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‘Yes, you would. Have you checked our bank balance lately?’
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake …’ I stared at the man I’d once loved to distraction, and who was now glaring at me, his face mottled red, his T-shirt splashed with dishwater. ‘You begrudge me the four pounds fifty or whatever it costs to get there and back?’
‘Of course I don’t—’
‘What’s wrong with you two tonight?’ We both swung around to see Flynn standing in the doorway.
‘Sorry, son,’ Nate blustered, looking away.
Flynn snorted. ‘What were you shouting about?’
‘We weren’t shouting, honey,’ I said quickly.
He blinked at us. ‘Yes, you were. And what’s four pounds fifty?’
‘Nothing,’ I exclaimed, looking at Nate for confirmation.
‘Nothing’s four pounds fifty,’ he said with an exaggerated shrug, while our son exhaled loudly and strode away, as if concluding that his parents really had lost it this time.
Nate and I fell into a sullen silence, and only much later, when we were watching TV, did he attempt to make conversation with me.
‘I meant to tell you, I got her again today,’ he remarked.
‘Which one?’ I asked.
‘You know. The one with a tiny fringe that stops above the eyebrows, like your old college mates used to have?’
Ah, the art-school-mini-fringe. ‘You mean Tanzie? The one who’s failed, what, ten times now?’
‘Yeah, that’s the one. And it’s eleven, actually.’
‘Poor thing,’ I murmured. ‘I can’t believe she hasn’t given up by now. If I were her, I’d resign myself to a life of blagging lifts and using public transport—’
‘No, you wouldn’t,’ he insisted. ‘Anyway, that would never happen to you. You passed first time! You’re so capable, nothing fazes you—’
‘That’s right,’ I said bitterly. ‘I just soldier on, never needing any care or looking after—’ Without warning, my eyes welled up. I turned away before Nate could see.
‘Tanzie usually just accepts that she’s failed,’ he went on, as if I hadn’t spoken. ‘Nadira and Eric say the same – we’ve all had her, over and over. But this time there were floods of tears. Inconsolable, she was …’ He sighed loudly and shook his head. ‘Anyway, I’m shattered. Coming up to bed?’
‘In a little while,’ I replied. ‘Could you set the mousetraps before you go up? I saw another one this morning …’
‘That’ll be the same one as before,’ Nate remarked.
‘How can you be so sure?’
‘Well, what did it look like?’
I shrugged. ‘Small, furry, greyish-brown …’
‘Yeah, that’s the one I saw.’
I stared at him, aware of my anger starting to bubble up again. I suspect it’s permanently there, simmering just below the surface. ‘I didn’t spot any distinguishing features,’ I retorted, ‘and it wasn’t wearing a T-shirt with its name on. I think we must have quite a problem – an infestation, actually – seeing as they’re appearing pretty much every day …’
‘No, what I mean is, it’s probably just the same one that keeps reappearing,’ Nate declared, with a trace of smugness.
My chest was tightening, and I was aware of veering dangerously close towards what’s commonly known as ‘overreacting’. At least, that’s what it’s called when it’s a woman. When it’s a man, he is merely ‘making a point’. ‘I’d say it’s more likely that we have dozens,’ I went on, ‘and they’re all shagging away behind the fridge …’
‘Now you’re being ridiculous,’ he snapped.
‘Am I? Shut up for a minute and listen.’ I put a finger to my lips.
‘I do not want to hear mouse-sex happening …’
‘Neither do I! And I’ve told you I can’t bear to deal with mousetraps. I know it’s silly, but I just can’t bring myself to do it—’
Nate stifled a yawn. ‘I’ll sort it tomorrow, all right, love? It’s been one hell of a day. Did I tell you my last candidate of the day called me a wanker?’
‘Really?’ I looked at him. ‘That’s terrible. I can’t imagine why anyone would do that. Now, could you please just set those traps?’
Chapter Four (#ulink_7b2d4c26-60cb-5dc2-9fe4-56198898441c)
Nate (#ulink_7b2d4c26-60cb-5dc2-9fe4-56198898441c)
Somehow, I manage to drive our son to school as if I am just a normal bloke, fully in charge of his faculties.
‘What are you doing?’ Flynn barks as I pull up outside the main school gate.
‘Dropping you off,’ I reply, affecting a cheery tone.
His eyes narrow, beaming displeasure. ‘Mum never stops here. She always parks round the corner, by the church.’
‘God, yes, of course – sorry. Don’t know what I was thinking—’
‘God …’ Swivelling only his eyes, Flynn scans the vicinity to assess whether any of his associates have spotted us. Luckily, we appear to be too late for that. Muttering something I don’t catch, he grabs his beloved but terribly shabby leather rucksack from by his feet and clambers out of the car, banging the door behind him.
