There was a long silence. The toothbrush moved slower and slower until it stopped. He put Dillon’s shoe down beside the other one and lined them up like for inspection in the army.
“Who’s Steve?” he said, at last.
“Oh God, nobody really,” I said. “Done tons of Open University and thinks he’s Einstein.”
“I’ll try again,” said Gus and his voice was very steady, like he was talking someone down from a high ledge. “Who the fuck is Steve? And why the fuck were you talking to him about Becky?”
I blinked a couple of times. Well, at least there was no denying I’d pissed him off this time.
“Steve,” I said, “is my pal from work and of course he knows about Becky, because for one it was on the news, and for two I had to explain why I was driving in from out of town in a strange car and where I went on Wednesday. Which was, in case you’ve forgotten, to pick up your daughter at school and bring her home, even after I had said she wouldn’t be able to cope, which she couldn’t. And after I’d said I couldn’t do it because I’m no good with kids and I shouldn’t be left with them. So shove that up your arse, Gus King.”
There was an even longer silence after that. Hardly surprising. But when he spoke again he was a different person. Well, in a different mood, anyway.
“It’s just… what you said.” His voice was quiet and kind of wondering, like he was trying to wrap his head round it. “It’s quite a lot to take in. All at once.”
“Well, while you’re taking it in then,” I said, “I think I’ll get the torch and go and get the pee-stick out the bin like I should have done last night. I’m sorry I went off at you.”
He had picked up Dillon’s shoe again and was staring down at it, turning it over and over in his hands, and he only nodded sort of half-listening and half off in his own wee world kind of way. No chance of him apologising too, it didn’t look like.
Outside, with the torch balanced on the kitchen windowsill, I lowered the wheeliebin onto its back and shook it until all the nappy bags and banana skins and other crap were up near the top, then I got down on my hands and knees and peered inside. The stuff from the bathroom was a long way down; I could see two bog roll middles and a plaster. I was looking about for a long stick when I heard the back door.
“Don’t do that,” said Gus. He held me by the waist and dragged me backwards. My knees scraped on the hard ground through my jeans leg.
“Hey!” I said, wriggling out of his reach. “I can’t keep up. Do it. Do it now. Do it tomorrow. Don’t do it at all.”
“Don’t do it at all,” Gus said. “It doesn’t matter now. I’m sorry, Jessie.”
“Yeah, what the hell was that in there?” I said.
“I was jealous,” he said. “And I was just saying what was in my head, cos with you, I can.”
So I put my hands in his and let him pull me to my feet.
“I get it,” I said. “Flexing your muscles, kind of thing? Well, newsflash, Gus: you overshot.”
“Yeah, I know,” but he was still smiling. “But it’s not brought the sky down, has it? I pissed you off and you straightened me out, and it’s over. It’s brilliant.” He kissed me, and it seemed kind of rotten to carp.
So I changed the subject. Or changed it back again anyway. “Why doesn’t it matter now?”
He put his arm around me, tucking me in against him, and led me around the house to stand in the garden and look out at the black sea.
“Don’t know,” he said. “It just seems like that baby isn’t really real anymore. I only heard about it on Tuesday and by the end of Tuesday, it was all over. Seems daft now. Keeping something to remember it by.” We stood side by side listening to the rush and sweep of the tide, smelling the chimney smoke, snatched by the wind and sent gusting past us. I shivered.
“Come on,” said Gus, rubbing my back hard, trying to warm me. “Let’s crack open a bottle of wine and sit in front of the telly like a pair of old farts, eh?”
“What’s on?” I said, turning and following him back inside.
“Oh, bugger all,” he said. “I’ll let you loose on the video collection and you can choose.”
But the first three films I spotted were Forrest Gump, The Witches of Eastwick, and Dances with Wolves and my heart fell into my guts and died there.
“We could just listen to music,” I said.
“What’s up?” He ran his hand along the shelf of boxes. Chicago, Chicken Run, St. Trinian’s. “Jessie, what’s wrong?”
I went to one of the armchairs and sat down, hugging myself, feeling colder now than when I was standing in the dark of the garden.
“I know they’re all pretty ancient,” he said. He pulled a box out of the row. “Have you seen Crouching Tiger?” I shook my head. “Give it a go?” I shook my head again. There had been too much stress already, no room for more. If I couldn’t get myself together, I would just sit through whatever he chose and hope he didn’t see my eyes screwed shut.
“Jessie?” he came and crouched in front of me, cupping my face in his hands. “Tell me.”
So I did.
“Forrest sits on a bench and a-shit!-a feather floats down and it keeps coming back all the way through. The Witches of Eastwick has a storm of feathers all over the road and they get stuck to him. The Indians in Dances with Wolves wear headdresses. So do the dancers in Chicago. Chicken Run-clue in the name. And St. Trinian’s has a pillow fight. Probably. I’ve never plucked up the courage to watch it.”
“There’s absolutely no feathers in Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon,” he said.
“Yeah, except there probably is,” I said, and I knew I hadn’t managed to keep even a drop of the misery out of my voice.
“There really isn’t,” he said.
“Okay,” I nodded. “What about Robin Hood, Prince of Thieves? Any feathers in that?”
He sat back and thought hard for a minute. “Not a single one,” he said.
“Except for a hundred and fifty million arrows,” I said. “So who the hell knows about Crouching Tiger either, eh?” I was angry. So hurt and sick of it and so disappointed that I’d spoiled everything again. I wished he would just get on with it, laugh or shout or sneer or do whatever he was going to do, but do it soon and get it over.
“You poor sweetheart,” he said. “You poor wee darling. You know what you need?” I looked at him, half laughing, pretty sure he’d suggest the last thing I could even think of doing right then. “You need to sit on my knee and let me tell you a story,” he said. “Like Ruby when she’s sodded something up and wants to punch somebody.”
I laughed then. “Exactly!” I said. “That’s exactly how I feel.”
“You’re just like her,” he said squeezing in beside me and lifting me into his lap. “In a few years people are going to be saying. ‘Oh, Ruby’s just Jessie over the back.’ You wait and see.”
I curled my feet up and stuck them down the side of the chair between the arm and the cushion, then I tucked my head under his chin.
“Your hair smells nice,” he said. “Covers the smell of whatever that smell is in here.”
“It’s milk,” I said. “I spilled some on Tuesday night. I’ll have another go at it in the morning.”
“So what’s your favourite story from when you were wee?” he asked, beginning to rock me.