Another Night, Another Day

  Footsteps overhead interrupt her thoughts; once again Glenn has removed himself from interaction. Abby wipes her hands and goes into the lounge.

  ‘I guess if Daddy won’t play with you, I will.’

  Being with her son is like piloting an unpredictable plane, but this morning he proves responsive to her steer, and soon she is sitting opposite him cross-legged on the carpet.

  ‘You’re such a tease, aren’t you?’ she smiles at him. ‘OK then, let’s try this: Pah.’ She leans forward and blows into his face as she makes the sound.

  ‘Pah,’ says Callum, blowing back.

  Abby claps with delight. ‘Good boy!’

  She repeats the noise and her son’s fringe lifts from his forehead in the small breeze. Once more he mirrors her. They do it again.

  ‘I don’t believe it.’ She laughs in delight. ‘You’re saying the letter “p”!’ She’s poised to run and fetch Glenn to share the moment when Callum stops blowing and shifts onto his knees.

  He’s had enough, thinks Abby, disappointed. It’s as if he knew I was enjoying it. She prepares to run after him. But instead he edges over and, like a pup wanting to suckle, burrows right into her. He wraps his arms around her back, rests his head on her belly and remains there, curled up in a crescent.

  She looks down at him and feels a surge of love.

  ‘What an incredible boy you are, coping with so many changing people and places when you can’t say what you wish for. Your world seems so frustrating and frightening, you’re amazing for getting through each day with all the mischief, giggles and smiles that you do.’

  Then she stops and listens.

  Even the sounds Callum is making are beautiful. Primal snuffles of content, more evocative than speech itself.

  7

  The next day is Sunday, and Karen and her mother are due to visit her father in Worthing.

  ‘I’m afraid George isn’t out of bed yet,’ says the nurse who greets them at the care home. ‘He refused point-blank.’

  ‘Don’t worry, we’ll do that,’ says Shirley, slipping off her tweed coat in preparation.

  ‘They should have tried to get him up, Mum,’ whispers Karen as they head down the corridor to her father’s room.

  ‘Maybe they haven’t enough staff on a Sunday.’

  No, it’s because he’s difficult, thinks Karen.

  They tap on the door and when there’s no sound from inside, they go in. George is fast asleep.

  ‘The staff should raise the blinds if they want him to wake up,’ mutters Karen, and walks directly to the window to do just that.

  Shirley sits down on the edge of the single bed. The mattress creaks under her weight. ‘George, darling. It’s time to get up.’

  ‘Go away!’ George turns his head to see where the light is coming from. ‘And shut those blinds!’

  Karen joins her mother at his bedside. He could do with a shave, she notices; his white stubble is almost a beard. ‘Dad, it’s nearly midday.’ Surely letting Dad stay in bed so long isn’t good for him, she thinks, even if he does say that’s where he wants to be? He has no routine and gets no exercise, which only makes him more infirm. Plus it dehumanizes him, leaving him alone all day. I’d treat a dog better.

  ‘Who are you?’ George rolls over, away from them, without waiting for her to answer.

  ‘I’m Karen. Your daughter.’ Part of her would like to admit defeat like the nurses, and leave. Then she and her mum could enjoy a cup of tea and a stroll – she’s left Molly and Luke in Brighton with Simon’s brother, Alan, and his wife for a few hours – and it’s sunny outside, if cold. But her sense of duty is too strong.

  ‘Let’s get you up, Dad,’ she says, gently easing back the covers.

  George pulls them up again, huffing. ‘I’m ill! Fuck off!’

  ‘Darling . . .’ Shirley shakes her head, exasperated. She and Karen are confident he is not poorly – he says this every morning. So Shirley takes over soothing and placating until eventually her husband relinquishes control of the duvet.

  Karen snatches the opportunity. ‘Would you like a drink, Dad? How about some water? You know you’ll feel better if you do . . .’ She reaches for a glass, fills it from a jug on his bedside table.

  Scowling, he raises himself to take a sip. Shirley slips pillows behind his head and the two of them ease him to sitting.

  ‘Why don’t you swivel round, pop your legs out of bed?’ suggests Shirley. ‘Then we can put on your shoes and socks.’

  ‘I don’t want to get up!’ says George. ‘Who are you? And who’s that woman?’ He points at Karen. ‘You’re fat.’

