Читать книгу The Mum Who Got Her Life Back - Fiona Gibson - Страница 16

It’s Jack’s turn to be vetted a couple of weeks later, when my sister invites us for Sunday lunch. Jack offers to drive us to her renovated farm on the Ayrshire coast. I glance at him as we near her place, reflecting that a newish relationship presents a series of these ‘firsts’, these meetings during which everyone pretends there’s no ‘checking out’ going on (when of course there is). Anyone who cares about you wants to appraise the person you’ve fallen in love with.

Jack and I have already had drinks with a couple of old schoolmates of mine, plus other friends I’ve got to know through the children, their various activities and the life modelling circuit. He’s handled it well, being his natural, extremely likeable self, despite his slight shyness and the fact that he might have started to feel like a new puppy being given his first tour of the park.

Naturally, he met Corinne and Gus early on. Corinne enjoys referring to him as Mr Lush, even to his face, which Jack always takes in extremely good spirit. A terrible flirt, she made a huge fuss over him that first time we all went out, and insisted on a selfie with him, crammed into the corner of our booth in the pub, later to be captioned: ‘Stole Nadia’s new boyfriend for five minutes, took him round back of pub and God he was GOOD.’

Jack pretended to be mortified when I showed him her Instagram post, but I could tell he was secretly amused. ‘Always nice to get a positive review,’ he chuckled. Meanwhile Gus, who seems to find it hilarious that Jack is all of two years younger than me, refers to him as my ‘toyboy’, a term I’d assumed had fallen into obscurity a long time ago. One lunchtime, when we nipped out for a sandwich together, Gus spotted a portly young man sauntering towards us wearing a T-shirt bearing the charming slogan: ‘MILF-CHASER.’

‘Get one for Jack?’ he whispered, swerving to avoid my punch to his arm. Later, we spotted another guy – bearded and lanky, sporting a wiry man-bun – whose T-shirt read: I’M RAISING A TRIBE. And that, we concluded, was far more offensive as slogans go. Gus took a candid picture of the man with his phone and sent it to me.

‘Look at this,’ I said later, showing it to Jack.

‘Oh, God,’ he groaned. ‘The smugness. It should be banned under some kind of offensive clothing bylaw.’

‘Yeah. We wanted to tear it off him and pelt him with rusks.’

He spluttered.

We just ‘get’ each other, Jack and I; and if we had raised a tribe, I’m pretty sure he’d have just got on with the job rather than wearing a T-shirt to advertise the fact.

And now, as the Ayrshire coast opens up before us on this clear-skied May afternoon, I allow myself a moment to reflect that perhaps this wouldn’t have happened if Alfie and Molly still lived at home. At least, it might not have seemed quite so easy. As it is – particularly as Lori spends at least half the week at her mum’s – Jack and I have been able to spend time together without being answerable to anyone. There was no one else hovering around in the morning the first time he stayed over at mine. I’ve been able to stay at his place without letting Alfie and Molly know I wouldn’t be home until morning. At first it was something of a novelty, waking up in Jack’s light-filled, airy bedroom, and sipping his far superior coffee while he pottered about warming up croissants and festooning me with his extensive selection of jams. (‘I have such a sweet tooth,’ he admitted. ‘The palate of an eight-year-old. It’s embarrassing really.’)

Of course, I do miss my kids, in that I’d love to see them more often. But I have to say it has also been extremely liberating, living my life unpoliced, in this way.

‘It’s the next turn-off to the right,’ I tell Jack, as we pass a familiar row of ancient stone cottages, then a farm shop and a B&B.

‘It’s lovely out here,’ he remarks. ‘I don’t really know this part of the country at all.’

‘We used to come here all the time when we were little,’ I tell him. ‘We loved the coast. It was only a half-hour drive from home but it seemed like a real treat. Sarah’s always stayed in the area.’ I wonder now when Jack might tell me more about his childhood; specifically, about his younger brother, Sandy, who died. Obviously, whatever happened must have been horrific, but whenever Sandy’s name has been mentioned, I’ve sensed Jack shutting down, as if sending out the clear message that he really doesn’t want me to ask about it.

Fair enough; I’d never want to pry. But I’d like to think that, at some point, he might feel able to tell me what happened.

I glance at him. ‘You okay?’

‘Yeah, of course.’ He smiles.

‘Like I said, Sarah’s lovely – but we’re very different …’

‘I’m ready for my interrogation,’ he teases.

‘She won’t interrogate you. She does enough of that at work.’ Although not remotely intimidating off-duty, I suspect that my sister can come over as pretty scary when in professional mode; she is in charge of a team who inspects care homes and children’s nurseries. Meanwhile, Vic, her husband, is a car auctioneer, which I’m sure Jack would never have guessed, as they come out to greet us and, after warm hugs and handshakes, my brother-in-law struts around Jack’s battered old Fiat, as if sizing it up for sale.

‘This is your motor, Jack?’ he asks with a smirk.

‘It is, yeah,’ Jack says with a nod.

