In the bathroom, he splashes his face. The perspiration on the shirt has gone sour, taking on an unmistakeable alcoholic stench. A little queasily he paints himself with his father’s old roll-on deodorant. Downstairs he can hear pots and pans, the babble of the radio, family sounds. Bright; be bright and happy and polite, then go.
But as he passes his mother’s room he sees her sitting on the edge of the bed in profile, looking out across the fields as if she too has been waiting for him. Slowly she turns her head, but he hovers on the threshold like a child.
‘You’ve missed the whole day,’ she says quietly.
‘I overslept.’
‘So I see. Feeling better?’
‘No.’
‘Oh well. Your father is a little angry with you, I’m afraid.’
‘No change there then.’ She smiles indulgently and, encouraged, he adds, ‘Everyone seems pissed-off with me at the moment.’
‘Poor little Dexter,’ she says and he wonders if she is being sarcastic. ‘Come and sit here.’ She smiles, places one hand on the bed next to her. ‘Next to me.’ Obediently he enters the room, and sits, so that their hips are touching. She knocks her head against his shoulder. ‘We’re not ourselves, are we? I’m certainly not myself, not anymore. And you’re not either. You don’t seem yourself. Not as I remember you.’
‘In what way?’
‘I mean. . can I speak frankly?’
‘Do you have to?’
‘I think I do. It is my prerogative.’
‘Go on then.’
‘I think. .’ She lifts her head from his shoulder. ‘I think that you have it in you to be a fine young man. Exceptional even. I have always thought that. Mothers are supposed to, aren’t they? But I don’t think you’re there yet. Not yet. I think you’ve got some way to go. That’s all.’
‘I see.’
‘You mustn’t take this badly, but sometimes. .’ She takes his hand in hers, rubbing the palm of it with her thumb. ‘Sometimes I worry that you’re not very nice anymore.’
They sit there for a while until eventually he says, ‘There’s nothing I can say to that.’
‘There’s nothing that you have to say.’
‘Are you angry with me?’
‘A little. But then I’m angry with pretty much everyone these days. Everyone who isn’t sick.’
‘I’m sorry, Mum. I am so, so sorry.’
She presses her thumb into the palm of his hand. ‘I know you are.’
‘I’ll stay. Tonight.’
‘No, not tonight. You’re busy. Come back and start again.’
He stands, holds her shoulders lightly, and presses his cheek against hers — he can hear her breathing in his ear, the warm, sweet breath — then he walks to the door.
‘Thank Emma for me,’ she says. ‘For the books.’
‘I will.’
‘Send her my love. When you see her tonight.’
‘Tonight?’
‘Yes. You’re seeing her tonight.’
He remembers his lie. ‘Yes, yes I will. And I’m sorry if I haven’t been very. . very good today.’
‘Well. I suppose there’s always the next time,’ she says, and smiles.
Dexter takes the stairs at a run, counting on the momentum to hold him together, but his father is in the hallway reading the local newspaper, or pretending to. Once again, it’s as if he has been waiting for him, a sentry on duty, the arresting officer.
‘I overslept,’ says Dexter, to his father’s back.
He turns a page of the newspaper. ‘Yes, I know.’
‘Why didn’t you wake me, Dad?’
‘There didn’t seem much point. Also I tend to think that I shouldn’t have to.’ He turns another page. ‘You’re not fourteen years old, Dexter.’
‘But it means I’ve got to go now!’
‘Well, if you’ve got to go. .’ The sentence peters out. He can see Cassie in the living room, also pretending to read, her face flush with condemnation and self-righteousness. Get out of here now, just go, because this is all about to break. He places one hand on the hall table for his keys, but it comes up empty.
‘My car keys.’
‘I’ve hidden them,’ says his father, reading the paper.
Dexter can’t help but laugh. ‘You can’t hide my keys!’
‘Well clearly I can because I have. Do you want to play looking for them?’
‘May I ask why?’ he says, indignant.
His father lifts his head from the paper, as if sniffing the air. ‘Because you are drunk.’
In the living room, Cassie gets up from the sofa, crosses to the door and pushes it closed.
Dexter laughs, but without conviction. ‘No, I’m not!’
His father glances over his shoulder. ‘Dexter, I know when someone is drunk. You in particular. I’ve been seeing you drunk for twelve years now, remember?’
‘But I’m not drunk, I’m hungover, that’s all.’
‘Well either way, you are not driving home.’
Again, Dexter gives a scoffing laugh, and rolls his eyes in protest, but no words will come out, except for a feeble, high-pitched ‘Dad, I am twenty-eight years old!’
On cue his father says, ‘Could have fooled me,’ then reaches into his pocket for his own car keys, tossing them in the air and catching them in feigned joviality. ‘Come on. I’ll give you a lift to the station.’
Dexter does not say goodbye to his sister.
Sometimes I worry that you’re not very nice. His father drives in silence, Dexter steeping in shame in the big old Jaguar. When the silence can no longer be borne, his father speaks, quietly and soberly, eyes fixed on the road. ‘You can come and get your car on Saturday. When you’re sober.’
‘I’m sober now,’ says Dexter, hearing his own voice, still whining and petulant, the voice of his sixteen-year-old self. ‘For Christ’s sake!’ he adds, redundantly.
‘I’m not going to argue with you, Dexter.’
He huffs and slides down in his seat, his forehead and nose pressed against the window as the country lanes and smart houses flash by. His father, who has always abhorred all confrontation and is clearly in agony here, punches on the radio to cover the silence and they listen to classical music: a march, banal and bombastic. They approach the train station. The car pulls into the car park, emptied now of commuters. Dexter opens the car door, places one foot on the gravel, but his father makes no gesture of goodbye, just sits and waits with the engine running, as neutral as a chauffeur, his eyes fixed on the dashboard, fingers tapping to that lunatic march.
Dexter knows he should accept his chastisement and go, but pride won’t let him. ‘Okay, I’m going now, but can I just say, I think you’re completely over-reacting to this. .’
And suddenly there is real rage in his father’s face, his teeth bared and clenched tight, his voice cracking: ‘Do not dare to insult my intelligence or your mother’s, you are a grown man now, you are not a child.’ Just as quickly the rage is gone, and instead he thinks his father might be about to cry. His bottom lip is trembling, one hand is gripping the wheel, the long fingers of the other hand wrapped around his eyes like a blindfold. Dexter hurriedly backs out of the car and is about to stand and close the door, when his father turns off the radio and speaks again. ‘Dexter—’
Dexter stoops, and looks in at his father. His eyes are wet, but his voice is steady as he says—
‘Dexter, your mother loves you very, very much. And I do too. We always have and we always will. I think you know that. But in whatever time your mother has left to her—’ He falters, glances down as if looking for the words, then up. ‘Dexter, if you ever come and see your mother in this state again, I swear, I will not let you into the house. I will not let you through our door. I will close the door in your face. I mean this.’