With the engine still running I watch him loping up the wide stone steps. Skinny and tall – he’s well over six feet – he still walks with a slight twist to his hips. His left side is weaker than the right, although these days you can barely tell, as years of therapy have helped immeasurably. He tires easily, that’s the main thing – although he’d rather carry on regardless, out and about with his mates, than admit it.
He glances back, looking appalled that I am still sitting there, as if I am wearing a fluorescent green comedy wig. What would he make of that terrible email, which effectively signals the end of family life as we know it? Although I’m not quite sure why, I have brought his mother’s list out with me; I can sense it, glowing radioactively in my trouser pocket, virtually burning a hole in my hip. Perhaps it’s in the hope that I’ve merely imagined this morning’s events, and when I check it later it’ll read:
Ketchup
Loo roll
Milk
Outside school, a couple of other latecomers are shambling up the wide stone steps behind Flynn. It’s a proud and well-kept Victorian building, a state school with a broad cultural mix. Flynn has always gone to mainstream school, with extra support when needed, all closely monitored by Sinead; she’s fought his corner all the way. ‘She’s a powerhouse,’ her old college friend Michelle reminded me once, and of course I agreed. There was a pause, and Michelle added, rather belated, ‘And you are too, of course!’
I watch as the other boys scamper up the last few steps to catch up with my son. How carefree they look, how breezy and laid-back, unencumbered as they are by tax returns and remembering to put the bins out. Sure, they might have flunked the odd maths test – but they haven’t yet failed at anything terribly important, anything that might mark them out as poor excuses for human beings. The boys stop and laugh loudly at something (thank God Flynn can still laugh – for now) and disappear into the building together.
I should have been a better, more proactive and useful man, I realise now. Sinead has deserved more from me. No matter how challenging it’s been bringing up Flynn, she has never once moaned or expressed a jot of self-pity. She adores being his mother – considers it an absolute privilege – and has often said that, where our boy is concerned, she would not change a single thing—
Bang-bang!
My heart lurches.
‘Nate?’ A thin blonde woman, whom I vaguely recognise, is rapping sharply on the driver’s side window. ‘Nate,’ she repeats, leaning closer, ‘are you okay?’
I fumble to lower the window. ‘Erm, yes – I’m fine, thank you.’ I assume she is something to do with school, but I can’t remember her name. Sinead is so much better at that stuff than I am, efficiently filing the names of every teacher and medical practitioner, every cub leader and all the parents and their children and their pets that we have ever encountered in her colossal brain. A powerhouse.
‘It’s just … you shouldn’t really be parked here.’ The woman winces apologetically. ‘You know. The yellow zigzags …’
‘Oh God, yes. I’m so sorry!’
Still bending at the open window, she is smiling now. ‘I’d have thought, being the driving test guy …’
‘Yes, I should know better, shouldn’t I?’ I laugh stiffly.
‘I’ll forgive you. In fact, I should thank you really.’
‘For committing a parking offence?’ I gawp at her.
‘No,’ she laughs, exposing large, bright white teeth. ‘For finally passing my mum …’
I blink at her, uncomprehending for a moment.
‘Her driving test. Her third go, it was. She was lucky to get you—’
‘Oh, if she passed, then it was on her own merit,’ I say quickly.
‘No, seriously. You’re my mum’s hero—’
‘Ha, well, just doing my job,’ I say, aware of the tension in my jaw building to critical levels as I bid her goodbye and pull away, trying to focus on the road ahead and what the heck I am supposed to be doing next.
Oh, yes – going to work. Despite everything that’s happened this morning I need to conduct seven driving tests today, virtually back to back, because life must go on, and most of these candidates will be in a severely nervous state. Today, I am working in Solworth, a bigger and scruffier town than Hesslevale, a twenty-minute drive away over the hills. Liv has replied to my text: No worries hope all okay, take care, Lx. People are extraordinarily kind – yes, even driving examiners. We are not heroes, as that woman suggested, and nor are we mean-spirited arseholes, trying to ‘catch people out’. We are just decent people, doing our job. Passive observers, is the way I tend to describe our role. Maybe I’ve been too bloody passive in my marriage too?
I drive on through open countryside on this bright and sunny May morning, then into the outskirts of Solworth, where I pull up at the test centre car park.
Okay, here goes. I climb out of my car, adjust my specs and smooth down the front of my trousers as if that’ll make me appear in control of my life. The centre is an unprepossessing, single-storey modern block with a motorway-service-centre vibe, minus the delights of cinnamon lattes and slot machines. People show up, do what they need to do and leave, with no desire to hang around. Well, of course they do. It hardly has a party atmosphere.
I stride into the office and greet Liv, the manager, and Eric, one of the other examiners, who’s also a good friend.