  Ouch.

  The insults Karen can just about endure, but the lack of recognition makes her want to cry out in pain. It seems he has not known who she is since he and Shirley left Portugal, as if his mind is like a bicycle chain, and the change of environment has caused it to slip and come off. That he’s so disorientated appears to verify this, but Karen is loath to point this out to her mother. Shirley worries enough about George as it is.

  ‘What are those?’ He is pointing at his shoes, which Shirley is placing on the floor beside his swollen feet. ‘Who are they for?’

  He gets more confused lately, too. Everything has to be explained to him each time he does it – not once but several times. Getting him dressed is exhausting for anyone involved, let alone trying to persuade him to have a shower or take a walk round the garden, and he never ventures outside the grounds of the care home. He’s unwilling, and here Karen and Shirley have given up coaxing. He’s extremely hard to manage in public; he’s inclined to insult strangers at the top of his voice: ‘Your hair looks like a horrible old mop,’ ‘What a rude waitress you are,’ ‘Why are you wearing those ridiculous trousers?’ – his insightfulness can be excruciating. Plus occasionally he gets aggressive, perilously close to violent.

  Half an hour later, George is dressed and vertical. It takes ten more minutes to lead him with the aid of a Zimmer frame to the communal lounge, where they sit, a trio drinking weak tea, where only two of them know who all three of them are.

  * * *

  Michael is in the garden shed when a gentle rap on the door heralds the arrival of Chrissie with a cup of coffee.

  ‘Thought this might warm you up.’

  ‘Thanks, love,’ he replies, barely glancing at her. He’s down on all fours, mending one of their kitchen chairs with extra-strong adhesive and string. It’s a relief to be able to concentrate on something unconnected with work: ever since his encounter with Tim, Michael has been doing his best to contain his anger, but having to be in the shop has made it hard.

  ‘Brr!’ His wife shivers. ‘It’s nippy. You sure you’re OK?’

  ‘Mm,’ he grunts. How can he explain how much he likes being in here, regardless? Ryan and Kelly still have their own bedrooms in spite of being away at college, Chrissie has the rest of the bungalow, and Bloomin’ Hove to some degree belongs to his customers, but this slatted wooden hut with one small window and a hazardous electricity supply is Michael’s territory alone.

  ‘Where do you want this?’ she says, hovering. It’s a good question: currently his bench is home to a disassembled hi-fi he’s trying to mend because he has a vague notion he might take it to the shop so he can play some of his vinyl there. Could make the place less dispiriting.

  ‘Er . . . just pop it down,’ he says, indicating the floor close by.

  ‘I don’t know how you can ever find anything in here.’ Chrissie eyes the disarray with an expression he knows well: a mixture of incredulity and affection.

  But there’s order amidst the chaos, Michael protests inwardly. Within easy reach above his workbench are his tools; years back he banged pairs of nails into a horizontal baton on which hang various hammers, pliers, chisels, screwdrivers, spanners and saws. Even the giant steel sledgehammer he bought for knocking through a hatch from their small kitchen to the living-cum-dining-room has its own spot. Above are two shelves: one is stacked with gla
ss jars – those filled with nails reflect a long-standing penchant for Chivers Olde English marmalade; those containing screws a liking for Branston pickle. Chrissie started soaking off the labels and saving the jars long before recycling was commonplace, and now he has a pleasing array separating out butterfly bolts from basin fixings, carpet tacks from clout nails, and much more. On the second shelf are larger items; some – different types of glue – go in plastic cartons left over from years of takeaway curry; plugs and light bulbs are housed in old shoeboxes.

  Opposite the door is propped a 1950s Formica dresser now assigned to decorating equipment – paint, brushes, white spirit and filler, not forgetting a couple of rolls of wallpaper covered in pictures of cupcakes left over from Kelly’s room. At right angles to the dresser hang tools for the garden and chammy leathers and an ancient minivac for washing the car.

  ‘I like it in here as it is,’ he says.

  So what if my workbench is covered in splashes or the yellow stuffing of my armchair is being eaten by mice, he thinks. This is where I can relax and read my dog-eared NMEs, where I can enjoy the rich bass of my analogue radio without anyone scoffing at the meagre selection of stations, and where I can come for a quick snifter of the Scotch I keep hidden in that old cake tin marked Loose bolts if Chrissie or the kids are getting on my wick. I’m not sure how I’d have got through the week without the occasional surreptitious swig.

