Bright Burning Things(50)

‘Did something happen? Did Tommy cause an accident?’

‘Nothing serious, Sonya. We can talk more next time, and we’ll arrange for a supervised visit next week.’

‘Great, yes. Does that mean I can pick him up today?’

‘I meant that you can visit him here with me, next week.’

‘Oh, I see. So when will he be coming home?’

‘That depends on how the next couple of weeks pan out. We need to make sure you’re committed to staying sober. You need to work with us on this.’

I find myself nodding furiously. Yes, yes, I understand, yes. Too submissive, not convincing, hollow words ringing out. Maureen has seen it all; I know to check the tears.





31


‘They have a great big garden,’ Father says of his golf buddy, who, apparently, would be ‘devastated’ to see the dog go. ‘He has settled in very well, Sonya.’

I’d like to ask Herbie what he thinks about that situation, Dad. Not a good move as far as presenting Ms Sanity goes. ‘Just let me speak to them.’

He looks trapped, like a well-behaved schoolboy who has been caught smoking behind the school sheds, his one act of rebellion. Lara is bustling about at the kitchen counter, pretending to look busy. You’d think she’d make herself scarce, give father and daughter some time alone together – who am I kidding?

‘Can I have their number, Dad?’ I can’t stay another night under that roof with only my scattergun brain and the bleating kitten for company.

‘Not a good idea, Sonya.’

Lara coughs, a code for her man. ‘We need to get going for your medical appointment.’

‘Yes, yes, that’s right, yes.’

Poor, pathetic man.

‘A friend from golf, did you say? D’you mean Gerry and Olive? I’ll pop in on them on my way home. Not too far out of the way.’

Lara clatters dishes loudly.

‘You’ll do no such thing,’ my father blurts. ‘It’s not them, anyway.’

‘That dog has landed in a great big house,’ Lara says as she spritzes and scrubs. ‘Ken Dunne, the solicitor. You should be grateful to your father and not hound him like that.’

My father stares at her as she mutters under her breath, ‘Don’t draw me into this.’ She used to love taking that stance, particularly after she’d stirred a dollop of hostility and a sprinkling of venom into whatever row was brewing, and then would sit back to watch me lose it with one of my tantrums.

‘Look, Sonya. It’s not wise that you go barrelling in there, ok? Trust me. I’ll handle this my way.’

‘Two days, Dad. Forty-eight hours. That should be plenty of time to get him back. Now, I’d better leave you two to get to your appointment. Nothing serious, I hope?’

‘Just a routine check-up.’

‘Right so. Thanks for looking after Tommy so well, that day.’ I put emphasis on the last two words, so as to give shape to the absence of all the other times.

My father kisses me hastily on my cheek, as if he’s guilty of being disloyal.


I step down on the accelerator, the act as much a celebration as a desire to get back to Marmie, whose cries have been filling my ears. Having Herbie back will make all this so much easier. He’ll tend to the kitten as well as he did to Tommy. There were occasions, just a few, where I left the two them of alone, when I had to run to the local shop for supplies and couldn’t face the fact of leads and buggies.

Marmie is trapped, this time under the settee. I drag the couch away from the wall and as soon as I lift her she relaxes in my hands. I research ‘separation anxiety’ in puppies and kittens and it nearly kills me the pain they go through when separated from their pack. Need to get the little thing used to the idea of me coming and going, so I try the trick of going out for five minutes, then twenty, then two, then forty. Confuse and reassure. Arrange favourite treats, pieces of cheese, tuna, stuffed inside socks and plastic containers, turn soothing classical music on. I can now leave the room without being greeted by a shivering wreck on my return. Call David, arrange a walk in the park. This time I’ll demonstrate how ‘normal’ I can be by leaving the kitten at home.





32


My overzealous application of perfume, a sweet flowery concoction – perhaps it’s gone off? – swirls about me in the wind, gathering in intensity. My lank hair is whipping across my eyes, making them water, my cheeks more red than usual. I have noticed more broken veins on my delicate skin recently, and the application of old, caked foundation does little to tamp down my high colour. I see him, pacing along the edge of the pond, hands deep in his pockets, and have to fight a desire to bolt. My voice, when it makes itself heard, is a bubbling cauldron of unmediated bullshit: ‘Hi there, great to see you, windy day, nippy too, kitten home alone, getting Herbie back, cleaned the house in preparation, beyond excited, will he take to the kitten? – hopefully they’ll be pals…’

David nods, in amusement or bafflement, I can’t tell which.

‘Hi, Sonya.’ He bends to pick up a conker. ‘What a beauty, and I thought the season was over.’ He’s scrutinising the chestnut. ‘Like polished mahogany.’

Is he staring at his reflection in there? I sidle up to him, peer over his shoulder, experience a strange jealousy at the object of his fascination. ‘Hmmm, shiny alright.’ The strain of playing Ms Sanity is beginning to show, the seams of my character fraying at the edges.