I nod solemnly like I’m giving this some consideration. Need to present some level of respectability and remorse.
‘I had a migraine last night.’
‘You certainly were out cold this morning.’
I blow on my scalded palm.
Mrs O’Malley gets up to plump the pillow on the single armchair, then trails her fingertip over the mantelpiece, collecting imaginary dust. The room is dimly lit, various shades of brown, stifling, redolent with an old-lady smell of TCP, stale potpourri.
‘I’m happy to mind the boy and the dog for as long as you need. I have spaghetti bolognese for later.’
‘Tommy doesn’t eat animal flesh.’
A crease on Mrs O’Malley’s forehead actively furrows deeper, a worm making a groove in the centre of her already deeply lined face. Smoker’s slits frame her thin mouth, which is outlined in a plum pencil, made to look bigger than it is. Powder is catching in all the ravines, her rouged cheeks giving her the appearance of one of my childhood Pierrot dolls, which used to come alive at night, dancing and whispering diabolical instructions that I could never quite remember the following morning, although a feeling of being complicit lingered. My father kept putting them back in their ‘proper place’ on the shelf in my bedroom after finding them stuffed in pillowcases under the bed, face down. He told me they were my friends and how could I do that to my friends?
‘He told me you don’t let him have milk.’ Mrs O’Malley interrupts my musings.
‘Cow’s milk? Disgusting. What mother in her right mind…？ The calves cry themselves hoarse.’
She flicks a crumb off her forearm. ‘What does he eat? He’s small, isn’t he?’
‘I’m small,’ I say, my voice anything but, as it bounces off the walls, amplified.
‘Yaya?’ Tommy comes hurtling into the room and throws himself into my arms, Herbie a pace behind him, his whole body wriggling from the force of his big tail walloping side to side. Mrs O’Malley clears the tiny porcelain figurines within reach.
‘Hey, I missed you guys. Don’t ever go anywhere without telling me again.’
The old bag butts in: ‘Sonya, you need help.’
A mist forms in front of my eyes. There is no anger, only a calm sense of purpose as I gather my boys and close the door behind me. I congratulate myself on not slamming it, on not losing it. My earlier use of the F-word won’t be forgotten, but then nor will my neighbour creeping into my house, breaking and entering, and stealing my son, yes, stealing him from under my roof when I was sleeping.
We walk towards the car. My boys look a bit dejected, in need of an adventure.
‘Who fancies walkies on the beach?’
Herbie howls and Tommy nods excitedly.
‘Mr Fresh Air will blow all the cobwebs away, Tommy.’
‘Clean in the head, Yaya!’
‘That’s the idea, Mr T!’
Need air and water, lots of water. Mouth dry and head banging. Never again.
‘Tommy, you’re never to go anywhere without telling me again, ok?’
‘Sorry, Yaya.’
‘Don’t say sorry, beautiful boy. You’ve nothing to be sorry for. Just don’t do it again.’
3
The beach is cold and grey, in contrast to the golden scene of yesterday. I retrace my steps but can’t find my clothes anywhere. Maybe the old crone took them, for identification purposes. Shake my head, which is excruciating, attempting to empty it of the build-up of static. Tommy is paddling, licking his ice cream, and Herbie is running along the edge, barking at the waves, which are wilder today. The hypnotic hiss and suck as the water pulls back from the shore, leaving sleek, polished pebbles in its wake. I bend to pick one up, a flat-edged ‘skimmer’ perfect for frisbeeing along the surface of the sea, out beyond the breakers. ‘See, Tommy, this is how you do it.’ Father’s face is looking down at me, smiling. I was always very good at skimming stones. Tommy can’t seem to get the knack, and after three attempts gives up, instead launching himself on to Herbie, who looks like a lumbering bear with his long coat all wet and matted. ‘Giddy-up, Hewbie Howsie!’
‘Tommy, you’re getting too big,’ I shout, as Herbie miraculously picks up speed and gallops off down the beach. Abruptly I sit, and just as abruptly I cry. This is all part of it: my ‘condition’， as diagnosed by Howard. He said it was what made me such a great actress: extreme and electric. The moods crashed through me then, never really landing, never really taking hold, but since stopping acting and having Tommy, alone, and the tiredness and the feeling of being judged by the voices, and now the old ladies of the world, they have taken up permanent residence. How old would my own mother have been?