Sweet Sorrow(22)

As for Mum, I still hated her for leaving us but there was something theoretical about the hatred now, as if it was something that, like a marriage, had to be worked on and maintained. More instinctive was the stab of betrayal that felt sharper every time I saw her, the humiliation of not being picked for her team.

But I also felt, I think, a certain pride in being her representative in the house. I’d never been a prefect but perhaps I might fulfil the role at home, which was why I liked to know that she was coming, so that I could create the impression of wholesome orderliness, plump the cushions, empty the fridge of foil containers, make sure Dad was either presentable and fully dressed or, if that was not achievable on that day, then fully absent. Given notice, her visits had the quality of an inspection. I’d watch her eyes take it all in. No plates in the sink, good; clean tea towels, clean washing snapping on the line, nice to see. Her guilt was essential to me; I wanted to stoke it like a furnace because I wanted her back. But I did not want her back because we were incapable. Even while I strained to hate her, it seemed important that she should be proud of me.

On the day I met Fran Fisher, Mum was already in the kitchen, loading the shelves with groceries. I watched her, standing in the open doorway, as she used her fingernails to lift a mouldy crust from the breadbin and drop it into a bin-bag. Somewhere in the house a fat bluebottle patted its head against a window in the afternoon light, and she muttered to herself as she unpacked, a private commentary of minor criticisms and complaints.

‘Hello,’ I said.

She glanced over her shoulder. ‘Where have you been?’

None of your business. Our conversation carried a commentary as easily read as the subtitles on a foreign film. ‘Just out. Went for a bike ride.’

‘Dad’s out too?’

‘Looks like it.’ Thank God he’s not here.

‘Any idea where?’

‘Don’t know.’ Some mad walk.

‘Is he sleeping much?’

‘I think so.’ Not at night. The sofa, in the afternoons. Your fault.

‘Seeing people?’

‘Only me.’ Also your fault.

‘Looking after himself?’

‘Same as always.’ He doesn’t shave and drinks too much; he wears the same clothes for days. Your fault.

‘Has he mentioned the possibility of looking for work?’

‘He has, yeah.’

This was only partly true. On days when our joint presence in the house became unbearable, Dad would grab pens and paper and turn the TV over to the Situations Vacant pages of Ceefax. Could either of us be a gas fitter? Insurance salesman? Diver on an oil rig? We contemplated new professions in the same way that children do: train driver, cowboy, astronaut, could we fit our faces to the role? The answer was invariably no and the exercise was both dispiriting and deeply uncomfortable. Looking for work was not something father and son should do together, the discomfort greater even than when watching sex scenes, and soon we’d snap back to the programme, change the subject, mention it no more. I changed the subject now.

‘How’s Jonathan?’ Jonathan is a perfectly nice name, hard to say with derision.

‘All good, thank you for asking,’ said Mum levelly, slamming the cupboard door closed with the flat of her hand, then doing so again and again until it finally remained shut. Bang-bang-bang. She rested for a moment, both hands on the counter. ‘You know the best thing about living there? No jazz and all those lovely corners!’

‘Well, as long as you’re happy, Mum,’ I said, but I knew that if she’d given the word, I’d have run upstairs and packed a bag in a heartbeat. Perhaps she knew this too, because now she changed the subject.

‘What are you doing with the summer? In general, I mean.’

‘Riding my bike. Reading.’

‘Reading? You were never much of a reader.’

‘Well. I am now.’

‘All those years we went on at you to read …’

‘Well, maybe that was the problem, you going on at me.’

‘Hm. Yes, I see now that it was my fault. At least you’re outdoors. Are you spending time with other people?’

I’ve just met this amazing girl; could I ever have said that? I had heard tell that there were people who could talk openly and honestly with their parents, in conversations that were not simply long volleys of sarcasm and self-righteousness. But honestly, who were these freaks? Even if I’d found the words, it was impossible now. We could hear my father’s voice outside, artificially bright and loud. ‘Hey, Billie! What are you doing here?!’

Bracing herself, my mother turned back to the cupboards. ‘Don’t fight,’ I whispered but Dad was leaning in the doorway, his face set into a look of proud defiance that he couldn’t quite pull off.

‘Still here, are you?’ said Dad.

‘No, Brian, I left fifteen minutes ago.’

‘I only came back because I thought you’d be gone.’

‘Did you not see my car in front of the house? It’s not a big car but still I thought you’d notice it.’

‘What are you taking this time?’

‘Actually, I was bringing stuff – food, something not served in a foil tray. I can always take it back.’

‘Please, do.’

‘It’s for Charlie, mainly—’