Bright Burning Things(6)
We pull into the Tesco car park, which is teeming with shiny, glossy four-by-fours and Volvos, most with registration plates no more than five years old. I count, obsessively: none are as old as mine, pushing fifteen years and way past its NCT date. Heat rises in me as I drive to a faraway corner, hidden, camouflaged by bushes, so no one else can see the moss that has incubated in the windows, the rust that is ingrained in the scratches. Try not to think of the vintage Spider my Italian fling, Roberto, the rising film director, bought me for my twenty-fifth birthday. ‘A thing of beauty for a great beauty,’ he said, framing me with his hands. What would he make of me now? Harsh, soundless laughter rises.
I park, then turn to my two bedraggled boys in the back seat and tussle with myself for a moment. Herbie pines terribly if he’s left alone and whines like a banshee, drawing attention to the cruel woman who’d abandon her dog in a crummy car, and Tommy becomes overstimulated inside any place where there is food, pulling anything orange off the shelf. I look around and see we’re pretty much out of sight here. ‘I’ll only be a sec,’ I say as I jump and run, incanting: fish fingers, bread, toilet roll, dog food, beans, over and over compulsively, the way I used to learn my lines. I can hear Tommy’s hands banging against the window, or maybe that’s just my imagination, I’m not going to turn around to check. This is a mission that’s been embarked upon, and if there’s anything in myself I can count on, it’s that I never give up on something once it’s in motion, even when it’s blatantly bad for me, even when it might just be laying its hands on me, stroking and beating me in the same moment. I shake my head and rush through the door.
My pulse is loud in my throat, my eyesight dims and blurs as the lights get brighter overhead, the noise of the muzak fills my head, people bump into me, without even an ‘excuse me’ or ‘sorry’. Children are screaming – why don’t they teach the little brats some manners? And trolleys, bright shiny overloaded trolleys, greedy glutted trolleys, bulging fat guts bumping into me, the tinny beats building into a scream. If I can only manage the fish fingers, Herbie can eat them too. Find the freezer aisle, fuck it’s cold, grab Tesco’s own brand, five packets, feel fingers scraping my hair back, a tug at the roots. Don’t have to go far – a Chardonnay is on special: Le Versant, a lively French number, fresh and aromatic with notes of honey and flowers. Sweet nectar. Some have no security tags. I manage to get to the self-checkout, run the fish fingers and one of the bottles in front of the sensor, just in case.
The car windows are steamed up when I get back, Herbie letting out long indignant wails, Tommy crying soundlessly. ‘Ok, darlings? Ok… I’m back. Now, let’s go home and eat our fishies.’ I drop into the driving seat, twist around to pat Tommy absently on the head, the dog panting quietly. It amazes me the calming effect I have on that creature – even when I’m hyperventilating myself, my presence seems to clear the dog of any stress. Never known such unconditional adoration, and I have to admit, he’s the only stabilising influence in my life right now. Tommy’s moods are increasingly volatile, and his needs are far greater than the dog’s. ‘Stop that right now, Sonya. Just stop it. Grow up.’
‘Who are you talking to, Yaya?’
‘My guardian angel.’
‘Is she called Yaya too?’
‘Yup. She’s made in my likeness. Isn’t that a scary thought?’
He says nothing for a while, just presses his nose against the window, then rubs his nose with his sleeve. I don’t correct him.
‘She must be beeootiful like you. Does my guarding angel look like me?’
‘He or she can look like anyone you wish.’
‘My dada,’ he says, sticking his thumb back in his mouth and staring out the window intently. His face has closed down.
‘A big tall handsome angel, like your dada. What a good idea. I might borrow him sometime.’
He half-bites down on his thumb, which looks raw and red, a welt at the bend in the knuckle. Enough talk of the deceased hero of a father. Tommy will never know that Howard didn’t want him, was true to his word, abandoned him in my womb. News of my pregnancy was met with: ‘You’re making a terrible mistake, Sonya, you’re not mother material… and your career, what will happen to your career?’ An aspiring actor, Howard had enough ambition for both of us, and no intention of letting an unplanned pregnancy get in the way. I start to sing, ‘Old MacDonald had a farm and on that farm he had some monkeys, eee, aye, eee, aye, oh, and on that farm he had some tigers…’ Tommy pretends he’s not listening but when I make really bad monkey sounds he starts to chuckle in spite of himself, and when I make a monkey-lion-gibber-roar he bursts into uncontrolled laughter, aping me, ‘OohoohoohooheeeahahahROAR!’
The rain gathers in intensity and falls heavily on the car, the wipers screeching back and forth, barely creating any clearing in my view. The car swerves and slides on the wet roads – I’m pretty sure the tyres are bald or flat or both – but the impetus to get home to my bedtime routine is pushing me on at great speed. ‘Wheee, Yaya, wheee…’ Tommy shouts from the back, his eyes sparkling, seeking out the danger. He can sense it, Herbie too, I can tell from the way his ears are pinned back. ‘Ok, boys… hang on!’ I flick my eyes to the rear-view mirror to make sure that Tommy’s seatbelt is fastened, and when I see it is I put my foot to the floor. The car screeches, Herbie yelps, a new-puppy-sounding cry, and Tommy starts clapping madly. ‘Faster, Yaya, faster!’