on her laptop. With the best will in the world, these cannot be knocked together in the thirteen minutes before they must leave for school. Kerry flicks through other options: rice-stuffed pigeon. Yoghurt pudding with fried onions and a puddle of chicken broth. Honey and cinnamon pie …
‘You could take a jar of honey,’ she announces. ‘I read that someone discovered some from Ancient Egyptian times and it was still fine to eat …’
Mia shudders. ‘No, ew, it’d be dirty.’
‘No,
ours
wasn’t dug up. It’s from the Co-op. But it’ll still taste just like the kind they used to have—’
Mia shakes her head. ‘Don’t wanna take honey.’
‘What about fruit then? They must’ve had fruit …’ But when she Googles ‘Egyptian fruit’, all that pops up are Egyptian fruit bats for sale, £250 for a breeding pair.
‘Look, Mummy,’ Mia exclaims, jabbing the screen. ‘Figs.’
Kerry sighs. ‘If you moan about the apricots I give you for playtime, then I don’t think you’ll like figs.’
‘That’s
’
cause those apricots are brown,’ she retorts.
Yes, angel, because they’re from the hideously expensive wholefood store, i.e. sulphur dioxide-free, which is more important, apparently, than them being a prettier shade of orange …
‘Are you crying, Mummy?’ Freddie asks with interest.
‘No, I’ve just got something in my eye.’ She pulls a fake smile and rubs her leaking eyes on the sleeve of her top.
‘Figs are nice,’ Mia says levelly. ‘We had ’em at Nanny and Nonno’s with ham.’
Ah, Rob’s foodie parents who have always been unswervingly kind to their grandchildren, and almost like a surrogate mum and dad to Kerry. What will
they
make of the impregnation when he dares to tell them?
‘So,’ Mia says, having perked up now, ‘can we go to the fruit shop?’
‘Not at half-eight in the morning, no. Sorry, love. Come on now, you two – shoes on. We’ve got to go
now
.’ Amidst protests, Kerry switches off her laptop, crams small feet into shoes, hooks schoolbags onto their backs and grabs lunchboxes. She ushers them out and bangs the front door shut, realising that Freddie’s school trousers have a smear of mud on one leg but it’s too late to do anything about it now. Mia continues to protest, and Freddie refuses to hold Kerry’s hand as they cross the road.
‘Everyone else’ll have stuff,’ Mia grumbles, dragging her feet.
‘Yes, and I’m sure Miss Pettifer will make sure it’s all shared out …’
‘No, she won’t.’
‘Why d’you say that? You were telling me yesterday how kind she is …’
‘I hate it here!’ Mia announces, stopping in her tracks. ‘I
hate
it. I want to see Daddy and I want to go back to London.’
‘Mia, please …’ Her daughter’s eyes flood with tears, and Kerry bobs down to hug her tightly. ‘Come on, darling. You’ve been so good about moving …’
‘WHY CAN’T I HAVE FIGS?’ she roars, pulling away from Kerry, her cheeks flaming. Kerry stands there, feeling as if she’s been punched in the stomach.
‘Mia,’ she mutters, ‘please stop this …’
‘It’s not fair! I told you about the feast …’
Yes, and quite a lot has happened since then …
A few metres ahead, a couple of mothers – each with an immaculate daughter – have turned back for a gawp, because not much happens in a genteel seaside town. (Kerry has noticed this: the way people stop and gaze when something of mild interest occurs, like a car exhaust backfiring or a plane flying overhead). Grabbing Mia and Freddie’s hands, she marches onwards, past the staring women – one auburn, one pale blonde, both wearing what would be termed ‘fun skirts’ in the Boden catalogue.
‘Did you hear that?’ one of the women hisses. ‘I can hardly believe it. That little girl was yelling for
fags
.’
Kerry turns to face them. ‘No, she wasn’t. She’s seven years old. She said
figs
, for the Egyptian feast at school.’
‘Oh!’ At least the auburn-haired one has the decency to blush. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean …’