The Mum Who’d Had Enough: A laugh out loud romantic comedy perfect for fans of Why Mummy Drinks. Fiona GibsonЧитать онлайн книгу.
times now?’
‘Yeah, that’s the one. And it’s eleven, actually.’
‘Poor thing,’ I murmured. ‘I can’t believe she hasn’t given up by now. If I were her, I’d resign myself to a life of blagging lifts and using public transport—’
‘No, you wouldn’t,’ he insisted. ‘Anyway, that would never happen to you. You passed first time! You’re so capable, nothing fazes you—’
‘That’s right,’ I said bitterly. ‘I just soldier on, never needing any care or looking after—’ Without warning, my eyes welled up. I turned away before Nate could see.
‘Tanzie usually just accepts that she’s failed,’ he went on, as if I hadn’t spoken. ‘Nadira and Eric say the same – we’ve all had her, over and over. But this time there were floods of tears. Inconsolable, she was …’ He sighed loudly and shook his head. ‘Anyway, I’m shattered. Coming up to bed?’
‘In a little while,’ I replied. ‘Could you set the mousetraps before you go up? I saw another one this morning …’
‘That’ll be the same one as before,’ Nate remarked.
‘How can you be so sure?’
‘Well, what did it look like?’
I shrugged. ‘Small, furry, greyish-brown …’
‘Yeah, that’s the one I saw.’
I stared at him, aware of my anger starting to bubble up again. I suspect it’s permanently there, simmering just below the surface. ‘I didn’t spot any distinguishing features,’ I retorted, ‘and it wasn’t wearing a T-shirt with its name on. I think we must have quite a problem – an infestation, actually – seeing as they’re appearing pretty much every day …’
‘No, what I mean is, it’s probably just the same one that keeps reappearing,’ Nate declared, with a trace of smugness.
My chest was tightening, and I was aware of veering dangerously close towards what’s commonly known as ‘overreacting’. At least, that’s what it’s called when it’s a woman. When it’s a man, he is merely ‘making a point’. ‘I’d say it’s more likely that we have dozens,’ I went on, ‘and they’re all shagging away behind the fridge …’
‘Now you’re being ridiculous,’ he snapped.
‘Am I? Shut up for a minute and listen.’ I put a finger to my lips.
‘I do not want to hear mouse-sex happening …’
‘Neither do I! And I’ve told you I can’t bear to deal with mousetraps. I know it’s silly, but I just can’t bring myself to do it—’
Nate stifled a yawn. ‘I’ll sort it tomorrow, all right, love? It’s been one hell of a day. Did I tell you my last candidate of the day called me a wanker?’
‘Really?’ I looked at him. ‘That’s terrible. I can’t imagine why anyone would do that. Now, could you please just set those traps?’
Somehow, I manage to drive our son to school as if I am just a normal bloke, fully in charge of his faculties.
‘What are you doing?’ Flynn barks as I pull up outside the main school gate.
‘Dropping you off,’ I reply, affecting a cheery tone.
His eyes narrow, beaming displeasure. ‘Mum never stops here. She always parks round the corner, by the church.’
‘God, yes, of course – sorry. Don’t know what I was thinking—’
‘God …’ Swivelling only his eyes, Flynn scans the vicinity to assess whether any of his associates have spotted us. Luckily, we appear to be too late for that. Muttering something I don’t catch, he grabs his beloved but terribly shabby leather rucksack from by his feet and clambers out of the car, banging the door behind him.
With the engine still running I watch him loping up the wide stone steps. Skinny and tall – he’s well over six feet – he still walks with a slight twist to his hips. His left side is weaker than the right, although these days you can barely tell, as years of therapy have helped immeasurably. He tires easily, that’s the main thing – although he’d rather carry on regardless, out and about with his mates, than admit it.
He glances back, looking appalled that I am still sitting there, as if I am wearing a fluorescent green comedy wig. What would he make of that terrible email, which effectively signals the end of family life as we know it? Although I’m not quite sure why, I have brought his mother’s list out with me; I can sense it, glowing radioactively in my trouser pocket, virtually burning a hole in my hip. Perhaps it’s in the hope that I’ve merely imagined this morning’s events, and when I check it later it’ll read:
Ketchup
Loo roll
Milk
Outside school, a couple of other latecomers are shambling up the wide stone steps behind Flynn. It’s a proud and well-kept Victorian building, a state school with a broad cultural mix. Flynn has always gone to mainstream school, with extra support when needed, all closely monitored by Sinead; she’s fought his corner all the way. ‘She’s a powerhouse,’ her old college friend Michelle reminded me once, and of course I agreed. There was a pause, and Michelle added, rather belated, ‘And you are too, of course!’
I watch as the other boys scamper up the last few steps to catch up with my son. How carefree they look, how breezy and laid-back, unencumbered as they are by tax returns and remembering to put the bins out. Sure, they might have flunked the odd maths test – but they haven’t yet failed at anything terribly important, anything that might mark them out as poor excuses for human beings. The boys stop and laugh loudly at something (thank God Flynn can still laugh – for now) and disappear into the building together.
I should have been a better, more proactive and useful man, I realise now. Sinead has deserved more from me. No matter how challenging it’s been bringing up Flynn, she has never once moaned or expressed a jot of self-pity. She adores being his mother – considers it an absolute privilege – and has often said that, where our boy is concerned, she would not change a single thing—
Bang-bang!
My heart lurches.
‘Nate?’ A thin blonde woman, whom I vaguely recognise, is rapping sharply on the driver’s side window. ‘Nate,’ she repeats, leaning closer, ‘are you okay?’
I fumble to lower the window. ‘Erm, yes – I’m fine, thank you.’ I assume she is something to do with school, but I can’t remember her name. Sinead is so much better at that stuff than I am, efficiently filing the names of every teacher and medical practitioner, every cub leader and all the parents and their children and their pets that we have ever encountered in her colossal brain. A powerhouse.
‘It’s just … you shouldn’t really be parked here.’ The woman winces apologetically. ‘You know. The yellow zigzags …’
‘Oh God, yes. I’m so sorry!’
Still bending at the open window, she is smiling now. ‘I’d have thought, being the driving test guy …’
‘Yes, I should know better, shouldn’t I?’ I laugh stiffly.
‘I’ll forgive you. In fact, I should thank you really.’
‘For committing a parking offence?’