Another Night, Another Day

  To buoy his spirits, he reaches for the zip-up case containing his CDs, fumbles through the plastic pages with one hand and slips The Cure’s Greatest Hits into the stereo. Ryan scoffs at his inability to master downloads – ‘If you got an MP3 player, Dad, then you’d only need a lead to put it through the speakers in the car, it’s easy’ – but Michael still misses vinyl, so the thought of switching from CDs to digital is more than he can bear.

  The strains of ‘The Lovecats’ remind him of Chrissie. He can still picture her with her backcombed red hair, sitting in an alcove of the Batcave nightclub, doing a funny little dance in tandem with her mate while all around them New Romantic types tried to look cool and mysterious. Hands curled like paws held up on either side of their cheeks, heads bobbing to the plinkety-plonk of the piano. He recalls going up and asking if they were professional dancers – talk about cheesy – and Chrissie leaning into her friend and giggling. She fancies me, he’d realized. Result! ‘You’re better than the girls in The Human League,’ he’d said, directing his gaze at Chrissie. And that had been the start.

  Fingers crossed I’ve still got a bit of that magic, he thinks, glancing at himself in the car mirror to check. In the dim light he can see crinkles round his eyes, the salt-and-pepper of his hair; even his eyebrows are threaded with thick strands of white. In the old days he only had to look at some women to make them blush. Not that Michael is excessively vain – he goes to a barber, not a salon, and wouldn’t dream of buying moisturizer for his skin – but nonetheless he enjoys a bit of a flirt.

  I hope they don’t respond merely to humour an older fella, he thinks.

  Soon he’s in what would be the familiar territory of Croydon, had the entire infrastructure of Purley Way not substantially changed. Watching superstores take over is a transformation Michael wouldn’t relish anywhere, but the effect on his home town has been catastrophic. One only has to look at the riots of 2011 to see the damage they do, he reckons. That unrest wasn’t prompted by poor race relations and police brutality like the uprisings in Brixton and Tottenham during my youth; the rioters were thieves looting outlets for wide-screen TVs, phones and the latest trainers, then torching the properties afterwards. He shudders, recalling the horror of watching his old stomping ground become a war zone of flaming buildings and fleeing families. It made him want to weep to see so many small businesses suffer.

  There’s something wrong about the way megastores generate profit, he thinks, because at the same time that they encourage greed, they reduce customers’ respect for the staff serving. When I started out, people appreciated floristry skills like mine; now they’d rather buy a cheap bouquet with their supermarket shopping.

  The A23 weaves on through Streatham High Street and down Brixton Hill, then it’s into Stockwell and Vauxhall with their mix of tower blocks and Georgian terraces. Finally, a sign welcomes him to his destination: New Covent Garden Flower Market. There’s a queue for the car park, as Michael expected, but tomorrow will be worse. Buying stock for Valentine’s Day is an art; on the 13th and 14th prices go crazy, yet if he had come here too far in advance, the flowers would be wilted by the day itself.

  The bright fluorescent lights and the loud cries of sellers contrast with the dark and quiet of the suburbs so it takes him a moment to get his bearings. Beneath the corrugated roof of a vast shed are dozens of wholesale traders, each with their own patch. Everything is on a massive scale compared to a regular market; vendors boast trolley after trolley of cut flowers, foliage and bedding plants, not to mention sheets of cellophane and tissue paper, vases and ribbon in every style and colour, plus wires, floral foam, scissors . . .

  Michael scratches his head, trying to work out the best way forward. He’s sure there is everything he needs, but here cash is king. He’s only got fifty quid, so although buying in bulk can help negotiate a better rate, he has little bargaining power.

  No cause for alarm, he persuades himself as he collects a trolley; if I get everything else with my cash, then Bob can sort me out with some roses.

  He makes his way slowly along the first aisle, appraising. At the back of one of the stands he spies some scarlet berries – long stems make them perfect for Valentine’s arrangements. ‘How much for a couple of trays of hypericum?’ he asks the stallholder.

  ‘Forty,’ says the guy.

  ‘I’ll give you twenty.’