‘Ha! Surprised you got here in one piece …’ He crouches to poke at a corroded wheel arch.

‘C’mon, Vic,’ Sarah says tersely, ‘leave Jack’s car alone.’

Vic grins at Jack. I’m fond of my brother-in-law; he’s a caring and generous husband of the traditional type. He barely cooks, but gardens enthusiastically, and their cars’ tyres will forever remain at the correct pressure whilst there is breath in his body. Plus, he’s a fantastic father to Scott and Ollie, who are in their mid-twenties and still live locally. Both boys are immensely practical; Scott rewired his parents’ house, and Ollie fitted their new kitchen. Sarah and Vic couldn’t hide their horror when, on a visit to my place, Alfie seemed utterly confused when I asked him to replace the bulb in the table lamp.

‘You’ve got a rust issue there, Jack,’ Vic observes, frowning.

‘Yeah, it is a bit of a wreck,’ Jack concedes.

‘You want to catch that before it goes any further. Got an abrasive wheel?’

‘Erm, I don’t think I have,’ Jack admits, as my sister and I exchange glances.

‘Well, you want to get one, or at least some sandpaper. Rub it down nice and smooth until it’s shiny metal. Get your primer on, then your paint and your topcoat …’

‘Yep, I’ll do that,’ Jack murmurs, and I’m overcome by an urge to hug him for playing along with this blokes’ talk.

‘I take it this old wreck’s just a stop-gap,’ Vic remarks.

‘Erm, well, not really,’ Jack admits, as Sarah tugs on Vic’s arm, coaxing her husband away from the car like a mother pulling her child away from the chocolates in the checkout aisle.

‘Maybe Jack’s perfectly happy with it,’ she retorts as we all head inside. Vic shrugs good-naturedly and fetches us drinks, and soon Scott and Ollie arrive, plus Ollie’s girlfriend Morvern, whom he lives with. I hadn’t expected such a gathering. Sarah had merely said the boys ‘might drop by’. But there are enthusiastic hellos and hugs, and it feels like quite a houseful as numerous dishes are brought from the oven, and we all settle around the huge kitchen table.

Occasionally, during my seemingly endless years as a single person, Sarah would call to ask, ‘Are you … okay?’ All by yourself is what she meant. Of course I was. In fact, I slightly resented the implication that I might be falling apart without a man to look after me. But then, Sarah has always been protective, and since our parents died, eight years ago now, she has edged herself into a sort of motherly mode with me, despite being only four years older.

As I chat to the boys and Morvern – whom I’ve met several times before – I become aware of my sister gently quizzing Jack about his life. ‘A charity shop? That sounds interesting. Oh, animal sanctuaries! That’s fantastic. Does all the funding come from the shops, or d’you have benefactors, or …’ On she goes, wanting to know all the details in the way that, when she inspects a care home, she leaves no stone unturned.

Vic turns to me with a grin. ‘So, Nads, is your Alfie still seeing that posh bird?’

‘Yep, they’re planning to go travelling together this summer,’ I reply, at which Vic looks at Morvern.

‘He ditched us at Christmas for the aristocracy. Our own nephew!’ He laughs. ‘Our roast potatoes aren’t good enough for him anymore.’

‘Have you met them, Jack?’ Sarah asks. ‘Alfie and Molly, I mean?’

‘No, not yet,’ he replies.

‘I, erm, thought we’d wait till the summer break,’ I remark, sensing that an explanation is needed. ‘They’ve been home on visits but it’s always seemed so rushed. Anyway, they’re back in a couple of weeks …’ I don’t add that I’ve felt slightly apprehensive about that first meeting, having never been in this kind of situation before. Easter had felt a little too soon to introduce them, even though Jack and I had been seeing each other regularly – spending at least half the week together – since the Christmas holidays had ended.

Vic turns to Jack and grins. ‘Well, good luck with that, mate. They’re bloody terrifying, that pair …’

‘Vic!’ I splutter. ‘No, they’re not …’

‘They’ll have you strapped to a rack, thumb screws on, dazzling light shone in your eyes: “And what are your intentions with our mother?”’ He sniggers and takes a big swig of wine.

‘Dad,’ Scott exclaims as Jack laughs off the comment. ‘Jesus …’

‘Sounds like I’ll have to start revving myself up for it,’ Jack says with a smile.

‘Yeah,’ Vic asserts. ‘I mean, singly, they’re quite a force, but together …’

‘First the rust, and now this,’ Sarah groans, rolling her eyes.

‘What’s that about rust?’ Morvern asks.

‘Vic was haranguing poor Jack about his car,’ Sarah explains with a shake of her head. She turns to me. ‘Are the kids coming back for the whole summer?’

‘Yes – at least, Molly is. She’s been offered work at her friend’s dad’s garden centre. You know what she’s like. Loves to earn a few quid and doesn’t mind grafting.’

‘So that’s your fun spoiled, Nads,’ Vic remarks with a grin.

