When she’s gone I cry for a long time, but very, very quietly-’cos crying’s not aloud. I crawl under the duvet and curl up and pretend I’m a dormouse and I’m going asleep till the winter’s over. I’m awfully tired…
“Sweetie?”
I lie still under the duvet. Maybe she won’t notice me. Then I feel her hand on my shoulder, and I make a little sound, which I didn’t mean to make, but I couldn’t help it. “Laura-sweetie-it’s all right. Mummy isn’t cross anymore.” I don’t say anything, in case it’s a trick.
“Mummy’s very sorry.” I still don’t say anything. “Look, I’ve brought you a surprise.” She lifts the duvet a tiny bit to let the smell in. Scrambled eggs on toast. My favourite.
I slide out from under the covers, but I don’t sit close to her. I go and sit on my pillows, instead, so I can look at her. She hasn’t got her angry head on anymore. She looks sad and her eyes are red, like she’s been crying.
“Oh, sweetie!” she leans over and at first I’m afraid, and I duck.
“Shhh…” she says. She was only going to stroke my head this time. I’m all sweaty, ‘cos I’ve still got my coat on, but Mummy doesn’t shout or be mad at me. “Mummy doesn’t mean to be cross,” she says. And now she’s definitely crying, which makes me want to start all over again.
“Won’t you have something to eat?” she says. It does smell lovely. She’s brought it up on a tray, like when I’m sick. I feel like telling her no, but I’m so hungry. It’s already nighttime, so I must have fallen asleep.
I nod, to show I’ll try. It hurts my face, but you don’t have to chew scrambled eggs, and the toast is soggy-the way I like it-so it’s not too bad. She helps me to take my coat off, and looks at my arms and cries again. Then she sits next to me, and I can see that she really isn’t cross anymore and she really is sorry.
“You can have hot chocolate with extra marshmallows and two chocolate biscuits after,” she says, and kisses me very soft on the forehead, and I love her more than the whole wide world. “I’m sorry, Mummy,” I say, and I can’t help crying. My lips wobble and I feel like I’ve got something stuck in my throat, but I haven’t. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“It’s not your fault,” she says. “I shouldn’t have-oh, darling, I didn’t mean it, you know that, don’t you? It’s just, since Joseph…” She never says the next bit. Since Joseph got lost. Since I lost Joseph. Maybe she blames herself for losing him. ‘Cos Uncle Pete says you’ve got to watch kids like a hawk.
Mummy’s fast asleep. It’s still nighttime, but my watch says it’s only eight o’clock, which isn’t even my bedtime. I tiptoe down the stairs to the kitchen. I have to go out to the shed, so I’ll need a torch-there’s one under the kitchen sink. I’ve got an idea-see, the baby is mine, ‘cos I found him fair and square. He is big, though. And heavy. And smelly. And he cries all the time. I can hear him (“Wah! Wah!”) very faintly, as I walk across the grass. And Mummy really likes changing nappies and bath time and all that stuff. I could share him a bit-Mummy says nice little girls share their things-and I wouldn’t mind, so long as I get to cuddle him and dress him sometimes. And maybe take him for walks. I haven’t even given him a proper name yet-just “Baby,” so I could call him whatever I like. It’s a good idea, and I giggle when I think what a surprise Mummy will get.
I open the door and: “WAH! WAH!” Baby will have to stop crying, or he’ll spoil everything.
“Baby, you HAVE to stop!” I say. But of course he doesn’t. I find a dummy in the baby box, but he spits it out. He smells of sick and dirty nappies. “Baby, please.” But that does no good. I take his dirty clothes off and give him a new nappy and everything, but he STILL won’t stop.
“Now just you stop it! You wicked, selfish boy! You’re never satisfied-you always want more more more! Stop it. Stop it RIGHT NOW!”
But he screams even louder.
“I’ve had ENOUGH!”
Mummy’s still asleep when I go back to my room.
“Look, Mummy, I brought you a surprise.” She stretches and sighs but she doesn’t open her eyes. Joseph looks lovely in his clean rompers and bootees. He seems heavier than before. Maybe I’ll just put him next to Mummy so she can see him when she wakes up properly. He’s nice and quiet now. And with all that crying, he could do with the rest.
CALL ME, I’M DYING by Allan Guthrie
7:15 p.m.
Every year on the fifth of June we pretend we’re married. This year is no different.
I look across at him, try to mould my face into the right expression.
“I’ll get the soup,” he says, getting to his feet.
Same menu as last year, I expect. And the year before.
I don’t know, I’m guessing. I don’t cook. I don’t want to cook. I’m not paid to cook.
James likes to cook but he likes to play safe, too. Goes with the tried and tested.
Doesn’t bother me.
I’m easy, so they say.
The food is a bonus.
Makes the sex easier.
7:16 p.m.
“You need a hand?” I ask him, knowing how he’ll reply.
I’m dandy.
Sure enough. From the kitchen: “I’m dandy.”
He’s not that.
Supposed to be our tenth wedding anniversary and he’s wearing a tatty checked shirt and jeans.
Could have made an effort.
We’ll shower later.
I always insist on that.
7:17 p.m.
He carries the soup pan through. If it was me, I’d ladle it out in the kitchen.
It’s not me.
If it was me, I’d have passed on the appetizer, gone straight for the main course. Takeaway pizza. Pepperoni and pineapple.
Each to his own, okay?
He places the pot on the table, takes off the oven gloves, removes the lid with a dramatic gesture and says, “Voila! French onion.”
Now there’s a surprise.
“Smells good,” I say. And I shouldn’t be harsh on him. It does smell good.
7:18 p.m.
“There we are,” he says. “Shall we say Grace?”
I nod.
Then he hits me with this you or me thing, where he’s just being polite ‘cause we both know it’s not going to be me. I grew up with it, and look how I’ve turned out.
“On you go,” I say.
He nods, clears his throat, closes his eyes, adopts a tone somewhere between respectful and agonized. “For what we are about to receive,” he says, “may the Lord make us truly thankful.”
That’s it. Good.
I blink. Pretending I’ve had my eyes closed too.
He’s not fooled, but he joins in the game anyway.
It’s all a game.
I always win.
I don’t think he understands the rules. I’d ask him but I can’t be bothered. I just want to get this over with.
I have things I’d rather be doing.
I’m liable to yawn and I don’t want to upset him.
7:19 p.m.
“Nice?” he asks.
I pause, spoon halfway to my mouth. “Lovely.”
“The key is to use plenty of butter.”
That’s it.
I lower the spoon, let it rest in the bowl. I’m not taking another sip. Butter. Plenty of it.
Is he trying to kill me?
I smile.
He smiles back. His hand edges across towards me
“You don’t mind?” he says.