Drift Stumble Fall Read online

  Lisa has set my place next to Oscar, which is usual for a Friday. She has laid a spoon across the top of the cream placemat. A butter knife on the right. A cream-and-brown tartan napkin across the centre. It is all very M&S autumn catalogue. Oscar has his elbow in his Coco Pops. The milk from his bowl is edging its way across the tablecloth to my setting.

  “I don’t think I’ll eat today, love,” I say. All of a sudden, it feels like a further waste of my time.

  “You have to eat breakfast, Daddy,” says Hannah. She wags her finger slightly. I can do without an argument with an eight year old.

  “I know,” I say, “I’m just in a rush this morning.”

  “It’s the most important meal of the day.”

  Lisa kind-of smiles at me. I get the feeling that she is gloating that Hannah has obviously learned the statement from her. I kind-of smile back.

  “Right,” I announce, hoping that the inflection in my voice will show that I consider the conversation at an end. I edge back from the table.

  “So, Daddy, eat.”

  “Eat, eat, eat, Daddy!” shouts Oscar. I think I preferred

  things a year or two ago when he hadn’t yet said his first word.

  “I haven’t time,” I say, my hand reaching the edge of the door.

  Oscar continues to shout and begins banging his hands on the table. Hannah decides that looks like fun and copies him. My spoon and knife jump with each bang of the table.

  “Yeah, come on eat, Richard,” smiles Lisa over the noise. She begins to lightly tap the edge of the table with her fingers. Her wedding ring repeatedly hits the table, like an impatient woodpecker.

  I freeze.

  I don’t know what to do.

  My hand rubs the frame of the door nervously.

  How to escape?

  That has always been my problem. I can’t say no. So instead,

  I just go along with it. Whatever it is.

  I need to get out of the room, begin planning properly. I’m wasting time, and as of my decision a few moments ago, there is now only a finite amount left.

  I feel a warmth rush up inside me. Get me out of here.

  At that moment Oscar saves me.

  One particularly brutal table bash catches the edge of his cereal bowl, which is catapulted upwards, sending a shower of chocolate rice and cold milk toward him. Startled, he pulls away, clattering the cereal boxes, which fall like dominoes across the table toward Hannah. As she reaches out to stop them falling, her cardigan collects the jam-covered toast from her plate. As she brings her arm back alongside herself, the toast leaps from cardigan to white school shirt. It is all over in seconds.

  The distraction is just what I need.

  “Oh, Hannah,” is the last thing I hear Lisa say as I back through the door.

  In the porch, I quickly push my feet into my black leather shoes and grab my keys from the windowsill.

  “Right, I’ll get going then,” I shout, not waiting for a response.

  CHAPTER_THREE

  This could be harder than I thought.

  I open the boot of the car and reach into the pocket for the de-icer. My breath is visible against the backdrop of black fabric. The aerosol is cold, and for a moment I worry my fingers might freeze to it. A vision of me sitting in the hospital with the canister glued to my hand like some graffiti-artist addict flashes through my mind. I pop off the red plastic lid and drop it into the boot. Then I tuck the aerosol under my armpit, wishing I had put a coat on. I consider going back inside, but cannot face re-entering the situation I’ve just left.

  The snow crunches as I walk around to the front of the car. Bill is still standing at his window; from this angle the light reflects off the top of his hairless head. He has his arms folded, and he smiles when he sees me and makes a mock shiver motion. He looks nice and warm. It’s freezing out here. I smile and wave to him, and he waves back.

  I reach into the car and put the key in the ignition. I turn it and the car bursts into life. I turn the windscreen blower up to full and press the button that warms up the little wires that snake across the back window.

  It is impossible to spray the de-icer.

  The aerosol is too cold to hold. I try to hold the can whilst pressing the button, but the cold shoots up my bad hand (an old football injury, nothing serious) and provides a feeling not dissimilar to an electric shock. I drop the can in the snow and reach down to pick it back up. I try holding it in my left hand but it’s no better. It is just too cold. I tuck it under my armpit again, which snakes an icy pain into my shoulder. I lean over the bonnet and my trousers get wet as I arch my body forward and try to face the de-icer nozzle toward the windscreen. The spray squirms out as a liquid and runs down my thumb and fingers. For the second time, I drop the aerosol. This is going to be harder than I thought. I wish I had my gloves, but they are in the pockets of my coat, which hangs just in view in the porch. It looks nice and warm there, but no way am I going back inside. Not this morning.

  I pull open the car door and gingerly make my way toward the driver’s seat. The ground is slippery beneath me, and my leather-soled shoes offer little in the way of friction. As I round the door, I step backwards, not noticing the aerosol that has come to rest just behind me. My shoes and the canister combine to provide the ultimate in perilously sleek surfaces and I lose my footing. I grab the interior handle of the car door but it’s too late. I fall backwards, banging my head on the plastic cog that adjusts the angle of the driver’s seat, and land in the snow. A moment later the car door closes on my head. I manage to push the door open and scramble to my feet. I notice that Bill has witnessed the whole incident. He smiles and waves again and then refolds his arms. I wave back and climb into the car.

  From the interior of the car the world is entirely white.

  In fact, the world isn’t even visible. The car is cocooned. It reminds me of the first cycle of my local car wash. The one where the machine runs the length of the car, spraying white foam everywhere. And for that moment, I can imagine myself in an igloo far away; or wrapped up in soft white blankets, hibernating from the world. Anywhere but in my car, in my town, in my life.

  I pull the sun visor down and slide across the plastic door to see the mirror. I’ve had this car for nearly two years and it suddenly occurs to me that this is probably the first time that the mirror has been used. Certainly by me.

  I study my face. I’m surprised to see that the collision with the car door seems to have left no discernible marks. I turn my face one way and then the other. My cheeks are slightly red, but I think this is from the cold. The only noticeable sign of the impact is that my hair has flopped forward over my right eye. Using my fingers, I begin to re-part my hair, taking a small clump of hair each time and teasing it back the way it previously lay. As I move my hair from my eyes I notice a small cut in my eyebrow. It’s bleeding slightly. I am instantly relieved that evidence exists to prove my accident. I find that a visible mark almost certainly brings about more sympathy than an injury you can’t see. A broken leg is always better than a migraine. The visual helps explain the story.

  Three half-ovals have appeared on the glass just above the dashboard. The heater is at last beginning to work. Through the ovals, I can see the snow continue to fall. There is nothing much to do but wait, so I spend my time tidying the car. My two children leave a trail of rubbish in their wake wherever we go. The car is no different. The side-door pockets are stuffed with empty sweet wrappers and half-finished bottles of Fruit Shoot. I collect what I can find and shove it all into a spare plastic bag I’ve found. To be fair, it’s not all their mess. There is a plentiful store of pay-and-display parking tickets wedged in the cup holders between the two front seats. That and a number of extra-strong mints which have attracted dust and stray hairs.

  By the time I look up again the ice has disappeared from the windscreen. Only a metre or two in front of me, I can see Lisa standing at the dining room window. She is smiling and shaking her head. Her smile tell
s me she has seen everything. Her headshake tells me that she would never look as stupid as me doing something as simple as getting in the car. But her overall demeanour is one of pity.

  I slowly reverse the car out of the drive and make a mental note never to park facing the house again.

  CHAPTER_FOUR

  I may just wait until I get home.

  I can tell it will take me a little longer than usual to get home from work due to the weather. The snow continues to fall at the same pace that it has all day. A gentle, yet relentless, tumble of white, suffocating the world’s colour beneath it. The roads are all but deserted and the drivers that have braved the weather cautiously creep forwards. The streetlights give a bronzed glow on either side of me. Snow is piled at least four inches high on everything in sight. It’s strange how the introduction of one blanket colour somehow makes the world more beautiful. It makes me wonder whether my world would seem different if I simply climbed under a blanket. Probably, I conclude.

