Another Night, Another Day (8 page)

‘I’m down here on business, just for the night,’ he says, raising an eyebrow. ‘Fancy a drink?’

There it is, an invitation:
abandon yourself again to me.

‘I’ll think about it,’ she says.

‘Well, don’t think for too long.’ And Jake turns to talk to another girl.

Abby wakes, disoriented. Between her legs is damp. Why on earth am I fantasizing about Jake after all this time? Maybe it’s because the shops are rammed with romantic cards and gifts at
this time of year, she thinks, though Jake was hardly a hearts and flowers kind of guy. Whatever the reason, it’s disturbing. Being tempted to run away even seems to permeate my dreams. Yet
it’s not as if Jake made me happy: far from it. He was too wild, too unhinged – he almost sent me mad.

Jake was a reaction to the sweet, loving guy who’d been Abby’s first boyfriend: with hindsight it’s so clear. Abby had grown bored, sought someone more challenging when she was
an art student in Manchester. And Lord, had she been challenged by Jake . . .

After Jake came her husband: each man a rebound from the last. They met at a party; Abby was attracted to Glenn at once. He looked almost piratical, yet when she got to know him he proved solid,
sensible. He had a job he liked, was ambitious. She remembers he seemed to combine the two things she wanted most: sexual attraction and security. ‘Move in with me,’ he’d said, so
she’d upped sticks and come to Brighton. And they’d been happy, blissfully so. She wasn’t wrong about that, was she?

No, she thinks, I wasn’t. We made love in the open air on the downs, we laughed at the foibles of other people, we were in sync about politics and the planet and what we wanted from life.
We didn’t simply love one another, we
liked
one another. It’s just all this was before Callum.

She can hear their son thumping his legs against the end of his bed next door. Any second he’ll be up, raring to go.

And if Glenn was a cross between her first two boyfriends, then Callum is a cross between the two of us, she observes, not for the first time. The way he pings from a high-energy Zebedee to an
obsessive, like a trainspotter; that’s me mixed with Glenn, for sure. Perhaps if we’d had a different child we’d have been OK, but I can’t undo that and wouldn’t want
to. Still, who could have foreseen that finding the man to balance me would produce the child who pushed us apart?

* * *

Karen is lying in bed, but memories are flooding in so thick and fast she’s barely slept at all.

The train to Victoria had left Burgess Hill. She and Simon had been in adjacent seats, facing forwards. Simon had brought a book to read, but they’d been chatting since leaving
Brighton.

‘My boss has moved my desk,’ she’d been saying. ‘He didn’t even ask me.’

‘Poor baby,’ Simon had replied, and he’d been stroking her hand, when, suddenly, in a single moment, everything changed.

Simon had muttered something, clutched his chest, and with a thud he’d landed face down on the table. He was still, so eerily still . . . She’d been confused – shocked –
frantic; it all happened so fast.

Within seconds she’d got to her feet and shouted his name. According to Lou, who’d been across the aisle, she’d been amazingly level-headed, though Karen has thought since that
Lou might have skewed events in the retelling to help ease her sorrow and guilt.

It was a heart attack. A coronary so severe that Simon had probably died in seconds, or that’s what they said after the post-mortem.

I shouldn’t have ordered him that coffee, thinks Karen for the thousandth time. I should have listened when he said he had indigestion. We should have sat down on a bench in the concourse
and waited for it to pass. We should never have boarded the train. I shouldn’t have worried him by moaning. And when he collapsed, I should have tried to revive him, given him the kiss of
life . . .

She’s been over this again and again. Yet no matter how hard she beats herself up, no matter how many months have elapsed since that fateful morning, it seems she can never be absolved of
her sense of wrongdoing.

She rolls over and checks the radio alarm. It’s 06.45 on 12 February. Two days before Valentine’s, and two years to the day since Simon’s passing.

What a difficult start to the day, thinks Abby.

Callum’s had his pants on, then off. His sweatshirt inside out, outside in and inside out again. His tracksuit bottoms were rejected as itchy, even though the label – as with all
Callum’s clothes – was cut out months ago. Then an identical pair – inexplicably – was accepted. Next came the rituals of touching and moving things round the bedroom.
Persuading Callum to eat breakfast was impossible.

At 8.30 the carer arrives, but they don’t get him into his coat until ten to nine. Abby is hurrying Eva and Callum out of the front door when the squeak of the garden gate heralds the
arrival of visitors.

