Mummy Said the F-Word (13 page)

In early April, the Easter break arrives finally and I wait at the school playground railings as Marcia and Bev discuss their forthcoming jaunt to southern France. A two-family holiday. How very jolly. I once suggested to Martin that we might consider going away with Rachel and Guy, and he’d given me a look to suggest that he’d rather saw off his own penis than holiday with another couple and their child.

In that instance, perhaps he was right. A fortnight of creosote conversations, and no means of escape, is quite horrifying.

The school bell rings shrilly and Jake appears at my side, dumping his schoolbag at my feet as if it’s my duty to carry it home. ‘What we doing for the holidays?’ He meets my gaze defiantly.

‘I haven’t planned anything, Jake. I thought we’d just play it by ear.’

He looks disgusted. ‘You mean we’re not going away?’

‘Not everyone goes away at Easter,’ I explain hotly as Lola pelts to my side. ‘I’ll take you somewhere in the summer, and Daddy will too, so you’ll have
two
holidays.’ What a lucky, lucky boy from a broken home he is.

Sam and Harvey weave their way through the throng towards us. ‘Heading straight home?’ Sam asks.

‘Sure,’ I say, eager to escape the Easter-holiday chatter.

‘
Everyone
goes away at Easter,’ Jake mutters, falling into step beside me.

‘Oh, right,’ I say. ‘Like everyone’s got an Xbox, and everyone takes Starbursts for playtime snack.’ I’d fallen for that one when Jake had started school, stocking up on so many multi-packs that it was a miracle his teeth hadn’t crumbled to dust by the end of the first week. I soon learned that most parents around here send their children to school with apples, raisins or bite-sized rice cakes.

‘Eve isn’t going away,’ I remind him.

‘Yes she is,’ Lola announces. ‘She’s going to Center Parcs.’

‘Are you sure?’ Damn, I remember now that Rachel booked it at the last minute. I start to explain that Center Parcs costs a fortune, and that most families go there for their main holiday – not a tiddly extra at Easter – but tail off as it’s clear that no one believes me. ‘What about you, Harvey?’ I ask. ‘You’re staying at home, aren’t you?’

‘We’re going to Cornwall,’ he says brightly.

‘Are you?’

Sorry
, Sam mouths.

‘We’re staying at my auntie Julie’s hotel,’ Harvey enthuses. ‘Dad says if it’s warm enough I can learn to surf. It’s gonna be brilliant.’

‘That’s great,’ I say, dripping with disappointment. I’d envisaged lots of Sam-time over Easter. ‘Is Bryony Ellis going away?’ I ask hopefully.

‘Canary Islands,’ Lola chirps.

‘Jamie Torrance?’

‘Corfu,’ Jake mutters darkly. ‘Where’s that? Can
we
go?’

‘No,’ I snap. When did this start, this taking several holidays a year? This jetting off to the Canaries or Greece every time there’s a bloody bank holiday or in-service day? The only holidays we had during my entire childhood were to boarding houses in Lyme Regis or Littlehampton. No doubt Jamie Torrance’s parents will be taking the Romanian au pair, in order to
minimise
contact with their son. I’ve heard his mother bragging that on their last holiday, they’d only had to deal with him at lunch and bedtime. My kids should realise how damned lucky they are to have a mother who enjoys their company, at least some of the time, and wants to
be
with them.

‘Well,’ I muster, ‘we’ll have just as good a time at home. We can go to the cinema and swimming pool and the park and—’

‘The park!’ Jake repeats bitterly. ‘I hate the park. It’s cold and boring.’

‘You didn’t used to say that. You used to love it.’

He sighs dramatically. ‘Yeah, when I was about four. I’m ten years old, Mum.’ As if my suggestion is as inappropriate as taking him to a
Thomas the Tank Engine
fun day.

‘There’s loads on over Easter,’ Sam cuts in, but Jake isn’t having any of it.

‘Sadie Bloom’s going to Disneyland Paris,’ he mutters.

‘You think I can afford to take you to Disneyland Paris?’ I say, aghast. ‘You don’t even like Disney! All those films you used to love –
Peter Pan
and
The Jungle Book
and
The Lion King
– didn’t you ask me to take them to the charity shop? Aren’t they babyish too, like … like the park?’

‘No!’ protests Lola. ‘They’re
mine
.’

‘
I
like
Peter Pan
,’ Travis murmurs.

‘I don’t want
Peter Pan
to go to the charity shop!’ Lola wails, and a tear slides down her cheek.

‘Well, Mum says it’s going,’ Jake gloats. ‘You’re too old for it. Poor children can have it.’

