The Stepmother(77)

 

But later I will think: This was the moment I felt defeat.

 

We are not going to get through this now, Matthew and I. We can’t make a family. We can’t force it.

 

You can’t take two halves of two different things and try to make a whole. It just won’t work.

 

God knows I’ve tried.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

I sit with Frankie in his room for a while, but he’s so angry, he won’t calm down. And I don’t blame him, not really. Poor lad. I’ve let him down, I think.

 

‘Why would he do that? Why would he not believe me?’

 

‘I’ll talk to him, Frankie, I promise, lovey,’ I say. ‘I’ll sort it out.’

 

‘He didn’t believe me. He didn’t want to believe me, more to the point. God…’

 

He clenches his fists, and I feel a surge of panic. He’s getting angry again, and I don’t want that – I don’t want them to fight again. I feel the tension in the house; it’s palpable.

 

‘It’s her, Mum. Not me. She’s the one coming on to me.’

 

And this, I think, might be the whole problem. Matthew can’t cope with his daughter growing up, with her being sexually attracted to a boy. No parent can cope with any inconvenient truth. Otto’s couldn’t either…

 

‘Let me talk to him on his own,’ I plead, ‘and we’ll sort it out properly, okay?’ I grab Frankie’s hand and hold it tight. ‘Okay?’

 

Frankie stares at me unseeing. I remember playground tussles when he was very small: brave little soldier, teased for having no dad. I can’t bear the idea of him fighting now. ‘Frank, okay? I don’t want you to do anything stupid.’

 

‘No, okay, Mum.’ He shakes me off irritably. ‘I won’t.’

 

I feel the energy drain out of me as he agrees, my shoulders literally slumping where I stand.

 

‘Mum?’ Frank’s worried, I realise, and I feel a wave of love for him, a great tidal wave of it.

 

‘I’m fine, Frankie, really. I don’t know why, I’m just really tired today. I got up too early.’

 

‘If you’re all right,’ he says, ‘I’m going to see Jenna now.’

 

‘Great stuff.’ I feel fresh relief he’s found someone good. ‘Off you go then.’

 

I walk down the landing to mine and Matthew’s room – except Matthew’s hardly slept here this past week.

 

The bed is big and empty.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Five minutes later Matthew and Scarlett pass the door. Matthew’s taking Scarlett home apparently and is telling her to get her things when the doorbell rings.

 

It’s Kaye. I listen from the landing.

 

‘You didn’t say you were coming here,’ Kaye’s scolding Scarlett, who’s still sniffing as she gathers her things. ‘I’m fed up with this running around.’

 

‘Ah, leave her be.’ Matthew sounds exhausted.

 

‘Where’s Jeanie?’ I hear Kaye ask.

 

Matthew says, ‘Not feeling too good. Having a lie-down.’

 

‘Still not well? Poor woman,’ Kaye says. ‘Is she often ill then?’

 

I stay safely upstairs; I don’t want to see that woman now, her perfection in my face. And I don’t want her near my son; I don’t want any more blame on us.

 

Matthew leaves soon after.

 

I’m so tired: bone weary suddenly. I’ve been fighting all my life, and this was meant to be the good bit – but it’s not. It’s stressful and fraught and full of emotions that fracture us and swarm the sky unspoken, and I can’t take much more.

 

I force myself off the bed. I wash my face and go downstairs and into the garden. I walk down to the woodpile, and I pick up the axe.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

8 p.m.

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

When Matthew returns an hour or two later, I am calm again.

 

But one look at his face tells me he isn’t.

 

‘So you bothered to get up again,’ he says. ‘I wouldn’t want to tire you out.’

 

‘Sorry,’ I say quietly. ‘I do feel particularly exhausted today. I’m not sure why.’

 

‘No, I’m not sure either when you just sit on your backside all day.’