Bright Burning Things(38)

His grin expands to consume the whole lower part of his face so that he looks like a scrunched-up hand puppet, the ones made of foam that I used to love to manipulate when I was little. ‘I’m not just any old boozy bod,’ he says, tucking into a tough old piece of steak with relish.

If there were baby calves in the shed, would he treat them with the same tenderness he does the kittens? So strange, that disconnect. It’s not his fault.

‘You want to join us?’

The others shift uncomfortably. I try on a smile. A whiskey-weathered farmer, the one who bellows at night like a bull, so the rumours go, scrapes his chair back from the table, agitation in his eyes. ‘Well, I’m off.’ Probably the smile that did it, that smile that used to put Lara into paroxysms of rage. ‘Don’t you dare… like that.’ Like what? ‘Wipe that snarky smile off your face, or else.’ Or else—?

Now the others are all leaving, a scene reminiscent of the classroom, with the bitches all freezing me out.

‘Something I said?’

Jimmy laughs, waves his fork in the air, points it at me.

‘You going to get some grub inside you? Can’t have you keeling over like that last time.’

He’s right, I could plummet, so I go to the counter and ask for anything vegetarian.

‘Still on that crazy diet?’ the tiny woman with the hairnet says. She dollops three scoops of lumpy mashed potato and a watery mush of turnip and parsnips on to my plate. ‘Bon appeteet.’

‘Aw fuck, you really gonna eat that?’ Jimmy says.

I nod, hold my nose and fork a mouthful in, and down the hatch.

Vrrrrrrrooooom, Yaya!

‘Good girl. Only two more mouthfuls, and then it’s time for sweeties.’ He pushes a crusty-looking strawberry-jam roulade in front of me.

‘So, I heard you had a visitor. How’d it go?’

‘Complicated.’

‘He’s lucky to have you.’

I push the food away, suddenly nauseous.

‘Look, you’re here, you’re tackling this thing head-on. He’s young enough to bounce back from this.’

My eyes wander to the window above eye level. If I concentrate hard enough, above the din and clatter of the other tables, I can block his voice and hear the rustle of wind in the trees.

‘Even as a baby I was flooded with adrenalin, pissed on fear. I never experienced a calm moment before coming here.’

The leaves are shushing, whispering, accusing.

‘I can hardly remember my own being born. Don’t let your life slide by in a blur. For your boy.’

Heat rises and courses through me, followed by a bout of intense cold. My internal thermostat is haywire. I don’t want this unsolicited advice now, these reminders of my failings as a parent; I want to revel in that hug. I rub the spot on my stomach where he pressed his head.

Jimmy pushes his chair back, goes to the canteen and asks for three helpings of dessert.

‘Call me Sweet Tooth,’ he says, winking on his way out.


Do teeth really taste like sweeties, Yaya?

It’s an expression, Tommy, like when I call you Munchkin!

Do sweeties really make your teeth fall out?

Well, too much sugar rots your teeth, Mr T.

Is the fairy that collects the out-teeth a good or a bad fairy?

There’s no such thing as a bad fairy, Tommy.

Yes, Yaya, there is, you know there is.





22


A week later and I see him again: Mr Sober Smythe, sitting by the grubby back window in the cafe. I’ve just come from chicken duty and have ten minutes before my next group session. I watch him a moment, cradling his cup, blowing on it, but not drinking from it. Those hands. I debate with myself a moment, then walk over and ask if I could join him. He nods, coolly, I think. I wonder who he has been counselling and am surprised to find I don’t like that thought.

‘How are things, Sonya?’ He stays sitting.

‘I’m sorry I didn’t arrange another session. Until I get my son back I’m not able for any of this.’

‘Ever heard that one about putting on your own oxygen mask first?’

Ah now, I’d have given him more credit than that.

‘Why are you here, Sonya?’

‘Because I have to be. For Tommy.’

‘See?’

‘He’s four, David, four. He doesn’t have a father. I’m his world and without me he can’t function.’

‘How do you know that’s true? Maybe he’s functioning much better without you around?’

That is pretty fucking harsh and out of order and out of line and all out of whack. David seems to recognise this as he says in a much softer tone: ‘I’m just trying to make you see how much better he’ll be when you’re in his life in a stable capacity.’

I sit on my hands. This man makes me sit on my hands. How dare he presume to tell me how to think, how to live, how my son operates? This whole ‘recovery’ operation stinks of that corralling of self, of instinct, into a small, tight, constrained way of being. Start your day on your knees, pray for guidance. ‘Thy will be done’, for mine is warped, maniacal. And yet.

Sometimes I exhaust myself. I just wish I could do life, in the ordinary sense. I wish I was on a date with this good-looking man, being normal, instead of discussing my need for recovery. It seems unfair that he saw me pissed, with my child, when all I know of him is this upstanding version. I wish I knew the other side too, to level off the playing field.