  The trader shakes his head. ‘I’ll take a credit card?’ he offers, eyeing Michael’s thin clutch of notes.

  ‘Thanks, but no.’ Michael moves on to the next stand. Ah, gypsophila – now there’s an idea. Never mind those pretentious florists who say the tiny white flowers are dated; his Valentine’s Day purchasers will mainly be men who won’t give a monkey’s.

  ‘What’s your best price for the gyp?’ he asks the young woman in a trader’s apron bending over a bucket of tulips.

  ‘Tenner,’ she says, barely looking up.

  Total rip-off, thinks Michael. I should have come yesterday. He recalls the Hotel sur Plage incident with a flash of resentment – after so many years in the business, it’s unjust that he should be floundering.

  Bite the bullet, he tells himself, or they’ll go. The trip cost a fortune in petrol – he has to make it pay. ‘I’ll take three for twenty,’ he says, and they do a deal.

  It doesn’t take long to get through the rest of his cash – a couple of wraps of white oriental lilies, some sweet-smelling eucalyptus, a tray of red anthuriums for the customers who prefer something more blatant, three rolls of brown paper, and it’s gone.

  He edges his trolley, now laden with purchases, across the hall. Bob has had his stall in the same spot – at the end of the furthest aisle – for the last thirty years.

  I’m not looking forward to this negotiation, thinks Michael. Usually Covent Garden traders won’t countenance any kind of loan, but Bob has been doing Michael a favour as they go back three decades. Convention is he should settle last month’s bill before buying more, which lately he has not been able to do. Still, he tells himself, what choice do I have? And a few boxes of Bob’s splendid red roses will help set me back on my feet . . .

  But when he reaches the end of the aisle, his heart drops like a stone.

  There’s not a bucket or box or tray or wrap of flowers in sight.

  Bob’s stand is completely empty.

  * * *

  ‘Well, well. Fancy seeing you here.’

  Abby is standing alone at the bar when she feels a finger run slowly down her spine. She starts and turns – it’s Jake.

  ‘How are you?’ he murmurs, as if they were intimate only yesterday.

  ‘I’m OK.’ She drinks in black hair, bad teeth, a leather jacket, attitude.

  ‘I’m down here on business, just for the night,’ he says, raising an eyebrow. ‘Fancy a drink?’

  There it is, an invitation: abandon yourself again to me.

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ she says.

  ‘Well, don’t think for too long.’ And Jake turns to talk to another girl.

  Abby wakes, disoriented. Between her legs is damp. Why on earth am I fantasizing about Jake after all this time? Maybe it’s because the shops are rammed with romantic cards and gifts at this time of year, she thinks, though Jake was hardly a hearts and flowers kind of guy. Whatever the reason, it’s disturbing. Being tempted to run away even seems to permeate my dreams. Yet it’s not as if Jake made me happy: far from it. He was too wild, too unhinged – he almost sent me mad.

  Jake was a reaction to the sweet, loving guy who’d been Abby’s first boyfriend: with hindsight it’s so clear. Abby had grown bored, sought someone more challenging when she was an art student in Manchester. And Lord, had she been challenged by Jake . . .

  After Jake came her husband: each man a rebound from the last. They met at a party; Abby was attracted to Glenn at once. He looked almost piratical, yet when she got to know him he proved solid, sensible. He had a job he liked, was ambitious. She remembers he seemed to combine the
two things she wanted most: sexual attraction and security. ‘Move in with me,’ he’d said, so she’d upped sticks and come to Brighton. And they’d been happy, blissfully so. She wasn’t wrong about that, was she?

  No, she thinks, I wasn’t. We made love in the open air on the downs, we laughed at the foibles of other people, we were in sync about politics and the planet and what we wanted from life. We didn’t simply love one another, we liked one another. It’s just all this was before Callum.

  She can hear their son thumping his legs against the end of his bed next door. Any second he’ll be up, raring to go.

  And if Glenn was a cross between her first two boyfriends, then Callum is a cross between the two of us, she observes, not for the first time. The way he pings from a high-energy Zebedee to an obsessive, like a trainspotter; that’s me mixed with Glenn, for sure. Perhaps if we’d had a different child we’d have been OK, but I can’t undo that and wouldn’t want to. Still, who could have foreseen that finding the man to balance me would produce the child who pushed us apart?

