Page 51 of Maybe
Anyhow, Carly had moved in with Dave, and Jonty and I had moved into this place. Her dad offered to buy us a second-hand washing machine, so I didn’t have to traipse toddler Jonty to the laundrette. I’d refused, which added to the mother of all middle-of-the-night rows. In the end, she told me I was an immature twat who’d mentally never left the school playground. Which was tame for Carly, for all it was astute.
Anyhow, I mostly kicked the weed after that, but saying no to everything else became a habit, too. Before I knew, it had become who I was.
“You’ve got to let me in, Ez,” Isaac said softly. “If this thing between us is going to work, you’ve got to let me help you sometimes.”
“I’m working on it.” The abridged version and as close as I’d ever come to admitting it was a fault. To hide my discomfort, and because it was cute and chubby and belonged to Isaac, I leaned across and gave his cheek a quick peck. And then another, because it was also soft and warm and smelled like him. If I could try to become a better person for anyone, then it was Isaac. “I promise. But… Jonty… he’s mine, and I find it hard to… to let anyone in.”
“Think about it, yeah? I’m not a little boy anymore, Ez. I can help you. We can help each other. Promise?”
“Promise.” His cheek received one last kiss.
Grumpily, Isaac let me go, to struggle stupidly with a sleepy child, overnight bags, and a whole pharmacy aisle worth of medications. We were both ready to collapse by the time we reached the flat.
“Why does it smell funny, Daddy?” he asked, screwing up his nose.
“Because Grandad’s been around with a paint brush. To see if he can cover up the Dalmatian spots.” Jonty was right; the flat stunk to high heaven. I opened a few windows. “Come on—let’s get you into bed.”
“I liked the spots,” Jonty protested feebly, as I steered him towards the bathroom.
“I know, buddy, but they don’t do your lungs any good.”
Whilst we’d been in the hospital, Carly’s dad had been over and painted some damp-proof paint on the walls to cover the worst bits of mould. He reckoned it should keep it at bay until the landlord got his act together. See, more amenable to offers of help already.
“Will you sleep with me tonight, Daddy? I don’t feel well.”
Jonty didn’t look well either, pale and cold and so very, very small. Jeez, when you have kids, no one warns you about the constant internal dialogue telling you you’re not good enough for them and you’ve screwed up. He didn’t ask to be born to a feckless pair of teens, no more than he asked to have his asthma exacerbated by this bloody crummy flat. My throat felt clogged with sand.
“Of course, bud. As long as you promise to not make bottom burps under the duvet.”
He giggled, the joyous noise spilling from him like a stream of bubbles. For a second, he wasn’t a sick kid, and we weren’t in this stinky rotten flat.
“I’ll race you, Daddy.”
We had a mixed couple of nights. By the end of them, I could make up a neb in my sleep. Thankfully, the hospital team stayed in close contact, which was reassuring, Jonty obediently blew into his flow meter every couple of hours, and we diligently wrote down the readings. I even texted them to Isaac. But with Jonty not well enough for school and the flat still reeking like the Dulux dog shook his booty in it, added to the endless drizzle putting paid to me taking Jonty busking, we were at a loose end. We really needed to hang out in a nice warm, fragrant house for the day. Carly’s place was a no; Dave was home for a few days after a stretch of night shifts, and Isaac was working long days.
Which was how I came up with the brilliant idea to pay Janice another visit.
Most intelligent adults generally behave nicely around children. Especially sick children. Thankfully, Janice was no exception. She even managed to pretend my visit wasn’t unwanted.
“I didn’t know it was half term this week,” she said, after Jonty shyly introduced himself. On the way over, I’d explained we were visiting Isaac’s mother, and he’d just nodded happily. That was the thing about kids. They didn’t have this whole layer of history tarnishing tea and biscuits with a bored housewife who, like us, had nothing much else to do on a chilly Wednesday afternoon.
“In two weeks,” he informed her, licking around the edges of a custard cream. Where the fuck she’d produced that from I had no idea; certainly not the flowery tin. “I’m too poorly to go to school.”
Janice put a couple more custard creams on a little plate. “Best thing for poorly boys is to be tucked up on the sofa in front of the telly, isn’t it?”
“That’s what I’ve been telling Daddy!” Jonty exclaimed, delighted with his new pal. They shared a conspiratorial grin. “Except he’s emailed my teacher and asked her to send me the work I’m missing.”
Janice nodded approvingly and I ruffled Jonty’s hair. This was going far better than I’d anticipated. I’d wondered how to persuade this woman I’d grown up and become a welcome and responsible addition to Isaac’s adult life. Here was my son, effortlessly doing the lord’s work for me. As well as spending the afternoon somewhere warm and comfy.
“A clever little boy like you can no doubt manage both,” she offered. “Come on. We’ll see if we can find a nice film, and I’ll get a cosy blanket from the guest bedroom.”
“He’s the image of you, isn’t he?” she said on returning to the kitchen. One of the songs fromBeauty and the Beastdrifted through from the sitting room. Thanks to Freya’s influence, Jonty loved that film. I hoped he wasn’t putting sticky, biscuity fingers everywhere.
“Look at this.” Janice held out a photo. “It was in a shoebox up in the guest bedroom. I spotted it when I was having a clear out. You were about his age then, weren’t you?”
I stared at the snap, not sure what to think, to be honest. Holding aloft a clarinet and some sheet music, a pleased as punch, ten-year-old version of me gurned at the camera against the front door of this house, when it was painted red. Yes, I was Jonty’s age or thereabouts, and yes, he was the spit of me. But jeez, why hadn’t I been mercilessly bullied at school for that criminal haircut?
I remembered the occasion; my mother took the picture. Three years before her life and my bright future were crushed under the wheels of a bus.Grade six withdistinction, Ez! The music teacher said it was the highest mark she’s seen. I’m so proud of you, darling.