  I push the favourites (didn’t it used to be called speed-dial?) button on the car console and wait.

  “Hello?” Lisa’s voice sounds through the multitude of speakers that surround me. She’s chewing something.

  “Hi, love, it’s me,” I say. “Oh, hi.”

  There is a brief pause while we both wait to see who will speak next. I’m about to speak when she beats me to it.

  “You okay?”

  “Er, yeah,” I say. “Pretty good. How are you?”

  She swallows. “Mmm. Yeah, I’m okay, thanks. Good day?”

  I hear whatever it is she is eating enter her mouth. It collides with her teeth and makes the same sound as when you flick your teeth with your nail. I suspect she’s eating peanuts. Or Minstrels. Or M&M’s.

  “Y’know, it’s been okay.”

  “Good.”

  “Just thought I’d ring to say I’ll be home late. Y’know, with

  the snow.”

  “Yeah, can’t believe it’s still coming down.”

  “I know.”

  “Well, you drive carefully, yeah?” “Yeah, I will. See you soon.”

  She must think that I’ve hung up, as I hear the sound of a

  dozen sugary shells cracking in her mouth.

  I press the button to end the call.

  The rest of the journey passes without incident and I am home just after eight. I carefully reverse into the drive, stopping the car as I see the yellowish-white lights actual size in the dining room window. The lights turn from white to red and I turn the engine off.

  The house is quiet when I enter and I am careful to close the door between the porch and the hall silently. The slightest of clicks has been known to wake Oscar. I’m tired and tonight I can do without seeing him standing in his pyjamas at the top of the stairs. I hear the dull hum of the television coming from the lounge. Colours, distorted by the glass door that separates the lounge and hall, jump from the television and form a mini light show around me. I take off my suit jacket and hang it on top of the numerous other coats and bags and cardigans at the bottom of the stairs. The bannister that runs straight towards me reminds me that there is a post somewhere beneath all the fabric.

  The hall is one of my favourite places in the house. I can’t quite describe why; there is just something about the number of options available to me from here. Directly in front of me and to my left are the stairs that lead up to our three bedrooms and bathroom. To my right is an open area with a rug, a small table and a number of doors. The first door on the right leads to the dining room. Alongside that, a similar door leads to the lounge. Beneath the stairs is the door to the cellar and a small downstairs toilet. Next to that is the kitchen, and a door that leads to the back garden.

  Including the door behind me, the door to freedom, I can get to anywhere inside or outside my property from here. I’ve thought about this quite a lot. This isn’t true of any other place in my house. If I was in the lounge, for example, I would have to go into the hall to leave the house. I’d have no choice. If I was in the bathroom, I could only then reach the landing. And once I was there, well, I’d invariably have to use the hall again to get anywhere else. Unless I leapt from the upper-floor window (which, believe me, I’ve thought about doing).

  The walls of the hall are covered in framed pictures. They run from the wall at the bottom of the stairs all the way up to the landing. Recently, Lisa went through a stage of framing pictures of words like ‘HOME’ or ‘FAMILY’. The words were made from daffodils or roses or some other flower. She loved them. They looked quite funereal to me. I expected to see one that said ‘GRANDMA’ or ‘GEORGE’. Of course, I didn’t say anything to Lisa. Experience tells me it’s better not to.

  Today, though, I notice the flower pictures have been replaced by more photographs of Lisa and the children. There are, of course, one or two of our parents and one or two of Lisa’s nieces. There is one of me. About halfway up the stairs, near the ceiling.

  I place my car keys quietly on the small shelf at the bottom of the stairs. I am surprised that it is still attached, such is the weight of unopened post that sits on top of it. I wonder how many letters it will take before it finally collapses. I have thought about dislodging it, just to prove to Lisa that it is better to do jobs as and when they arise and not when it’s too late. She has a habit of putting off jobs for days (and in the case of the shelf – months) on end.

