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 glass 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
NME
s, 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
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 glass 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
NME
s, 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
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