  * * *

  Karen is lying in bed, but memories are flooding in so thick and fast she’s barely slept at all.

  The train to Victoria had left Burgess Hill. She and Simon had been in adjacent seats, facing forwards. Simon had brought a book to read, but they’d been chatting since leaving Brighton.

  ‘My boss has moved my desk,’ she’d been saying. ‘He didn’t even ask me.’

  ‘Poor baby,’ Simon had replied, and he’d been stroking her hand, when, suddenly, in a single moment, everything changed.

  Simon had muttered something, clutched his chest, and with a thud he’d landed face down on the table. He was still, so eerily still . . . She’d been confused – shocked – frantic; it all happened so fast.

  Within seconds she’d got to her feet and shouted his name. According to Lou, who’d been across the aisle, she’d been amazingly level-headed, though Karen has thought since that Lou might have skewed events in the retelling to help ease her sorrow and guilt.

  It was a heart attack. A coronary so severe that Simon had probably died in seconds, or that’s what they said after the post-mortem.

  I shouldn’t have ordered him that coffee, thinks Karen for the thousandth time. I should have listened when he said he had indigestion. We should have sat down on a bench in the concourse and waited for it to pass. We should never have boarded the train. I shouldn’t have worried him by moaning. And when he collapsed, I should have tried to revive him, given him the kiss of life . . .

  She’s been over this again and again. Yet no matter how hard she beats herself up, no matter how many months have elapsed since that fateful morning, it seems she can never be absolved of her sense of wrongdoing.

  She rolls over and checks the radio alarm. It’s 06.45 on 12 February. Two days before Valentine’s, and two years to the day since Simon’s passing.

  10

  What a difficult start to the day, thinks Abby.

  Callum’s had his pants on, then off. His sweatshirt inside out, outside in and inside out again. His tracksuit bottoms were rejected as itchy, even though the label – as with all Callum’s clothes – was cut out months ago. Then an identical pair – inexplicably – was accepted. Next came the rituals of touching and moving things round the bedroom. Persuading Callum to eat breakfast was impossible.

  At 8.30 the carer arrives, but they don’t get him into his coat until ten to nine. Abby is hurrying Eva and Callum out of the front door when the squeak of the garden gate heralds the arrival of visitors.

  ‘We’ve . . . er . . . come to see the house?’ A man about Glenn’s age is coming up the path, holding a little boy’s hand. Behind him is a woman with a small baby in a sling strapped to her chest. ‘We’re the Donaldsons.’

  Oh no, thinks Abby. They’re early.

  There’s a commotion as everyone crosses paths in the porch. Abby says, ‘Ah yes, come on in,’ at the same time as Eva says, ‘Sorry, don’t mind us, we’re on our way out.’ As Mrs Donaldson makes way for them, the baby’s papoose brushes against Callum’s cheek and he recoils as if burnt, leaping onto the lawn.

  Mrs Donaldson looks bewildered. ‘The baby’s not going to hurt you,’ she says to him.

  Uh-oh, red alert, thinks Abby, as Callum bats his arms and howls in distress. Luckily Eva picks up what’s happening, shoots round the Donaldsons and coaxes, ‘We’re walking to school, Callum, walking to school.’ She knows better than to offer overt comfort in the form of a hug or kiss; it’s more important to reassure him his routine is not being changed.

  Abby forces a smile and says, ‘Hello and welcome,’ encouraging the visitors into the hall with an expansive gesture. She shuts the door, praying Eva and Callum will be OK.

  ‘This is Finn,’ says the man, placing a paternal hand on top of his son’s head.

  ‘Hello, Finn,’ says Abby, crouching to the child’s level. ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Three.’ Finn’s father answers for him.

  ‘Three and a half,’ says Finn.

  Abby laughs, and waits in the hall for a few moments to allow them to take in the space.

  Mr Donaldson nods, ‘Nice,’ and Abby is pleased to see him look up at the cornice, but the woman is still frowning, stroking her baby’s downy hair.

