said. ‘I’m not really hungry.’
* * *
When I went into Matilda’s room the next morning she was curled tightly in her duvet, her back facing me. I sat down on the edge of the bed and reached out to stroke her head.
The sheet next to her was damp. Very damp. I raised my hand towards my nose. The smell was unmistakable.
I shut my eyes and bit my lower lip. I could barely remember the last time she’d wet the bed. Not for years. Maybe once, when she was about five, and she was poorly.
I stroked her cheek with the back of my hand. It was a moment or two before she came round. She opened her eyes. Within seconds there was a frown on her face.
‘I’m all sticky,’ she said.
‘I know, love. You’ve had a little accident. It doesn’t matter. We’ll soon get you cleaned up.’
Her face crumpled. The tears came.
And I wished to God that Lydia hadn’t come back.
He texted me and asked if I’d like to come and watch him play badminton.
I just texted back ‘No, not really’.
9
The text messages started that evening. Maybe it had taken her that long to sober up. Maybe Josh hadn’t turned his phone back on until then either, as some sort of mark of respect to the rest of the family or simply because he didn’t know how to handle it.
At first I thought it was Josh and Tom just texting back and forth but one look at Josh’s face at the dinner table when his phone beeped from upstairs gave it away. I glanced at Chris. If he did realise, he was doing a very good job of keeping his expression neutral.
I said nothing at the time. Waited until after tea. Until the dishwasher had been loaded and Chris was reading Matilda a bedtime story. I knocked on the door of Josh’s room.
‘Yeah,’ he called.
I went in, taking it as teenage for ‘enter’. The darknessof the decor always looked worse in winter. At least in the summer the sunlight crashed through his sash windows and his blinds could offer little in the way of defence. In winter it was as if the darkness outside somehow reflected back the darkness from within. The one condition we had laid down was that, if we ever put the house up for sale, he’d have to paint the walls magnolia (black not featuring highly on those ‘How to sell your property’ lists).
Josh was lying on his bed, his earphones in, something sounding conspicuously like ‘Back to Black’ coming out of them.
‘Didn’t know you were into Amy Winehouse,’ I said.
He took out his earphones, somewhat defensively. ‘Mum got me into her,’ he said.
I imagined Lydia listening to her. Sharing in the anguish. Spitting out the words. Mourning her death. I sat down on the corner of Josh’s bed.
‘Have you spoken to her?’ I asked.
He shook his head. ‘No, just texted.’
‘What’s she saying?’
‘That she’s sorry. She screwed up and she wants us to start again.’
I nodded. ‘And what do you reckon to that?’
He shrugged. ‘I dunno. It’s hard. I can forgive her for mucking me about but coming here and shouting at you and Tilda –’
His voice broke off as he shook his head.
‘Has she said why she behaved like that?’
‘Just that she was mad at herself for letting me down and mad at her boyfriend too. That’s why she started drinking.’
‘She obviously didn’t know when to stop, either. Does she drink when she’s with you?’
‘No. Never. Smokes a lot, mind.’
‘So, basically, you’ve just found the mum you’ve never known, she’s messed you about and screwed up, and you can’t work out what the hell you’re supposed to do about it.’
‘You’re good at your job, aren’t you?’ said Josh, with a half-smile.
‘I get a lot of people with problems where there are no easy answers.’
‘The thing is, it doesn’t really matter what I think. Because Dad’s not going to let me see her again after this, is he?’
‘You’ve got to understand that he just wants to protect you.’
‘I don’t need protecting. I’m not a kid.’
‘You’re
* * *
When I went into Matilda’s room the next morning she was curled tightly in her duvet, her back facing me. I sat down on the edge of the bed and reached out to stroke her head.
The sheet next to her was damp. Very damp. I raised my hand towards my nose. The smell was unmistakable.
I shut my eyes and bit my lower lip. I could barely remember the last time she’d wet the bed. Not for years. Maybe once, when she was about five, and she was poorly.
I stroked her cheek with the back of my hand. It was a moment or two before she came round. She opened her eyes. Within seconds there was a frown on her face.
‘I’m all sticky,’ she said.
‘I know, love. You’ve had a little accident. It doesn’t matter. We’ll soon get you cleaned up.’
Her face crumpled. The tears came.
And I wished to God that Lydia hadn’t come back.
He texted me and asked if I’d like to come and watch him play badminton.
I just texted back ‘No, not really’.
9
The text messages started that evening. Maybe it had taken her that long to sober up. Maybe Josh hadn’t turned his phone back on until then either, as some sort of mark of respect to the rest of the family or simply because he didn’t know how to handle it.
At first I thought it was Josh and Tom just texting back and forth but one look at Josh’s face at the dinner table when his phone beeped from upstairs gave it away. I glanced at Chris. If he did realise, he was doing a very good job of keeping his expression neutral.
I said nothing at the time. Waited until after tea. Until the dishwasher had been loaded and Chris was reading Matilda a bedtime story. I knocked on the door of Josh’s room.
‘Yeah,’ he called.
I went in, taking it as teenage for ‘enter’. The darknessof the decor always looked worse in winter. At least in the summer the sunlight crashed through his sash windows and his blinds could offer little in the way of defence. In winter it was as if the darkness outside somehow reflected back the darkness from within. The one condition we had laid down was that, if we ever put the house up for sale, he’d have to paint the walls magnolia (black not featuring highly on those ‘How to sell your property’ lists).
Josh was lying on his bed, his earphones in, something sounding conspicuously like ‘Back to Black’ coming out of them.
‘Didn’t know you were into Amy Winehouse,’ I said.
He took out his earphones, somewhat defensively. ‘Mum got me into her,’ he said.
I imagined Lydia listening to her. Sharing in the anguish. Spitting out the words. Mourning her death. I sat down on the corner of Josh’s bed.
‘Have you spoken to her?’ I asked.
He shook his head. ‘No, just texted.’
‘What’s she saying?’
‘That she’s sorry. She screwed up and she wants us to start again.’
I nodded. ‘And what do you reckon to that?’
He shrugged. ‘I dunno. It’s hard. I can forgive her for mucking me about but coming here and shouting at you and Tilda –’
His voice broke off as he shook his head.
‘Has she said why she behaved like that?’
‘Just that she was mad at herself for letting me down and mad at her boyfriend too. That’s why she started drinking.’
‘She obviously didn’t know when to stop, either. Does she drink when she’s with you?’
‘No. Never. Smokes a lot, mind.’
‘So, basically, you’ve just found the mum you’ve never known, she’s messed you about and screwed up, and you can’t work out what the hell you’re supposed to do about it.’
‘You’re good at your job, aren’t you?’ said Josh, with a half-smile.
‘I get a lot of people with problems where there are no easy answers.’
‘The thing is, it doesn’t really matter what I think. Because Dad’s not going to let me see her again after this, is he?’
‘You’ve got to understand that he just wants to protect you.’
‘I don’t need protecting. I’m not a kid.’
‘You’re
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