‘I hate you,’ Lola sobs. ‘It’s not fair.’

‘Honey,’ I say, squeezing her hand, ‘I’d never give your things away without asking you first.’

‘But Jake said—’

‘Never mind what Jake said.’ I glower at him. How did my adorable little boy turn into a mean brat? ‘Well done,’ I growl, ‘for starting the Easter holidays on such a positive note.’

‘What did I do?’ He throws out his arms.

Under my breath I mutter, ‘Happy fucking Easter.’

‘I heard that!’ Jake crows. ‘Mum swore. She said eff.’

‘So what?’
So fucking what
? is what I really want to say.

‘Jake,’ Sam starts, ‘I think what your mum means is—’

‘What I mean,’ I snap, ‘is that I can’t help it if every other person in your class gets whisked off abroad every time there’s a—’

‘Cornwall’s not abroad,’ says Jake. ‘It’s in England.’

I know where Cornwall is, smartarse
.

‘Can
we
go to Cornwall?’ Lola asks through her tears. ‘Can we go to Sardine-a like Daddy?’

‘Want my hook,’ demands Travis.

I feign deafness. I want to be home now, with the duvet pulled over my head, hidden from clusters of mothers across the street who are pretending not to tune in. Silly Caitlin, with no plans for Easter. Wouldn’t you think she’d have arranged something? At least a trip to California? Poor little mites.

‘Where’s my Captain Hook hook?’ Travis whines.

‘No idea,’ I mutter as we round the corner into our street.

‘Did you take it to the charity shop?’ asks Lola.

‘My
hook
! No parity shop!’

Jesus H- Christ.

‘Why can’t we go to Cornwall?’ Lola wants to know.

‘Can Harvey come for tea?’ Jake asks.

‘No!’ I roar, causing Sam and Harvey to murmur hasty goodbyes and flee for the sanctuary of their own home, when in fact I’d planned to ask them to come in and hang out with us for a bit. Maybe even stay for supper.

I stab my key into the lock.

‘How many Easter eggs are we getting this year?’ Jake asks as we tumble into the house.

Over the next few days, spurred on by images of the kids’ schoolfriends zipping across the Med on inflatable bananas, I work my backside off to pack every second with excitement and fun. We visit the Natural History Museum, where Travis skids delightedly on the polished wooden floors, Jake mooches with a
face
as flat as a slab of concrete, and we calculate that it would take 1,697 Lolas to fill a blue whale. We have dim sum in Chinatown, see a movie, go to TGI Friday and Hampstead Heath, where Travis skids on dog poo … Who needs sodding Sardinia?

Despite our packed schedule, I realise with alarm that I miss Sam. Perhaps it’s not Sam per se, but adult company. London – at least my corner of it – has virtually emptied. By the end of week one, I’m so shattered after our myriad of activities that I fall asleep while reading Travis’s bedtime story, lurching back into consciousness as he pokes my face.

A postcard arrives from Martin depicting a turquoise sea shot through a crumbling stone arch.

Hi, folks!

Having a great time in Sardinia. Beaches are amazing. We’ve been snorkelling and to the amphitheatre and eaten some incredible food. (You’d love the seafood, Jake!) Hope you’re having a great Easter hol!

Lots of love,

Daddy xxx

I glare at his stunted handwriting, his infuriating fondness for exclamation marks and kisses. Then I rip up the card into tiny pieces, fling it into the pedal bin and dump the kids’ leftover pasta on top of it.

Dear Daddy,

Are you trying to rub it in, you stupid arse? You could have taken our kids, or would that have unbalanced your precious one-to-one?

Without love,

Your ex-wife

P.S. Are there man-eating sharks in Sardinia? I do hope so.

I also pray that his skin, prone to sunburn, has lifted off in one angry, lobster-hued sheet. Bitter and twisted?
Moi
?

By the start of week two, my missing Sam has developed into a full-blown ache. Passing his house makes me feel scratchy and glum. I’d have thought he might have texted or phoned, but he’s probably too busy charming Cornish surf babes to think about us.

And I wonder why this makes me feel a little bit strange.

I want him here, sharing stuff like the blue whale and dim sum – even the poo on the heath. The only adults I have spoken to are Mum and assorted inmates and staff at Mimosa House, plus the girl in the café on the heath who charged me something like £200 for a coffee and three fizzy oranges. (Fizzy oranges, Martin! Stick that in your snorkle and smoke it!)