  I bet she’s wondering about Callum, thinks Abby, but she’s keen to avoid getting caught up in an explanation. If the Donaldsons feel guilty or embarrassed, it might affect their view of her home. The agent has bigged them up: they are cash buyers.

  They both seem taken by the kitchen – thank goodness Abby got rid of that broken TV screen – and when Finn pipes up, ‘It’s much nicer than the last house we saw, Daddy,’ she warms further to the little boy.

  They enthuse over the lounge, but as Abby leads them up to the first floor, the woman says, ‘How odd – your stair carpet’s paler in the middle than the outside; ours is the other way round from being trampled with dirt,’ and Abby is torn. She could offer an account as to why: Callum took a packet of flour and emptied it up the stairs. He was fascinated by the white powder and the trail was rather beautiful . . . Yet she fears that without also explaining her son’s condition, it will simply sound as if Callum is very badly behaved, especially compared to their own little boy. She could play it another way, and regale them with stories that are bound to shock them into sympathizing. She could show them the locks on all the food cupboards and the fridge, and explain that they’re there not merely to stop her son sneaking biscuits – or even flour: he’s just as likely to eat an entire tub of butter, fill the sink with honey or post dirty dinner plates into the bin. Or she could put a positive spin on her circumstances and enthuse about the joy of watching Callum on the trampoline, jumping higher and longer than any other seven-year-old, ever, and hearing his vocalizations evolve into chuckles of laughter.

  But she is keen to avoid becoming The Woman With the Autistic Child – a label that irks her as much as the tags on Callum’s clothes irritate him. Once strangers see her that way, they rarely seem able to see her as much else. Right now it’s important she’s The Woman With the Beautiful House, so she keeps schtum and leads them up to the attic.

  ‘I love this,’ says the woman, turning to her husband. ‘Wouldn’t it be perfect for Finn when he’s older?’

  Finn’s eyes open wide with excitement.

  Abby shows them the main bedroom – where they gasp at the view from the bay – then Callum’s room, which she has carefully tidied. Everything is going swimmingly until she opens the door to the bathroom.

  They step inside – it’s a good-sized room – and at once Finn says, ‘What are those pictures for, Mummy?’

  Beside the lavatory is Blu-Tacked a diagram of a boy with his trousers undone and an arrow indicating they should be pulled downwards; below is a similar picture with an arrow directing the boy to sit on the loo seat. Recently Abby and Eva have initiated a toilet-training programme with Callum, and they have printed out diagrams f
rom the computer. Next to the loo roll is another picture to demonstrate how many sheets of paper should be used.

  ‘They’re for my little boy,’ she says.

  ‘Doesn’t he use the loo?’ asks Finn.

  ‘Um – he’s not very good at it.’

  ‘Oh,’ says Finn. ‘He’s very big not to do that.’

  ‘He’s getting better at it,’ says Abby, though she’s not sure he is.

  The woman frowns once more; the man coughs. ‘Now Finn, don’t be rude,’ he says. Abby is sure she can sense them thinking: Good grief, is your son still in nappies?

  ‘It’s OK,’ she says, not wanting Finn to feel bad. By now she has no choice but to elaborate. She addresses Finn’s parents. ‘My son has autism.’

  ‘What’s autism?’ asks Finn.

  ‘Finn!’ The woman speaks sharply. ‘What did Daddy say?’

  Abby can see that Finn is poised to cry. She thinks fast – her skills are honed on that score. Again she crouches down to Finn’s height. It seems easier to explain to him. ‘It means something happened inside my little boy’s head before he was born, Finn, so that he’s not as good at some things as you are, even though he’s older than you, and using the loo is one of those things.’

  ‘Ah,’ nods Finn.

  ‘And sometimes he does funny things too, like when someone touches him by mistake. That’s why he jumped so high when you arrived, did you see?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But he’s very good at other things,’ says Abby.

  ‘Like jumping?’ says Finn.

  ‘Yes.’ Abby smiles. ‘You should see him on the trampoline!’ Then, impulsively, she ruffles the lad’s hair. How lovely to be able to touch a little boy in affection, she thinks, without fear of being batted away.