It was a funny old place, this, for a young family. The black pan, the apron, the walnut-veneered bedroom suite with the old painted cot crammed in. Except for the Playmobil knights, everything in that bedroom looked straight out of the fifties, and the kitchen was just the same. Painted wooden cupboards with those black handles from before plastic and a china sink with a curtain across the underneath. Waxed paper, see-through with oil, on the shelves, mustard and cress growing in saucers on the windowsill. Outside, in the light from the kitchen window, I could see a washing line, one of those coat hangers with a dress on for pegs, lines of veg with milk bottle tops swinging above to keep the birds off.
“Dig for bloody Victory,” I whispered. Except for the video player and the Fisher Price tape machine-still burbling on with The Big Friendly Giant-this place was like a museum. I pressed a slice of bread into the hot oil, laid long slices of sugared banana on top and pressed another slice over them. If Gus hadn’t had a mobile phone, I’d think they were those retro-freaks who pay bid on eBay for faded-
It wasn’t until I blinked and saw myself in the window that I realised I was standing there, spatula up in the air, like a statue. He’d been speaking to Becky on the phone when we were all in Marky’s. Then we came back here, hardly started making the tea, and the cops arrived. Two cops saying she’d gone to the middle of nowhere and crashed and they’d found her, ID’d her car, got the address, and come to find him.
It wasn’t Becky. It couldn’t be.
I flipped the sandwich and pressed it down again.
How could they make a mistake like that, though? If someone stole her car and crashed it, they’d have their own bag and purse and that. And why would a girl steal a car?
I slid the sandwich onto the spatula again and then chuted it onto a plate, cut it in half, and poured the milk. The plates were white glass with yellow flowers, like I hadn’t seen since I used to visit my granny.
But that woman copper had said she drove off the road this afternoon. How late was the end of the afternoon? Five. Definitely. Then it was evening, or teatime anyway. So it wasn’t Becky. It couldn’t be.
Through in the living room, both kids were slack and dreamy on the couch, slewing sideways to see past me when I blocked the screen. I put the tray down on the coffee table between a stack of library picture books and a fruit bowl full of Lego.
“Here you go,” I said, dishing out the plates. “If you like it I’ll make some more. If not, PB and J it is. You decide.” I turned to get their milk and Dillon screamed, the loudest scream yet. I knocked the tray, toppling the cups, sending milk all over the library books and dripping off the table onto the floor. I whipped round. He was sitting straight up yelling holy murder, his mouth wide open, tears just beginning to trickle down his cheeks.
“Dillon! Dilly baby,” said Ruby. Her plate slid off her lap and the sandwich disappeared into the couch.
“Foo-foo,” said Dillon.
“Burny, burny,” said Ruby.
“Foo-foo.”
“He’s blowing,” Ruby said. “To cool it down. You should of blowed it, Dilbert.”
“Oh Jesus!” I snatched the plate away from him, pressed my finger on the greasy bread, and pulled it away again, hissing. “Oh God!” I knelt down in front of the couch and turned up Dillon’s hands. One was bright red and shining with butter. “Oh baby boy, I’m so sorry.” I hoisted him, squirming, into my arms, bumped against the table, and heard one of the milk cups smash as it hit the floor. “Oh God! Okay, we’ll go to the kitchen-”
“Doy Dory Doo!” said Dillon, really howling.
“Where’s Daddy gone?” said Ruby. “I want Mummy.” She was starting to whimper.
“Mummeeee!” Dillon squealed in my ear. I held him tighter.
“I’ve lost my sammidge,” Ruby shouted, holding her empty plate out to show me.
“Down!” screamed Dillon, wriggling and pressing his hands hard against me to shove me away. I held him tighter still.
“Ruby,” I said, over the noise of them both. “Just sit really still on the couch and watch your film and don’t stand on the floor. Eat Dillon’s sandwich.”
“Noooo!” screamed Dillon. He turned the tips of his fingers in, digging his nails into the skin of my neck.
“I’ll be back before you know it,” I said to Ruby.
“Down! Down!” shouted Dillon, bucking and kicking. But Ruby was sorted. She took a big bite of his sandwich with her eyes fixed on his face to see how he liked that and then she turned to the telly again.
“One minute, I’ll be back again,” I said. “Unless Mummy gets here first, eh?”
And she’ll come home to find a total stranger burning her kids and spreading broken glass about. I could feel tears beginning to gather at the base of my throat. Useless bitch. Useless bitch. I effing well told that copper I couldn’t do this. If Becky tore a strip off me, I’d give her her arse in her hands. At least I didn’t leave them, I’d say. At least I didn’t get pregnant and then just walk. Useless bitch. I sort of limped into the kitchen, trying to keep a good hold of Dillon as he twisted and yelled. I even remembered to shut the door so Ruby could hear the telly, but his screams had turned to moans now and his sobs had turned to sighs, just about as deep as mine. I kissed the top of his head.
“I’m sorry,” I said, sitting him down on the edge of the china sink and running the tap until it was stone cold. “I’m really really sorry.” Which had to help. I remembered Caroline with the couch asking me if anyone had ever said sorry, and me being amazed. Adults didn’t apologise to kids where I came from. It was working with Dillon. He was hardly sobbing at all now. “Put your wee hand under there for me, eh? Oh, you’re a good big brave clever boy.” I stretched his hand over to the tap, and he slipped down a bit into the plastic bowl half full of water, his knees coming up under his chin.
“Bet bum,” he said. “Ouch.”
“You can’t say ouch for a wet bum,” I told him.
“Ouch handy,” he said.
“That’s true.” I took it out of the stream of water for a minute to kiss it and then put it back under again.
“Kiss it better,” he said and he rested his head against my chest. A flood of feeling filled me up from the pit of my bowels into my throat, and right then I thought something unforgiveable. I’ll never tell a soul what I thought, what I wished for.
“Mummy’ll be home soon,” I told him, trying to wash it away.
Six
I hadn’t heard a car, but then the bath water was running and the thunder of it in the old enamel bath could have covered a jet landing. The whole place was an echo chamber, shiny lino tiles on the floor, glossy painted walls, and nothing more than a bathmat, thin from washing, to muffle the sound.
I was trying to make up for the fiasco their tea had turned into-cold water in first, top it up with hot, test it with my elbow, the pair of them told to stay out of the way, backs against the other wall, until I was sure it was warm enough not to give them a chill, cool enough not to give them a scald. Dillon’s hand was still pink, but that might have been from holding it under the tap so long.
“Okay,” I said. “Kit off. In you pop.” They stared at me, four big brown eyes the colour of treacle toffees, but before I could ask them again, there was a soft knock on the kitchen door.
They turned and looked out of the bathroom window, cracked at the top to let the steam curl out. It had to be Becky. If her keys were in her car at the bottom of the drop on that godforsaken road, that must be her knocking, really mouselike, embarrassed now by taking off that way.
“Wait here,” I said to the kids. Then, flashing on the wee one trying to climb into the bath and banging his head, I changed my mind. “Let’s go and see who it is, eh? I bet it’s a nice surprise.” I took their hands and led them to the kitchen. I opened the door and got ready to start explaining. It wasn’t Becky. Thank God for the chain, because it was a stranger-a young guy, dressed rough, a good couple of days from a wash or shave. He rushed right up and put his face to the crack.