‘We’ve . . . er . . . come to see the house?’ A man about Glenn’s age is coming up the path, holding a little boy’s hand. Behind him is a woman with a small baby in
a sling strapped to her chest. ‘We’re the Donaldsons.’

Oh no, thinks Abby. They’re early.

There’s a commotion as everyone crosses paths in the porch. Abby says, ‘Ah yes, come on in,’ at the same time as Eva says, ‘Sorry, don’t mind us, we’re on our
way out.’ As Mrs Donaldson makes way for them, the baby’s papoose brushes against Callum’s cheek and he recoils as if burnt, leaping onto the lawn.

Mrs Donaldson looks bewildered. ‘The baby’s not going to hurt you,’ she says to him.

Uh-oh, red alert, thinks Abby, as Callum bats his arms and howls in distress. Luckily Eva picks up what’s happening, shoots round the Donaldsons and coaxes, ‘We’re walking to
school, Callum, walking to school.’ She knows better than to offer overt comfort in the form of a hug or kiss; it’s more important to reassure him his routine is not being changed.

Abby forces a smile and says, ‘Hello and welcome,’ encouraging the visitors into the hall with an expansive gesture. She shuts the door, praying Eva and Callum will be OK.

‘This is Finn,’ says the man, placing a paternal hand on top of his son’s head.

‘Hello, Finn,’ says Abby, crouching to the child’s level. ‘How old are you?’

‘Three.’ Finn’s father answers for him.

‘Three and a
half
,’ says Finn.

Abby laughs, and waits in the hall for a few moments to allow them to take in the space.

Mr Donaldson nods, ‘Nice,’ and Abby is pleased to see him look up at the cornice, but the woman is still frowning, stroking her baby’s downy hair.

I bet she’s wondering about Callum, thinks Abby, but she’s keen to avoid getting caught up in an explanation. If the Donaldsons feel guilty or embarrassed, it might affect their view
of her home. The agent has bigged them up: they are cash buyers.

They both seem taken by the kitchen – thank goodness Abby got rid of that broken TV screen – and when Finn pipes up, ‘It’s
much
nicer than the last house we saw,
Daddy,’ she warms further to the little boy.

They enthuse over the lounge, but as Abby leads them up to the first floor, the woman says, ‘How odd – your stair carpet’s paler in the middle than the outside; ours is the
other way round from being trampled with dirt,’ and Abby is torn. She could offer an account as to why:
Callum took a packet of flour and emptied it up the stairs. He was fascinated by
the white powder and the trail was rather beautiful . . .
Yet she fears that without also explaining her son’s condition, it will simply sound as if Callum is very badly behaved,
especially compared to their own little boy. She could play it another way, and regale them with stories that are bound to shock them into sympathizing. She could show them the locks on all the
food cupboards and the fridge, and explain that they’re there not merely to stop her son sneaking biscuits – or even flour: he’s just as likely to eat an entire tub of butter,
fill the sink with honey or post dirty dinner plates into the bin. Or she could put a positive spin on her circumstances and enthuse about the joy of watching Callum on the trampoline, jumping
higher and longer than any other seven-year-old, ever, and hearing his vocalizations evolve into chuckles of laughter.

But she is keen to avoid becoming The Woman With the Autistic Child – a label that irks her as much as the tags on Callum’s clothes irritate him. Once strangers see her that way,
they rarely seem able to see her as much else. Right now it’s important she’s The Woman With the Beautiful House, so she keeps schtum and leads them up to the attic.

‘I
love
this,’ says the woman, turning to her husband. ‘Wouldn’t it be perfect for Finn when he’s older?’

Finn’s eyes open wide with excitement.

Abby shows them the main bedroom – where they gasp at the view from the bay – then Callum’s room, which she has carefully tidied. Everything is going swimmingly until she opens
the door to the bathroom.

They step inside – it’s a good-sized room – and at once Finn says, ‘What are those pictures for, Mummy?’

Beside the lavatory is Blu-Tacked a diagram of a boy with his trousers undone and an arrow indicating they should be pulled downwards; below is a similar picture with an arrow directing the boy
to sit on the loo seat. Recently Abby and Eva have initiated a toilet-training programme with Callum, and they have printed out diagrams from the computer. Next to the loo roll is another picture
to demonstrate how many sheets of paper should be used.

‘They’re for my little boy,’ she says.

‘Doesn’t he use the loo?’ asks Finn.

‘Um – he’s not very good at it.’

‘Oh,’ says Finn. ‘He’s very big not to do that.’

