‘Don’t you miss your old job?’
‘Rather not talk about that,’ he says as he turns the radio up loud. Rainy with showers, temperature falling below zero at nightfall.
I can’t believe I let him leave the animals outside.
After parking up, I turn to him. ‘Actually, probably better if you don’t come.’
‘Jesus, Sonya, talk about not knowing your own mind!’ He gets out, closing the door behind him. ‘I honestly think it’ll look better if there’s a man in your life. Trust me.’
We walk to the back gate, where other parents are waiting, mostly women on their own, their husbands at work.
‘Do you have your ID to hand?’ David whispers.
The children tumble out the back door in groups of twos and threes. Tommy emerges last, the same woman from earlier shadowing him.
He’s staring at David.
‘Where’s Herbie?’
There he goes with that perfect ‘r’ again.
‘Ah, there you are.’ The woman trots up to me.
I hand her the passport in silence.
‘I hope you understand it’s only for the boy’s welfare. We hadn’t met you before. It was his previous carer who used to bring him in…’ She trails off, then offers her hand to David: ‘Mrs White.’
Heat rises and crawls across my skin.
‘Thank you, Mrs White, for your concern. Have you had a good look?’ David gestures at the passport unopened in the woman’s red, raw hands, which look like they’ve washed too many dishes unprotected.
She opens it, flustered, pretends to read the front page, then hands it back.
‘I’d have thought you’d have been made aware that Tommy is back with his mother?’
The teacher regains her composure and studies David carefully for a moment. ‘I’m sorry, and you are?’
‘David Smythe.’ He speaks his name as if she should know who he is.
‘I hadn’t been informed of a partner.’
‘I’m a family friend.’
I hate myself for this, but I start to blurt, wanting the woman’s approval: ‘David is a solicitor and a trained counsellor, Mrs White.’
He hands her his business card, smiles. ‘Now, come on, Tommy. We’ve a birthday party to plan.’
The teacher studies the card a moment, then says in a strained, forced manner: ‘Ah yes, lucky boy, Tommy. Who’s a lucky boy?’
‘Come on, now, Tommy.’ I take hold of his hand.
David looks at me, winks, and the two of us move to hold him under each arm and swing him high in the air. It feels so natural. ‘One, two, three, wheee!’ Tommy’s body goes hard. I know that signal and I want to tell David to stop, but the teacher is watching us closely.
Mrs White pretend-laughs. ‘My, that’s mighty high you’re flying, Tommy.’
Tommy looks at me, crosses his eyes, rolls his tongue so the sides touch off each other. Clever little boy; he could never stand being patronised. When I look at the teacher again I see conflicting emotions play out on her face. A part of me wants to confide in her, ask her what she thinks of this man. How does he appear to strangers? That bloody resolution to never trust anything my instinct tells me hasn’t exactly set up a reliable inner compass. Ok, so God, what do you think? God? Where are you, God?
Back in the car David turns to Tommy. ‘Hey, dude. Not cool to make that face about your teacher.’
I look at him in the rear-view mirror. He sticks his thumb in his mouth.
‘Bad manners not to answer, son. Did your mother not teach you anything?’
His words stir a familiar reverberation in me. Lara saying something similar to me and my father standing by, letting her.
‘Only babies suck their thumbs, and you’re not a baby anymore, are you?’
‘No, he’s not.’ I stop him. ‘He’s a big boy, an almost-five-year-old! Tommy? How many of those invites did you give out today?’
Tommy continues looking out the window.
‘Did you hear your mother, Tommy?’
I elbow David, without looking directly at him, my concentration on the road ahead. I whisper, ‘Back off him.’
David leans in and puts the radio on. Some rapper is motherfuckingwhore-ing down the airwaves. I turn it off. ‘Jesus, that stuff should be rated, not played during the school run.’
‘Do you hear your mother, Tommy, pretending to be all responsible and concerned?’
‘I am concerned,’ I say, a flash of anger erupting.
‘Ok, now, calm down, Sonya, don’t go getting all dramatic on me now.’