‘Hey, Nate. Everything all right?’ He peers expectantly over a chipped Liverpool FC mug.
‘Yeah, fine, thanks,’ I say briskly and turn to Liv. ‘Sorry about this morning …’
Concern flickers in her green eyes. Liv is a glamorous Canadian with big, bouncy chocolate-coloured hair and a youthful face that belies the fact that her fiftieth birthday is approaching. ‘Don’t worry,’ she says. ‘We had a cancellation, so Nadira’s taken your first candidate. They should be back any minute now.’ As she studies my face, I am conscious of Eric going through the motions of organising paperwork at his desk, all the while wondering what the hell’s wrong because I am never late for anything. That’s one thing Sinead could never accuse me of.
‘Nothing serious, was it?’ Eric asks.
‘No, not at all.’ I sit down to prepare my own paperwork, aware that an explanation is required. ‘Just a bit of a situation at home,’ I add. Liv frowns in my direction and gets up to click on the kettle. They are behaving as if I have come to work minus my trousers, and no one quite knows how to bring it up.
‘Is Flynn okay?’ Liv asks.
‘Yeah, he’s great, thanks,’ I reply.
‘Did he get on all right with that assessment the other day?’ Eric wants to know.
‘Yeah, everyone was really pleased …’ I catch him studying me whilst sipping his coffee. ‘Just one of those mornings,’ I add. ‘Annoying domestic stuff, y’know …’ I clear my throat and turn my attention back to my forms, hoping they’ll assume I’ve been delayed due to heroically attending to a blocked drain, or a malfunctioning hairdryer, rather than marital disaster.
‘Okay, well, your 9.45’s here,’ Liv remarks brightly.
‘Great. I’ll get to it, then.’
I catch her giving me another worried look as I stride towards our office door. ‘You know, Nate, if you’re feeling a bit off colour—’
‘No, honestly, I’m good, thanks,’ I say with exaggerated chirpiness. Apart from being a shabby excuse for a husband and father, I’m just dandy!
I pause for a moment, trying to gather myself together in order to exude calmness and capability. Through the glass panel in the door between our office and the waiting room, I can see my candidate, whom I have tested before. The weaselly young man with straggly blond hair is sitting, deep in muttered conversation, with his instructor.
We know most of the instructors by name as we see them regularly. This one, Karl, looks as if he is trying to calm the lad down, but perhaps failing as, when I push open the door, my candidate barks, ‘Hope I’m not getting that lanky fucker with the glasses again. I know he’s got it in for me.’
*
In fact, he drives extremely competently this time, and remarks, ‘So, I did all right today, did I?’ with a distinct sneer as we part company (yes, and that’s why you damn well passed!). Somehow, I manage to cobble together a facade of normality and work my way through the rest of the morning’s tests. However, a particular point on Sinead’s list keeps pulsing away in my brain:
You don’t make me feel special.
Was she referring to a lack of meals out? I wonder, as my current candidate collides with the kerb whilst reversing around a corner. The way things appear at the moment, I suspect it’d take more than dinner for two on Steak Night at the Wheatsheaf to rectify my numerous shortcomings.
Having explained to my candidate why she failed, I make my way back to the office. At least Sinead has now texted – twice – which surely indicates that she still loves me? Okay, the first time was to say, Please stop bombarding me with calls, will phone when I can. The other one was equally devoid of sentiment: Don’t worry, will let dogs out at lunchtime as usual. But it did suggest she still cares, I decide, as I pace the shabby streets around the test centre in lieu of eating any lunch.
With just five minutes left of my break, I finally manage to get her on the phone.
‘Nate,’ she says distractedly, ‘I’m in the shop.’
‘I know, I know. But we need to talk—’
‘Excuse me,’ says a shrill voice in the background, ‘will you be stocking those pomegranate-scented candles again?’
‘I have a customer here,’ Sinead hisses, then clicks neatly into her shop lady voice: ‘Erm, they were just in for Christmas, but there’s a new bergamot and lime fragrance coming in next week. It’s lovely and fresh for early summer—’
‘Ah, yes, but I was really hoping for something fruitier …’
‘Sinead!’ I bark. ‘Could we please talk, just for a minute?’
‘I’m-at-work.’ There’s a pause, then the shop voice again: ‘Sorry about that. I could call our supplier, if you like?’
Sure – go ahead! Call the candle people and chat away to your customer as if you haven’t just pulled the plug on our marriage. I stomp past a car wash where two young men are hosing down a BMW, with tinny music blaring. Alarmingly, tears appear to be falling out of my eyes. I haven’t cried properly since I took Flynn to see Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs, and that wasn’t because of the film; it was the fact that my dad had died a few days before.