  I slip off my shoes and make my way quietly down the hall.

  I pop my head around the door to the lounge.

  “Hi,” I say.

  She jumps slightly. I see her hand push something down between the cushions of the sofa. It sounds like a crisp packet. “I wish you wouldn’t do that,” she says. Her eyes stay on the television.

  “What?” I say.

  “Sneak up on me. You made me jump.” “Sorry. Didn’t want to wake Oscar.”

  “It’s okay,” she says, turning to me as the adverts come on the television.

  She adjusts her position on the sofa and I hear a rustling sound. She uses a quick jerk of her head to beckon me, and I walk over and bend down to kiss her. It’s just a peck, but enough for me to taste peanuts. She moves away, and I straighten my back and stand alongside her for a moment.

  “Hannah’ll be waiting,” she says.

  She’s right. Hannah will be eagerly waiting for me to enter her bedroom for our ‘chat’. It’s something we’ve done every night for as long as Hannah has been able to talk.

  I take in the framed beaming smiles of my children as I make my way upstairs.

  For a moment the thought crosses my mind that our chats are something I might just miss.

  CHAPTER_FIVE

  Okay, let’s think about this a little bit more.

  I am greeted by a wide smile as I push open Hannah’s bedroom door. She is sitting up in her bed. A group of rigid plastic dolls is arranged on the duvet, sitting in a half-circle. It reminds me of an AA meeting. They all face her like she is some giant messiah. Or sponsor.

  “Daddy!” she whispers, knowing that any volume could wake Oscar.

  “Hello,” I whisper back. My head is in her room, my body on the landing.

  “Are you coming in for a chat?” she says. “Soon,” I say, tugging at the knot of my tie. “Okay,” she nods, smiling.

  As I leave the room, I hear her address her circle of disciples. “Now, Martha, I’ve pacifically told you before, you can’t just go around hitting people.”

  It is nice to get out of my suit and into my pyjamas. I think if I had the choice I would probably spend the vast majority of my life in my pyjamas. There is something so comforting about wearing them. I’m not sure whether it is the feeling of relaxation I felt when I was a child. Putting on my pyjamas meant rest. Something I long for now.

  I hang my suit trousers on the foam-coated hanger in the wardrobe and close the cupboard door. For the first time, I notice the snow is still falling, lit by the orange streetlights. It is more blustery now, jumping erraticall
y in the sky. It reminds me of the embers escaping a bonfire. I also notice that Bill is at the window again. He is watching the same snow as I am, and I wish I had photographed his stance this morning. I would swear that he hasn’t moved all day. If I didn’t know it was impossible to die standing upright with your arms folded, I would already be sending flowers to his wife.

  I wave to him but he doesn’t see me. I suspect it’s the reflection of the street light. I edge behind Lisa’s enormous dressing table, which faces the street outside, and pull the curtains closed. As usual, they get stuck on the broken runner and I have to stand on my tiptoes to persuade the little plastic hook to round the corner of the bay window. This is on Lisa’s list of things to fix. I’m not sure where it figures, priority-wise. I peep through the curtains one last time and wave. Bill doesn’t see me.

  “Come and lie right here,” Hannah says, her little hand smoothing the duvet in circles alongside her.

  I climb over her and wedge myself in alongside the radiator beneath the window. All but one of the dolls seem to have succumbed to their addiction and thrown themselves to the floor below. Hannah holds a blond-haired doll in her hand. I shuffle to get comfortable, and eventually fold a pink bear in half to use as a pillow.

  “So,” I say, “has it been a good day?”

  We always start our chats like this.

  “Best ever. And how about you?” she says.

  “Best ever. And better now…”

  She joins in and we speak in unison: “…you’re here with me.”

  We hug each other for a second. I feel her face against mine. It’s so soft. I want to stay close a little longer, but she pulls away and begins to brush the blond girl’s hair. I stare around the room and conclude that it was worth the effort.