‘He’s getting better at it,’ says Abby, though she’s not sure he is.

The woman frowns once more; the man coughs. ‘Now Finn, don’t be rude,’ he says. Abby is sure she can sense them thinking:
Good grief, is your son still in nappies?

‘It’s OK,’ she says, not wanting Finn to feel bad. By now she has no choice but to elaborate. She addresses Finn’s parents. ‘My son has autism.’

‘What’s autism?’ asks Finn.

‘Finn!’ The woman speaks sharply. ‘What did Daddy say?’

Abby can see that Finn is poised to cry. She thinks fast – her skills are honed on that score. Again she crouches down to Finn’s height. It seems easier to explain to him. ‘It
means something happened inside my little boy’s head before he was born, Finn, so that he’s not as good at some things as you are, even though he’s older than you, and using the
loo is one of those things.’

‘Ah,’ nods Finn.

‘And sometimes he does funny things too, like when someone touches him by mistake. That’s why he jumped so high when you arrived, did you see?’

‘Yes.’

‘But he’s very good at other things,’ says Abby.

‘Like jumping?’ says Finn.

‘Yes.’ Abby smiles. ‘You should see him on the trampoline!’ Then, impulsively, she ruffles the lad’s hair. How lovely to be able to touch a little boy in affection,
she thinks, without fear of being batted away.

* * *

No point in moping, Karen says to herself. She’s due in Worthing again shortly.

‘Do you
have
to go and see your dad tomorrow?’ Anna had said the night before. ‘I don’t wish to sound heartless, but it doesn’t sound as if he remembers
much when you visit. It’s a lot to take on, when it’s bound to be a tough day.’

‘But I’m not just going for Dad – I’m going for Mum.’

‘You’re always putting other people’s needs before your own.’

‘If I’m going to have a shit day, it might as well be
really
shit.’

That had made Anna laugh. ‘At least let me come with you to the cemetery.’

‘I’ll take you up on that.’

Maybe Anna had a point, Karen thinks, as she waves off Molly and Luke at the school gates. It’s never easy seeing her father; the last time she and Shirley visited, the nurse told them
George had become incontinent. ‘Some people say there are many parallels between the phases of child development and Alzheimer’s,’ the nurse had explained. ‘Just as a child
learns to sit up, then crawl, speak and be potty-trained, so our patients . . . um . . . do the same, but in reverse.’

As fast as Molly is learning new things at school, Dad’s mind is unravelling, Karen sighs. In many ways modern healthcare has failed both Simon and George. Their GP didn’t diagnose
Simon’s heart condition; hardly his fault when her husband hadn’t been for a check-up in years. Conversely, medicine has done almost too much for her father, for what quality of life
does he have? In years gone by, another illness or disease would doubtless have claimed him by now. Instead he remains with them, but only just. Which is preferable, Karen wonders, to go in seconds
like Simon, or from a protracted illness like Dad? Is watching her husband of fifty years go downhill any less awful for Mum than the shock I had? At least I can try to move on, though I’m
not very good at that . . .

You’re getting maudlin again, she tells herself. To brighten her mood she opts for the coast road; the sea draws her closer like a magnet. As she approaches the row of shops near Hove
station, a display outside a florist catches her eye. There’s a basket of pansies hanging from one corner of the awning, swinging in the breeze. On a whim she pulls the car into a nearby
loading bay and jumps out.

I
do
love pansies, she thinks, heart lifting as she examines them. There’s something people-like about their faces, and these are such a happy golden-yellow, it’s as if
they’re dancing in the sunlight. Mum could hang the basket by the entrance to her flat, it would cheer up the stairway. I’ll have some anemones too – they’ll be good to take
to the grave later. She selects the best bunch from a bucket by the door.

Inside the shop is a man dressed in jeans and a donkey jacket. He’s standing at the counter, putting together a small bouquet.

‘I’d like these,’ she says, handing over the anemones, ‘and the hanging basket outside.’

‘Can you give me a moment?’ he says.

‘Sure.’ Karen can see he can’t let go of the arrangement without it falling apart, so pauses to take in her surroundings. The floor is grey concrete, scuffed from years of use;
white laminated chipboard shelves line the walls. On them rest an assortment of tin buckets; several are empty, some house one or two stems, a few are stuffed full of flowers not yet properly
unwrapped. Above the till is a display of glass vases – presumably these are for sale, though who’d buy anything that dusty Karen isn’t sure. The overall effect is distinctly
tatty – not unlike Karen’s own house and garden.