My world has shrunk. In a desperate moment I catch myself muttering to a yellow Sticklebrick. I pore over holidayhomefin-der.co.uk and manky-arse-smelling-hovels.com in search of a last-minute bargain – someplace we, too, could enjoy amazing beaches and incredible food. (‘You’d love the seafood, Jake!’ Choke on a langoustine, shithead!) The only vacant cottage I can find is on the outskirts of Hull. There’s an interior photo. Its living-room carpet looks like it’s suffering from some kind of fungal growth.

Then something wonderful happens.

A text from Sam:
HEADING BACK TOMORO WHY NOT MEET US AT CAMPSITE NR OXFORD FOR I NIGHT ITS FANTASTIC HAVE STAYED THERE BEFORE WILL CALL WITH DETAILS SX
.

Completely fantastic idea. Yes, I hate camping. I can’t grasp the logic of uprooting one’s family from a reasonably comfortable home with proper beds to a rocky field with a stinking toilet block. However, with three more interminable days to fill, and a tent in the attic that Martin bought in a fit of robust outdoorsiness, we’re already there.

Stuff Sardinia, Martin Collins. With a grin plastered all over my face, I text back:
LOVE 2 CX
.

As we drive towards Oxford, it strikes me how little time Jake and I spend together, just the two of us. There isn’t the opportunity. Maybe that’s why he’s so hacked off these days. With Jake beside me, and Lola and Travis snoozing on the back seat, I decide to broach it again. The cleaning thing. The spending £1.25 of his own money on Mr Sheen thing. We have left London far behind, and the vast expanses of green have lifted my spirits.

‘Jake,’ I venture, ‘would you tell me if something was worrying you?’

‘Mmm.’ Eyes fixed ahead.

‘I mean … you don’t seem like yourself. Like your
old
self, I mean. Before Dad, um, moved out. I’m just a bit worried.’

Shrug.

‘You never used to tidy and polish and stuff.’

Squirm in seat.

‘Why d’you think you do that?’ I try to maintain a calm, gentle tone. ‘You don’t have to, you know. You can be really messy like you were before. It’s totally fine. I wouldn’t mind at all.’

‘Mmblm,’ is all he says.

‘In fact I’d
like
it,’ I charge on. ‘It’s how kids are supposed to be, isn’t it? You can worry about being boring and tidy when you’re grown-up.’

Pause. ‘Dad wouldn’t like that.’

I flick a glance at him. ‘You mean, Dad wouldn’t like it if you were messy?’

‘Yeah.’

Tension fills the car. I can virtually hear it buzzing in my ears
like
flies. The sun has ducked behind a cloud. ‘Jake,’ I say gently, ‘is Dad’s place really tidy?’

‘Yeah.’

‘And d’you think … that’s why Dad lives there instead of with us? Because –’ I cough to clear a rattle in my throat ‘– because they’re not messy like us?’

Jake nods. His eyes have moistened, and he turns away quickly.

A lump rises in my throat, and I place a hand on his knee. ‘Honey, that’s not the reason. I tried to explain that when Dad moved out.’ Jake stares pointedly at undulating fields. ‘He just didn’t want to live with me any more,’ I add. ‘It was about us – me and him. Not you or Lola or Travis.’

‘Yeah,’ he says, sounding as convinced as if I’d tried to resurrect the tooth-fairy myth.

‘So you thought if you made your room really nice, Dad would come back?’

Jake nods.

‘That’s what you want, for us all to be together again?’ My chest feels tight, and tears prickle the backs of my eyes.

‘Yes,’ he whispers.

‘Jake, hon, I’m really sorry.’ It’s all I can say.

What I want to do is pull over and hug him, but that would wake the others and trigger a barrage of questions about why we’ve stopped here when there’s nothing to see, and why are we cuddling and crying? So I hammer on, through light April drizzle now, with a listless grey sky hanging over us.

All this time Jake’s been Mr Sheening to try to lure his dad back, and I hadn’t realised.

A bumpy gravel track leads to Sunny Acres Campsite. I park up at the entrance and put my arms round Jake, expecting him to shrug me off, but he doesn’t. He feels small and thin and vulnerable. I try to blink back hot tears, but some smear in Jake’s hair and I quickly rub my face with my sleeve.

A man wanders past with his jacket hood jutting over his face like a funnel. As Lola stirs in the back, I rest my hands on Jake’s shoulders. ‘Darling,’ I murmur, ‘I’m sorry, but me and Daddy
aren’t
going to get back together. Sometimes it’s worse when people do that – stay together when they’re not getting on – because they’re screaming and arguing all the time. You wouldn’t like that, would you?’

He stares down. ‘’Spose not.’

I squeeze his hand. ‘C’mon. Let’s go to reception and find our pitch. Sam said it’s lovely here.’