  ‘I know, love,’ replies Chrissie, and bends to kiss the top of his head before closing the door and retreating back to the warmth of the house.

  8

  Abby is with Callum in the kitchen, clearing space so they can make biscuits. Through the ceiling she can hear the murmur of Glenn talking on the phone. He laughs, and she wonders who he’s chatting to – it seems ages since Abby managed even to make him smile.

  She turns to her son, trying to remain upbeat. ‘Shall we start with the butter?’ Yet he stares out of the French window, ignoring her.

  This bit is best done without Callum anyway, she reasons, opening the cupboard and getting out the mixer. Using beaters is dangerous with no one to help keep an eye on him.

  Then all of a sudden her eyes well up, and before she knows it, she is weeping.

  Sharing a house with someone you’re splitting up with is worse than living alone, she thinks. If only I had someone on hand to talk to; someone who understood Callum, like the woman who helped us out at the Co-op – what a tonic that would be . . . But it’s so hard to connect with other parents – most mums with small children can only focus on adult conversation in fits and starts, and I can seldom focus on one at all. And there’s the awkwardness of comparison; the milestones of their ‘normal’ children as opposed to the one-step-forward-two-steps-back of my boy.

  For goodness sake, get a grip, she scolds herself. Weakness and self-pity won’t help anyone. I must be strong. She wipes away tears with the back of her hand and turns her attention back to the task in hand.

  A few minutes later Glenn strolls into the kitchen. ‘What are you doing?’ he asks, flicking on the kettle.

  ‘Making biscuits,’ says Abby, hoping he won’t notice she’s been crying. ‘You can lend a hand if you like.’

  ‘You’re OK.’

  ‘Of course we are,’ she mutters under her breath. ‘You carry on, leave us to it.’

  ‘Have fun,’ says Glenn once he’s made a coffee, and he ducks back out of the room.

  However busy he is, Glenn could easily work in here if he wanted, she thinks. We’ve got a wireless connection and he could set up his laptop at the other end of the table. Just being in the same room as Callum would show willing. She bites back a surge of anger. Since when did I agree to look after our child 24/7?

  ‘Well, it’s his loss, isn’t it?’ she says to Callum, unlocking the cupboard by the cooker. ‘Hey, sweetheart, look, it’s sugar. Sugar.’ She grabs the packet.

  Her son likes sugar, but he likes flour more. He sees the red-and-white-striped box beckoning and stretches up eagerly. ‘Eeee!’

  ‘Wait a minute, love.’

  ‘Ah, ah.’ Callum’s fingers ping, impatient.

  ‘No, this bit next.’ Abby removes the bowl from the mixer and grabs a wooden spoon, determined to give this a try. ‘Go ahead, that’s good . . .’ Together they tip in the sugar, and Abby stirs while Callum watches, mesmerized.

  ‘Want a go?’ She hands him the spoon.

  Callum picks it up, gives the mix a cursory stir, then drops the spoon and leaves her side.

  Abby finishes and turns back for the flour.

  ‘OH NO! CALLUM!’

  Somehow he has climbed onto the cooker and is standing on the hob, reaching into the cupboard . . .

  He flips open the plastic lid, peers inside, scoops a handful of flour and stuffs it into his mouth – Mm, delicious, his expression declares. Then POOF! there’s a splutter, and he coughs a white cloud. Before Abby can take in what is happening, he’s down in one leap and off, running down the hall with the box in his hands. By the time she catches up with him, he’s reached the first-floor landing.

  ‘You . . . You little monkey . . .’ she says, grabbing one of his ankles to waylay him and gathering him into her arms. Maybe because the packet is empty, he allows himself to drop, relaxed, onto her lap.

  Abby pauses to catch her breath and they sit together on the top step. Then she looks back down. There’s a powder trail all the way along the hall and up the stairs. On some steps it’s only a thin film of dust; on others giant blobs spray out like stars. The carpet is peppered with footprints. Her son’s face is a ghostly mask of white; there’s even flour in his hair.