‘It’ll be fine,’ I say, aware of my cheeks flushing as I laugh.

‘And what about Alfie?’ Sarah asks.

‘He’ll only be around for a few days, then his girlfriend’s coming down to our place, and they’ll head off. They’re going Inter-railing around Europe …’

‘Oh, I’m glad he’s met someone nice, Nads.’

‘Me too.’ My sister and I exchange a look across the table. She knows how much I worried about Alfie as he went through secondary school. Whilst he had a couple of close friends, he was always quiet and studious, a sensitive type who enjoyed drawing and baking and had no interest in sport. Unfortunately, this made him a target for bullying in his early teens, and the fact that his father is a film director only seemed to attract more unwanted attention (Molly exuded such self-assuredness, no one ever dared to hassle her about it). On one occasion Alfie was hurt pretty badly in a fight after school. The school tried to deal with it, and the problem seemed to abate, but since that time Alfie has always been rather awkward socially. He’d never had a girlfriend until he met Camilla at university, so I suspect a new start, in a different city, has helped to boost his confidence.

‘It’s been good for Nadia, you know,’ Vic observes as he fetches Jack, the only non-drinker at the table, another ginger beer from the fridge. The rest of us are knocking back the wine with some enthusiasm. ‘Getting the kids off her hands, I mean,’ he adds. ‘I don’t mean that in a bad way, do I, Nads? It’s not like you were counting the days till the buggers were off your hands—’

‘No, you’re right,’ I concede. ‘It has been good for me.’

‘We’d started to think ours would never leave home,’ Sarah tells Jack with a smile. ‘Scott was twenty-three when he finally moved out …’

‘And Ollie hung on in there till he was twenty-bloody-five,’ Vic exclaims.

‘That’s nice, Dad,’ Ollie exclaims with a snort.

‘Too bloody comfortable, that’s why,’ his father adds.

‘Ollie still says he misses your gravy, Sarah,’ Morvern says, grinning, and it strikes me that this scene isn’t so different to that lunch at Jack’s, when I met Lori: an easy gathering, with friendly and generous people who are happy to welcome in someone new. I find myself hoping that I can create a similar atmosphere of relaxed jollity when my own offspring return home.

There’s a clattering of crockery as everyone helps to clear up, and afterwards the TV is put on far too loudly, as per Vic’s wishes, with everyone talking above it, and over each other.

‘Go on,’ Morvern urges Jack, flushed now from the wine, ‘what’s the worst thing you’ve ever had handed in at your shop?’

‘There have been so many,’ he says, pausing, perhaps to choose an example that’s not too disgusting. ‘Um, last week someone brought in an ancient pressure cooker that still had soup in it. All fuzzy with mould …’

‘Ew!’ Morvern shudders.

Jack is further quizzed until, finally, I suggest that we really should be going.

After promises to visit again soon – and Vic’s parting shot of ‘Remember to catch that rust, Jacky-boy, before it catches you!’ – we drive home to Glasgow, chuckling over the rust issue, and how weird it is that some men find it impossible to comprehend that not every other male shares those typical masculine interests (i.e. cars).

‘They’re lovely people, though,’ Jack adds.

‘Yes, they are.’

I think about how Sarah thought I was crazy to split up with Danny; or, rather, she reckoned I should ‘hang on in there’, as she put it, until our kids left home. It served only to crank up my guilt, because wouldn’t a break-up have hurt them at any stage? And what was the alternative: to sit tight, pretending, until our facade of togetherness crumbled in front of our children? A failed relationship is nothing to be proud of, I know, but I’m not so sure it was a failure really, when we have Molly, who excels at her studies despite her hectic social life, and Alfie who, despite his shyness, seems to have found his niche in Aberdeen.

‘So, d’you reckon you’re ready to meet them, then?’ I ask, studying Jack’s expression.

‘Molly and Alfie?’ He glances from the driver’s seat. ‘Yes, of course I am.’ He grins. ‘Although, if it’s easier, you could just pretend I’m a friend …’

‘Yeah,’ I say, smiling. ‘“This is Jack, my new friend, who I’m not remotely attracted to …”’

‘“I’m very fond of your mum,”’ he chips in, ‘“but don’t worry, there’s no physical attraction whatsoever …”’

‘They do know I’m seeing you,’ I remind him.

‘And they were okay about that?’

‘Of course they were,’ I say firmly, ‘although I’m not sure they were listening. Whenever we talk, it’s always, “yeah-yeah”, like they’re desperate to get off the phone …’ I look at him. ‘They’re nice kids, Jack. Alfie can be a little awkward like most boys of his age – but they’re decent, well-mannered people …’

He touches my knee, which sends a ripple of pleasure right through me. ‘I’m sure they are.’

‘You do know Vic was winding you up, don’t you?’

‘’Course I do.’

We fall into silence as we join the motorway, then I ask, tentatively, ‘Are you nervous about meeting my kids?’

There’s a beat’s silence, and he glances at me with a teasing smile. ‘Absolutely crapping myself,’ he says.