‘Excuse me, could you please find out where Maureen is?’ I ask a receptionist I’ve never seen before.
The young woman plastered in cheap make-up, which is melting in this unnatural heat, speaks without even looking up. ‘She’ll be with you when she’s with you.’
Little hussy. I get up, dramatically stretch, walk to the window, haw on it and draw a heart. The receptionist says nothing. Feel like I’m being watched, turn, see Maureen standing at the door. That woman materialises as if out of mist.
‘Just something Tommy and I used to like to do,’ I say as I rub away the condensation with my sleeve.
‘Sorry I got a bit delayed, Sonya. Tommy seems a little distressed today. Needed some time with him alone. Ok now, though, good to go when you are.’
What? No. Don’t I get some time alone with you? Some tips?
Tommy appears, being led by the same wiry lurcher-woman as before.
‘Thanks, Sally, I’ll take it from here,’ Maureen says.
The woman regards me with withering disgust – her only means of expressing her judgement of these selfish, childish, poor excuses for mothers – and leaves. I don’t get a chance to communicate that I am in complete agreement.
Tommy is trailing a kids’ wheelie bag in the shape of a fire engine. Oh, please. He’s wearing the flashing runners, and his old jeans and hoodie.
‘Hi, kiddo. All ready to go?’
Kiddo. Where did that come from?
He looks at Maureen, then at me, and nods.
‘Herbie can’t wait to see you.’
‘Go on, now, Tommy, there’s a good boy. We’ll see each other again very soon, and I have Clare’s number if you want to chat to her about anything.’
She’s all bustle and business now as she ushers us to the door.
‘The meetings are obligatory, Sonya, remember?’
‘Yes, I remember.’
‘And school must be continued.’
‘Yes, yes…’
‘Not optional, Sonya. No matter how Tommy feels, he goes. We’ll be checking up there.’
‘Right.’
‘And we’ll organise a home visit very soon.’
‘Ok.’
‘Stay in close contact with your father.’
The irony of that.
Maureen pushes against the door, holds it open.
‘Chilly day all the same. Stay warm, and safe.’
Too much emphasis on the last word. Dismissed with a tight smile, a wave, a ‘See you soon, Tommy’， and then the door closes and the two of us are outside, neither one looking at the other.
‘Car is over here, Mr T.’ I go to take his bag from him, but he shrugs me off. ‘Ok, ok, Jesus…’ Wish I could pull back the words the moment they’ve escaped me.
I hold open the back door, and he climbs in, clutching his new case. Try to buckle him up, but he still won’t let the bag go, settling it on his lap like a pet, so I have to stretch the belt over it. Remember to do this: it’s a good start. I turn on the radio, fiddle around till I find something ‘poppy’， inane and upbeat – I’m not in the mood to be ignored. Put my pedal to the floor, hoping to get a reaction.
‘Wheee, Tommy, see? Yaya’s still the fastest motor racer you know!’
He sticks his thumb in his mouth and looks out the window.
‘Fancy a creamy ice?’ I shout over the music, even though it’s entirely inappropriate in mid-November.
He pushes his nose against the windowpane, squashes it. I sing along, ‘Ooh, I’m your baby, baby, baby’， until I look back and see he has his fingers in his ears. I stop, feeling slapped. Turn the radio up to block any stinging words that might come flying out of my mouth.
‘Home sweet home, T,’ I say as we round the bend into the terrace, half expecting claps and squeals of excitement, though not really. He’s just not going to give me an inch. I park the car on the kerb, open the front door, and Herbie and Marmie bound out to piddle all over the dead flowerbeds. Tommy climbs out, still clinging to his ridiculous wheelie case, pressing it to his chest. He looks around, dazed, as if blinded by the light after days in a black cell. Herbie goes to him, then backs away. Tommy doesn’t engage.
‘Tommy, meet Marmie.’
‘That’s not the kitten. Too big,’ he says, before he walks up the path and into the house.
When I manage to corral the other two back inside, I find Tommy in the living room, unpacking and folding his clothes. He places them neatly at the end of the couch. Who taught him to do that? ‘Want to watch some Jeremy Kyle, Tommy?’ Stick the telly on, tune in to the raucous shouting, regardless of his answer. Need to pretend things can be the way they were. Herbie is sniffing the air around Tommy, looking at me then back at Marmie. Yes, Herbie, he does smell different. A persistent tickle in my throat brings on a coughing fit so acute I double over. Tommy doesn’t even glance up from his folding, concentration intense. When I used to cough before, he’d be by my side, stroking my hair.