  She shakes her head in disbelief. ‘Well, I certainly experience things differently to other parents, don’t I?’ She laughs. ‘You’ve created our very own art installation.’

  * * *

  After the stifling heat of the care home, it’s a relief to be in the fresh air, thinks Karen.

  ‘This cake is delicious,’ she says. ‘How’s yours?’

  ‘Good. Want to try?’ Without waiting for an answer, her mother loads a large piece of gateau onto her fork and leans over the beach cafe table.

  Karen eyes the layers of cream and chocolate sponge. Never mind her father’s insult; she’s earned this treat. She opens her mouth and Shirley feeds her directly from her own fork.

  Mum’s never been squeamish about sharing germs, reflects Karen as she savours the sweetness. For this she is glad. Shirley was a post-war child, used to making do and mending, and her no-nonsense approach ran through Karen’s early years like an underground stream, invisible and nurturing. My mothering mirrors Mum’s, she thinks. Molly and Luke share bathwater just as my brother and I did when we were small; they each have sections of our allotment where I encourage them to grow their own vegetables from seed just as we had in our garden . . .

  Shirley interrupts her thoughts. ‘I do worry about George in that home.’

  Oh dear. Karen braces herself. Here we go. I should never have criticized the staff for not getting him up. It only fuels Mum’s guilt. ‘You had no choice, Mum. It was impossible for you to carry on the way you were.’

  ‘I suppose you’re right.’ Shirley sounds uncertain, and her hazel eyes are troubled, but then she smiles. ‘I do love being nearer you and the children.’

  ‘And we love having you closer too.’ Though having you down the hall might be a bit too close, Karen thinks, then flushes with guilt for even having the thought. Don’t be so selfish, she reproaches herself. It would be great for Molly and Luke to have their grandmother on hand.

  ‘I think it was the rosemary that made me realize,’ says Shirley. ‘Did I tell you that story?’

  Karen shakes her head. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Your father went out with a bag of rubbish to the shed and he must have got confused and picked up the garden shears. In any event, he ended up decimating that bush I’d grown by the back door. And he was so proud of himself! “Got rid of that awful weed,
Shirley!” he said. The air smelled of it for days. I was so upset; that was when I admitted defeat. Especially sad, when you consider rosemary is supposed to be the herb for remembrance. I should have brought some sprigs back with us, given them to you today . . .’ Her voice trails off, and she puts down her fork.

  For a few moments they sit in silence. The cafe itself is a charmless prefab building, so they’ve angled their chairs to face the sea. Straight ahead the light on the water is so bright it’s dazzling; to their left is a stretch of neatly cut grass and beach huts which look to have been recently painted white; to their right a broad sweep of shingle, broken by a sculptural array of rocks and crags.

  Eventually Karen says, ‘Simon would have loved it here.’

  ‘And George. Perhaps I should try and bring him . . .’ But Shirley’s tone lacks conviction. They both know George wouldn’t manage it.

  Again they fall quiet. The screech of seagulls and clatter of waves on stone mingle with the yelps of three teenagers trying to outdo each other balancing on the posts of one of the groynes.

  ‘You know something else Simon would have liked?’ Karen smiles. ‘This cake. If anyone was partial to a giant slice of gateau, he was.’

  Presently a waitress comes to collect their plates, shaking them both from reverie.

  ‘Come on then, Mum, let’s take that walk before I have to pick up the children,’ says Karen, standing. ‘We’d better work off those calories somehow.’ And she holds out a hand so Shirley can steady herself as she rises from her seat.

  9

  It’s 3 a.m., two days before Valentine’s, and Michael is heading for London. He usually likes driving at this hour: the road is wide and empty and he knows the route well – the westerly sweep round the bypass; due north up the A23 with the shadowy downs behind him, slowing a touch to handle the bends past the garden centre where they’ve added a lane recently; the sign for Pease Pottage Services which always reminds him of ‘Pease Porridge Hot’ – a nursery rhyme he used to chant to Ryan and Kelly whenever they passed en route to his parents in Croydon. But tonight he is glum. Throughout January, trade lived down to his expectations. His credit card is up to the limit, and his current account is seriously overdrawn; he’s been lying awake next to Chrissie night after night, silently panicking. Still, he urges himself, with any luck Bob can help when I get to the other end.