room where Alex and Murray used to twang on their guitars and play Clapton CDs so loud the neighbours complained – I struggled to remember the happy times.
‘Things move on,’ I said to myself. ‘Change is OK.’ I dragged my finger across the top of an antique sideboard. It was nothing special – just a nineteen forties piece – but when Murray gave it to me, I melted with happiness. He used to notice the tiniest things, how I’d spotted it at the antique shop, how I’d mentioned it on the phone once, briefly, to Nadine. Murray was like that. Was.
Back at the farm, after a desperate dash to the shops, armed with new clothes and the kids tagging along, bribed with sweets and toys, I find that Nadine has left me a message. She can’t baby-sit again tonight because she has to work at short notice. Nadine is a nurse and I have to understand.
I hang my head as the answerphone beeps at the end of the message. ‘Murray,’ I whisper desolately and close my eyes for a beat as I serve spaghetti on toast to my children.
It shouldn’t be like that. It shouldn’t be that when I think of my husband – the children’s father – taking care of them for an evening, my heart is filled with worry. He loves them, of course; that’s never been in question. I see the way he watches them as they’re lacing up their shoes when he’s come to pick them up, the broken, deeper breaths he takes as Flora runs up to him and hugs his waist or when Alex takes a manly swipe at his shoulder. Murray loves them all right. It’s just that he’s grown to love the bottle more.
‘What’s this?’ It’s a trick question. Alex speaks through a disgusted look but really he is thanking his lucky stars he’s not got a plate of broccoli in front of him.
‘Pan-fried monkfish served with a salsa of vine tomatoes, chilli and coriander.’ I dry my hands on a tea cloth. ‘Eat it up then.’ I give him a wry smile. I never usually serve up spaghetti on toast. But tonight is different. I’m in a rush and the lack of vegetables on their plates is a small price for a few hours of . . . of letting go.
‘You know I don’t like chillies.’ Alex grins, forking in the orange hoops.
I laugh, and pretend to take away my son’s plate. Flora struggles to cut up her toast. I curl my arms around her and help her saw the soggy bread. I kiss the top of her head and believe, when I think of the evening ahead, that I’m seventeen and starting all over again. I then realise that’s exactly what I need to do if I’m to move on from this mess. I owe it to the children to find some stability. Someone strong, someone reliable, someone who really loves me.
Before I leave, I clean my teeth twice. Just in case.
The first time I smelled alcohol on Murray’s breath was when I was eight. I didn’t know what it was. It was sweet and grown-up and reminded me of summers at the pond when he was put in charge.
I had no idea why he lolled in the grass with his mates, why his eyelids drooped, why he laughed at the silliest things, why he allowed Nadine and me to do as we wished while he swigged the diluted liquor from a Coke bottle. It made him fun. It made all the days fun.
Then, when I was twelve and Murray was old enough to know better, he brought me my own mix of rum and blackcurrant.
‘It tastes like Ribena,’ he said. ‘Drink it and see how you feel. If you don’t like it, no harm done.’ I stared at him. I wanted to please him and prove to him that I wasn’t a kid. Murray had been in my life since I was born – almost like a brother to me. The thing is, I knew you weren’t allowed to fall in love with your brother. I knocked back the drink and grinned at Murray. He laughed at my purple lips.
Whether it was the rum or a virus, I don’t know, but I spent the next three days being sick. I’ve never touched alcohol since.
‘Wine?’ David offers.
‘No thanks,’ I say, my hand trembling as it shields the glass. ‘I don’t drink.’ I
‘Things move on,’ I said to myself. ‘Change is OK.’ I dragged my finger across the top of an antique sideboard. It was nothing special – just a nineteen forties piece – but when Murray gave it to me, I melted with happiness. He used to notice the tiniest things, how I’d spotted it at the antique shop, how I’d mentioned it on the phone once, briefly, to Nadine. Murray was like that. Was.
Back at the farm, after a desperate dash to the shops, armed with new clothes and the kids tagging along, bribed with sweets and toys, I find that Nadine has left me a message. She can’t baby-sit again tonight because she has to work at short notice. Nadine is a nurse and I have to understand.
I hang my head as the answerphone beeps at the end of the message. ‘Murray,’ I whisper desolately and close my eyes for a beat as I serve spaghetti on toast to my children.
It shouldn’t be like that. It shouldn’t be that when I think of my husband – the children’s father – taking care of them for an evening, my heart is filled with worry. He loves them, of course; that’s never been in question. I see the way he watches them as they’re lacing up their shoes when he’s come to pick them up, the broken, deeper breaths he takes as Flora runs up to him and hugs his waist or when Alex takes a manly swipe at his shoulder. Murray loves them all right. It’s just that he’s grown to love the bottle more.
‘What’s this?’ It’s a trick question. Alex speaks through a disgusted look but really he is thanking his lucky stars he’s not got a plate of broccoli in front of him.
‘Pan-fried monkfish served with a salsa of vine tomatoes, chilli and coriander.’ I dry my hands on a tea cloth. ‘Eat it up then.’ I give him a wry smile. I never usually serve up spaghetti on toast. But tonight is different. I’m in a rush and the lack of vegetables on their plates is a small price for a few hours of . . . of letting go.
‘You know I don’t like chillies.’ Alex grins, forking in the orange hoops.
I laugh, and pretend to take away my son’s plate. Flora struggles to cut up her toast. I curl my arms around her and help her saw the soggy bread. I kiss the top of her head and believe, when I think of the evening ahead, that I’m seventeen and starting all over again. I then realise that’s exactly what I need to do if I’m to move on from this mess. I owe it to the children to find some stability. Someone strong, someone reliable, someone who really loves me.
Before I leave, I clean my teeth twice. Just in case.
The first time I smelled alcohol on Murray’s breath was when I was eight. I didn’t know what it was. It was sweet and grown-up and reminded me of summers at the pond when he was put in charge.
I had no idea why he lolled in the grass with his mates, why his eyelids drooped, why he laughed at the silliest things, why he allowed Nadine and me to do as we wished while he swigged the diluted liquor from a Coke bottle. It made him fun. It made all the days fun.
Then, when I was twelve and Murray was old enough to know better, he brought me my own mix of rum and blackcurrant.
‘It tastes like Ribena,’ he said. ‘Drink it and see how you feel. If you don’t like it, no harm done.’ I stared at him. I wanted to please him and prove to him that I wasn’t a kid. Murray had been in my life since I was born – almost like a brother to me. The thing is, I knew you weren’t allowed to fall in love with your brother. I knocked back the drink and grinned at Murray. He laughed at my purple lips.
Whether it was the rum or a virus, I don’t know, but I spent the next three days being sick. I’ve never touched alcohol since.
‘Wine?’ David offers.
‘No thanks,’ I say, my hand trembling as it shields the glass. ‘I don’t drink.’ I
Similar Books
