Bright Burning Things(71)

I pinch mine. ‘Poopy-poop-pooppoop.’

A quiet laugh builds inside him. I can see the effort it’s taking him to push it down. I tickle him under the arms. He explodes, tears running down his face. I’m not sure if he’s laughing or crying; probably both.

‘Tommy, would you like to tell me something about your time with Clare? Anything?’

‘Poopy-pooppooppooop!’

‘Did Clare teach you to light a match?’

‘Stinkystinkstinkstinkstink!’

‘How about school? Are you happy to go back?’

‘The colour of seagulls,’ he says.

‘Are you talking about the clouds, or the building?’

‘Grey white grey.’

‘No wonder you’re so good at drawing! Will we get our colour book out, my little artist?’

He almost bounces on his heels with excitement. ‘Yes, Yaya.’

‘You know how it’s your birthday in ten days, Tommy? Will we have a party?’

He goes to the art drawer at the bottom of the bockety Ikea chest of drawers, which I didn’t bother to assemble properly, and takes out crayons, glitter, glue and a scrapbook.

‘Who come to the party, Yaya?’

Clare, Maureen, Father, Lara, David? Not much of a crew for a five-year-old.

‘What about your pals from school, Tommy?’

He shrugs. ‘Miss Maeve,’ he says.

‘Your teacher? Do you like her?’

‘She gave me gold stars.’

He’s engrossed in rubbing Pritt Stick glue on a blank page and shaking the tube of glitter in uneven triangular shapes.

‘Tommy, that is truly beautiful!’

He looks at me, delighted. I clear my throat, speak low: Come into my orbit. ‘Come, gentle night, come, loving, black-brow’d night.’

Tommy looks thrilled. I climb on to the couch, smooth down my dress, engage my full, sonorous voice: ‘Give me my Romeo; and, when he shall die… Go on, Tommy… What’s next?’

He stands and sprinkles glitter on the paper from a height. ‘Take him and cut him out in little stars…’

‘Yes? What’s next, you twinkly, brilliant boy?’

‘Fowget, Yaya.’

‘And he will make the face of heaven so fine…’ I prompt him.

‘That all the world will love Mr Sunshiny and fowget Mr Night!’

‘Magnificent paraphrasing, Tommy, you really are my little genius!’

‘Bow-wow-wow, Yaya!’

I curtsy and a cloud of glitter falls on my head. Tommy is throwing fistfuls like confetti. A twisting sensation in my guts. I need it to stop.

‘Ok, that’s enough, now. Are you going to hoover all that up?’

Again, that inherited gift for puncturing any happiness. Selfish, selfish, selfish.

‘I’m sorry, Tommy, I didn’t mean…’

Tommy ignores me and doesn’t try to make it all alright, like he normally would.

I continue, ‘How about we make your very first party invitations and you can take them to school tomorrow?’

He sticks the end of a red crayon stick in his mouth.

‘Yumptious scrumptious blood, Mr Dracool!’ I boom, baring my fangs.

Not a trace of a smile. He wipes his mouth with his sleeve.

‘This party, Tommy. How many invitations do we need? Ten, twenty?’

Shit, a children’s party. How do I do that? I’ll probably need to provide entertainment. Musical statues, I can do that, pass the parcel, what else? I can dress up, draw on my past, wear a tutu, dance with some sparklers. A fiery fairy godmother! I’ll track down Mr Fire Blower. My thoughts are speeding up.

‘Yaya?’

That bloody imp has made a shadowy appearance. If I don’t bring any attention to her, she can’t climb inside. Exert a little bit of fucking effort, Sonya.

I breathe deeply. ‘What do you think, Tommy? We can have all your little friends over on Saturday, get fairy lights, cupcakes, krispies, paper hats, sparklers, Catherine wheels…’ Excitement is building. That hazy memory about those spinning wheels of fire catches hold of me. A bright, sparkling moment. There were happy times too.

‘Yaya?’ he tries to cut in again.

‘Who are your friends, Tommy?’

He looks at me blankly.

‘Didn’t you tell David all about school?’

He lifts his shoulders slightly.

‘Why won’t you talk to your own mother?’ My voice is speedy, high. ‘And after all I’ve given up for you?’ A dark shadow is nipping at my heels. I try to kick it off. ‘Tommy, I need names. Names, Tommy, names.’

Did I just shout just then? Tommy winces and withdraws inside himself. Herbie growls.

A memory lands, like a smack to the side of my face. ‘Wakey-wakey, princess, it’s your birthday.’ I’m being pulled from my bed, dragged downstairs by the arm and presented with a room full of twinkly fairy lights and candles. Music tinkles, some kind of Abba-style kitsch, and as I rub my eyes I see a woman in a tutu-style dress, covered head to toe in glitter, telling me to ‘dance, darling, dance’. Multicoloured snowflakes, tasty snowflakes, sweeties falling from the sky. ‘Such a pretty little girl.’ Twirled in circles, lifted under the arms and spun high, laughter in my ears. I don’t remember anything more except my father shouting, ‘Stop it now, stop it, enough.’ He brings me back to my bed, wiping off the glitter with a warm facecloth. ‘I’ll bring you up some hot milk, ok?’ He doesn’t even wish me a happy birthday. He’s forgotten all about it.