and me played sunbathing at school. We lied on the ground and pretended to put our sunglasses on.”
“Did you?” I smile. “What, yesterday, when it was sunny?”
“No, the day after yesterday,” she says.
I laugh out loud. She sounds like Tom with his back-to-front time lines. Rae looks up at me, confused. She joins in anyway, pleased she has made a joke. I watch her. It’s a shame not many people see Rae laugh. She has a dirty laugh, like Muttley the dog, pushing the air through her teeth with a shee shee shee noise. I put my arm round her and pull her close.
“And where was Henry?”
“He was in Mr. McGregor’s office because he hit Luke,” she says.
“Really?” I say. I am so glad Rae is starting to make other friends. Now, she and I are both trying. It’s funny that Suzy didn’t tell me about Henry, though.
“Does he hit you?” I ask.
“No,” she says. “Henry says he is going to marry me.”
* * *
We pick up our Saturday night chips on the way home and walk along the peaceful avenues, sharing them. It becomes so quiet around here in the evenings. Curtains shut. Children stop crying. Dogs stop barking. The dusky summer evening is lit by a trail of little outdoor lamps that people have beside their front doors to help them see their keys and welcome visitors.
When we reach our flat, there is no welcoming light. Our landlord did not install one and I have no power to do so myself. Not that we have many visitors to welcome, anyway.
I hurry Rae through the door, trying not to think about it.
Rae runs to her bedroom without being asked. Every week, it seems, she becomes capable of doing something new and more difficult; things that Tom and I thought she might never do. She puts on her own seat belt in the car now. This morning she took food from the shelves in the supermarket and put it in the cart. Tonight, she wants to do her favorite new job of getting herself ready for bed, while I pour myself a glass of wine from the second of the two nice bottles I managed to buy on sale earlier, one for the woman across the road, and one for Suzy coming over later.
“Mum, I’m ready!” Rae shouts from her bedroom. I walk in to find her sitting up in bed, her fairy lights already switchedon, her favorite Dr. Seuss book ready to read on the duvet cover Suzy bought her for Christmas that is covered in embroidered princesses. Rae looks at me defiantly. She is wearing one of Tom’s T-shirts again, her curls tumbling down across it. She has a drawer full of pajamas and nighties but insists on rifling through his shelves every time she stays at his flat in Tufnell Park. Tonight she sports an old red Clash T-shirt that droops off her shoulders. I flinch momentarily at the sight of Paul Simonon smashing a bass on her tiny body. A memory of Tom wearing it at a gig in Camden comes back to me. Of his body inside it, hot and damp from dancing in the packed venue. Of him looking at me with those sleepy, relaxed eyes, then pulling me into his arms, where I rested my lips on the sun-bleached down of his skin, safe from the squash of the crowd.
I’ve been trying to persuade Rae to wear something warm at night but can see from her face that she is determined. So I can’t help it. I lean forward and bury my face in the T-shirt, just for a second, just to remember. Rae kisses my head, and holds on to it for a second.
“Love you,” I say, kissing her back, and turn off her main light.
She turns over and is asleep before I leave the room.
* * *
Saturday nights are the worst.
Once, before Rae, they were the nights to look forward to, after a day of sleeping off our long workweek. Like vampires, Tom and I would emerge at dusk from a mess of warm sheets and newspapers and legs, to head out to Islington or Soho or Camden, depending on whose friends were going where. A few hours was all Tom needed. Then the energy levels that sustainedhim through the most tortuous of weeklong
“Did you?” I smile. “What, yesterday, when it was sunny?”
“No, the day after yesterday,” she says.
I laugh out loud. She sounds like Tom with his back-to-front time lines. Rae looks up at me, confused. She joins in anyway, pleased she has made a joke. I watch her. It’s a shame not many people see Rae laugh. She has a dirty laugh, like Muttley the dog, pushing the air through her teeth with a shee shee shee noise. I put my arm round her and pull her close.
“And where was Henry?”
“He was in Mr. McGregor’s office because he hit Luke,” she says.
“Really?” I say. I am so glad Rae is starting to make other friends. Now, she and I are both trying. It’s funny that Suzy didn’t tell me about Henry, though.
“Does he hit you?” I ask.
“No,” she says. “Henry says he is going to marry me.”
* * *
We pick up our Saturday night chips on the way home and walk along the peaceful avenues, sharing them. It becomes so quiet around here in the evenings. Curtains shut. Children stop crying. Dogs stop barking. The dusky summer evening is lit by a trail of little outdoor lamps that people have beside their front doors to help them see their keys and welcome visitors.
When we reach our flat, there is no welcoming light. Our landlord did not install one and I have no power to do so myself. Not that we have many visitors to welcome, anyway.
I hurry Rae through the door, trying not to think about it.
Rae runs to her bedroom without being asked. Every week, it seems, she becomes capable of doing something new and more difficult; things that Tom and I thought she might never do. She puts on her own seat belt in the car now. This morning she took food from the shelves in the supermarket and put it in the cart. Tonight, she wants to do her favorite new job of getting herself ready for bed, while I pour myself a glass of wine from the second of the two nice bottles I managed to buy on sale earlier, one for the woman across the road, and one for Suzy coming over later.
“Mum, I’m ready!” Rae shouts from her bedroom. I walk in to find her sitting up in bed, her fairy lights already switchedon, her favorite Dr. Seuss book ready to read on the duvet cover Suzy bought her for Christmas that is covered in embroidered princesses. Rae looks at me defiantly. She is wearing one of Tom’s T-shirts again, her curls tumbling down across it. She has a drawer full of pajamas and nighties but insists on rifling through his shelves every time she stays at his flat in Tufnell Park. Tonight she sports an old red Clash T-shirt that droops off her shoulders. I flinch momentarily at the sight of Paul Simonon smashing a bass on her tiny body. A memory of Tom wearing it at a gig in Camden comes back to me. Of his body inside it, hot and damp from dancing in the packed venue. Of him looking at me with those sleepy, relaxed eyes, then pulling me into his arms, where I rested my lips on the sun-bleached down of his skin, safe from the squash of the crowd.
I’ve been trying to persuade Rae to wear something warm at night but can see from her face that she is determined. So I can’t help it. I lean forward and bury my face in the T-shirt, just for a second, just to remember. Rae kisses my head, and holds on to it for a second.
“Love you,” I say, kissing her back, and turn off her main light.
She turns over and is asleep before I leave the room.
* * *
Saturday nights are the worst.
Once, before Rae, they were the nights to look forward to, after a day of sleeping off our long workweek. Like vampires, Tom and I would emerge at dusk from a mess of warm sheets and newspapers and legs, to head out to Islington or Soho or Camden, depending on whose friends were going where. A few hours was all Tom needed. Then the energy levels that sustainedhim through the most tortuous of weeklong
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