A week or so later she asks Max, “Are things any better at school?” and Max manages a smile and says thank you, everything now is fine. That’s just two days before he comes home with his face bruised and bleeding. Max insists it’s nothing, but she sees red—she demands to speak to Mrs. Trent about the matter, but for some reason Mrs. Trent is now so much busier and cannot see any parents at all about anything, maybe phone ahead and see if she’s available next week? And for three whole afternoons she pulls a sickie at work, and she sits in her car outside the playground, and watches the children when they are let out to play, and she doesn’t get out of the car for fear that Max will see her, but she sees him—and she watches all the kids, and wonders which of them are hurting her son, and what she will do when she finds out. Will she climb the fence and go and protect her boy? Will she find the bully and track him down and beat him herself? What she won’t do—what she doesn’t need to do—she won’t ask the bully why.
The invitation comes in the post. It’s addressed to Max, but it’s also addressed to her, in parenthesis—it says, “To Maxwell Williamson! (and also to Mrs. Williamson!!)”; either way, she doesn’t feel bad about opening it first. “It’s Nicky’s Birthday!” the card says inside. “Come And Celebrate at Our Swimming Pool Party! (bring trunks).” And there’s a little picture of a smiling fish, presumably because fish can swim, even if they rarely do so in chlorinated water. The envelope is scented, and that’s an odd choice of stationery for a boy, she supposes the invitations were sent out by Nicky’s mother.
She shows Max the invitation when he gets home. “Who’s Nicky?” she asks.
“Just someone at school.”
“Is he a friend of yours?”
“He’s not even in my class.”
“Do you want to go to his party?”
Shrug.
“You’d better go, mister.” Lately she’s been calling him “mister” whenever she wants to sounds stern—she doesn’t know why, maybe she picked it up from a TV show. “The school says you need some friends, mister. You’re going to that party.”
The party is the coming Sunday. That’s a weekend Max is supposed to spend with Tom; she phones Tom and asks him to reschedule. Tom whines about it, he says he’s already got plans the following week. So she says it’s up to him then—Tom can be the one to take their son to his best friend’s birthday party if he wants, she’s more than happy not to have to bother with it. Tom agrees to reschedule after all.
“Shall we get Nicky a birthday present? Shall we go shopping for a birthday present? What do you think Nicky might like?” Max says he has no idea. He’s barely spoken to Nicky, he says, he doesn’t know why Nicky’s invited him, Nicky must have invited everyone. She supposes that is probably true—but she reminds herself Nicky’s mother went to the effort of sending a postal invitation, and finding their address to do so, it can’t be as random as all that. On the Saturday they go out to buy Nicky a present, all she knows is he must like the water, she buys him an inflatable Donald Duck for the pool—she also buys a card, which she’ll get Max to sign—and she buys Max some new swimming trunks.
Sunday morning, and it’s raining. Not the gentle sort either—it falls as mean sharp strips, no one would want to be out in this.
“What a shame,” she says. Max brightens—does that mean he won’t have to go to the party after all? She is having none of that. She tells him to get into the car, and he’s sulking now, positively sulking, he’s twelve years old and he should know better. He slams the car door and won’t speak to her all the way there. She brings the birthday present and the birthday card, and she brings Max’s swimming trunks too, just in case. The rain is thick and nasty as they drive, but as they reach the other side of town the weather starts to lift, and once they reach Nicky’s house the clouds are gone and the sun is shining hot and warm, it’s a beautiful summer’s day.
“Come on,” she says. “And for Christ’s sake, smile a bit.”
They ring the doorbell, and a little boy answers, neatly dressed, and beaming happily. “Nicky?” she asks, and he says—“Yes, yes!” He says to Max, “Maxwell, it is so very good of you to come.” And he offers her his hand, “Mrs. Williamson, my mother will be thrilled that you’re here. Please, come through, both of you. Everyone’s out back in the garden!”
There must be about twenty children standing by the swimming pool, all of them boys, all of them in their bathing costumes. She thought there would be more of them, and she feels a weird thrill of pride for her son—now he’s the twenty-first most wanted child at the party, and not, as she had feared, the hundredth. The water in the pool looks so blue and warm, it looks good enough to sleep in, good enough to drink. She says to Nicky, but why aren’t you all swimming? And Nicky looks genuinely shocked and says, “We wouldn’t start until Maxwell got here! That would be rude!”
The boys don’t seem impatient or annoyed that Max has kept them waiting; they smile, a couple of them standing by the far end of the pool wave in greeting.
“Well,” she says to Max. “Do you want to run along and play?” Max says, “I don’t know these boys.”
“What do you mean?”
“They’re not at my school. I don’t know any of them.”
“Don’t worry, Max,” says Nicky. “These are my friends, and that means they’re your friends too. I’ll introduce you, and we’re going to have such fun! Did you bring your trunks? You did? Let’s go inside and get changed. I haven’t got changed either yet; I waited for you.” And he holds out his hand, and that seems such a peculiar thing—but Nicky is smiling so warmly, there is no malice in it, or sarcasm, or even just dutiful politeness—and when Max hesitates for a moment Nicky doesn’t take offense, he smiles even more widely and gives his outstretched hand a little flutter of encouragement. And Max takes it. And they hurry indoors.
She feels suddenly awkward now, left all alone, alone except for the twenty little boys all staring at her. “Hello,” she says, but they don’t reply. She becomes aware that she is still holding a birthday card and a birthday present with Disney wrapping; she puts them down upon the poolside table.
And then, suddenly—“I’m sorry to have kept you waiting, what must you think of me!” Nicky’s mother is not a prepossessing woman. She’s short, and a little plump, and she doesn’t wear any makeup; her hair is sort of brown and tied into an efficient bob. And yet it’s curious—there’s nothing drab about her, she looks comforting, she looks mumsy. And Max’s mum feels a short stab of jealousy that anyone can look as mumsy as that, the kindly mother of children’s books and fairy tales, the mother she’d hoped she’d be for Max. A stab of jealousy, just for a moment, then it’s gone.
“Thank you for inviting us,” she says to her.
“Max is so excited!”
“I hope you’re excited too,” says Nicky’s mum, “Just a little bit! The invitation was for both of you! You will stay?”
“Oh. Because my car is outside…”
“Please. Have a glass of wine.”
“And I’ll have to drive back.”
“Not for hours yet. Please. Everyone else stayed. Please.”
“Oh, yes, Mrs. Williamson, you must stay! Everyone’s welcome to my party!” Because Nicky is outside again, and he has brought Max with him.