‘What? Are you throwing me out without my coffee? You know I don’t function without my morning coffee.’ He winks at me.
I wonder at this display of overfamiliarity in front of Tommy.
‘Help yourself,’ I say. ‘Chat later, ok? I’m sure you’ve a busy day planned.’
He opens the cupboards loudly, clanging the mug on the counter. Doesn’t he have to be somewhere? It’s worrying the amount of time he has on his hands.
I look at Tommy, a protective rage rising in me. ‘Will we go for that shower?’
‘Ok.’ Someone must have gotten him used to this.
‘Well, lovely to meet you, Tommy. I’m sure we’ll be seeing much more of each other.’ David salutes at him.
Tommy looks at me. ‘Come on, now, darling’， and I lead him to the bathroom, where he tells me to wait outside because he’s big enough to clean himself. This hurts in a way I don’t understand.
I can hear David clomping about in the kitchen, slamming drawers unnecessarily. I listen to the sound of Tommy humming that tune. The door opens; Marmie and Herbie hurl themselves at me.
‘I’m off so, Sonya. Might be an idea to get to that eight o’clock meeting later. I’ll come back, babysit.’
‘Thanks. I’ll let you know.’
‘It’s on in the community centre.’
‘Yes. Thanks.’
I push the subconscious of the moment （I always excelled at playing the level beneath） –
just piss off, don’t make me have to say it. He looks at me. There’s an intensity to his gaze that climbs inside me. Find it hard to untangle.
‘See you later so.’
‘I’ll call you.’
He lifts his hand, an abrupt dismissive gesture. ‘Those meetings are not optional.’
‘See you, then.’ And the front door closes. I breathe out.
I speak to Tommy through the crack in the door: ‘Don’t forget to wash behind your ears, darling.’
I find some bleach in the kitchen cupboards, get down on my knees and scrub the spot on the bedroom rug where Herbie peed, undiluted peroxide burning my hands. Tommy is at the door, watching me, swaddled in a huge bath towel, and I have to stop myself from scooping him up in my arms and cradling him. We still have a way to go yet.
‘Where the man gone?’
‘He’s gone home, Tommy.’ Can’t stop myself asking: ‘Did you like him?’
He shrugs, dries himself off and dresses himself.
‘He doesn’t like Herbie.’
There he goes with his perfect ‘r’。
‘No, he doesn’t. And Herbie always comes first.’
‘Hewbie seems different.’
I can’t help smiling, loving his inconsistencies. He’ll never know that Herbie was put in a cage.
‘It’s just going to take us all a little time to get to know each other again, ok?’
‘Ok,’ he says, a seriousness in his voice that goes way beyond his years. I’d forgotten that old-man-like quality of his, and now it seems even more deeply ingrained. I am determined to make him laugh again.
‘What’ll we do today, little man?’
He seems surprised by this question, which makes me think of our former relationship, where he was always a hostage to my whims and moods.
‘Would you like to go up the hills?’
He seems astounded by this very normal suggestion. A weekend hike, healthy, wholesome, and afterwards we’ll go visit his grandad.
More normality. I roll the word around my mouth, savouring the texture, the taste. Yes, I could get used to this: like drinking tea.
42
The hills are cold and mucky, and all a bit much for Marmie, who periodically freezes, hackles up, hissing at something only she can see. It’s grey above and underfoot, a monochrome expanse of drab. Herbie circles me frantically, Tommy says he’s tired, and quite frankly so am I. Bored. Reminds me of the hillwalking Sundays I was forced to endure with my father and Lara, who togged me （and themselves） out in all the right gear. I hated those ugly boots and shiny, crinkly waterproof pants, but I have to admit they have their place as I look down at my lightweight soggy trainers and sopping jeans. Even when it’s not actively raining up here the air’s sodden, and I can’t help thinking how David would react to that punchy wet-dog smell in the car.
‘Ok, troops, shall we head for home?’ I say after half an hour of traipsing, stopping, cajoling the cat, being stared at. Bloody weekend walkers. They’re everywhere, with their stupid, damp, stinking woollen bobble hats. Tommy shouts ‘YES’ and runs back towards the car faster than I’ve ever seen him. A sprinter, a speeder, like me. We trot after him, his voice trailing in the soggy air: ‘Race ya, slowcoaches.’ And I do what any ‘normal’ parent would do – I slow down so my son can win. I never used to be able to let him win at anything.