Mum took on extra cleaning and looked permanently exhausted, and she probably was despite her reassurances that she was fine. Nick might only be seven but he was aware that her hair, that once looked like spun gold from Sleeping Beauty, was now dark at the roots, and there were lines etched onto her face that hadn’t been there this time last year.
‘It’s only temporary,’ she had said as they moved their meagre belongings into the tiny flat. She showed him where he could keep his things in the battered old sideboard the previous occupants had left behind, with its door hanging from a single hinge. Most of his toys had already been sold at a car boot sale, and their solid wooden furniture was long gone.
Nick’s dad had groaned as he shuffled into the lounge and flopped down on the sofa that mum explained folded out into a bed. It was where Nick would sleep. Dad had drunk can after can of lager as Mum scrubbed the kitchen and washed the windows until they sparkled but the flat still smelled sour. Despite the patchwork rug and the bright cushions Mum carefully arranged, it didn’t look like home. It didn’t feel like home.
Nick yawned. He couldn’t go to bed until Dad did, and Dad would wait until Mum finished her shift at the pub. Once home, Nick’s mum would always find time to tell Nick a story and kiss him good night. Afterwards, Nick would lie on the sofa, his thin, itchy grey blanket pulled up around his shoulders, and cuddle Teddy Edward, his bear, running the red ribbon tied in a bow around his neck through his fingers, listening to the voices drifting through the paper-thin walls. His dad’s voice low and angry, his mum’s soft and soothing, and later, the squeaking of bedsprings. Nick would clasp his small hands over his ears.
Nick had nearly finished colouring in the dragon, as green as the ring his mum always wore that once belonged to his grandma. His tongue protruded from the tip of his teeth as he concentrated hard. For once, he had stayed in all the lines. Now for the knight. Nick didn’t have many colours to choose from. ‘Father Christmas doesn’t have much money this year,’ his mum had said, ‘although you’ve been really, really good.’
‘Stop fucking babying him,’ his dad had bit back.
But when Nick woke on Christmas morning, the pillowcase he had left out was bulging with sweets, a new jumper that was Nick’s favourite blue – although when Nick pulled it over his head it smelled a bit funny and there was a small hole in the elbow – and the colouring book and crayons. Nick’s fingers hovered over the box as he deliberated between red and yellow but they had learned about St George in class last week so he picked out the red. He had tried his hardest to listen as Miss Watson’s soft voice had told the class about swords and shields, but he had drifted off, waking as his friend Richard kicked him under the desk, whispering the answer to the question he had been asked. Richard always covered for him. Nick had sat bolt upright and wiped the trail of drool from his mouth, embarrassment heating his face as he’d caught the sympathetic glance of his favourite teacher. After class Miss Watson had held him back and asked him if everything was all right at home, tilting her head to the side the way mum did when she wasn’t too tired to listen to him. He’d told Miss Watson everything was fine, and she’d told him to run along to the canteen. Nick said he’d forgotten his lunch, ashamed to admit his dad usually ate the sandwiches Mum made before she went to work. It didn’t matter much though. He never got that hungry and Richard was always happy to share. Miss Watson had pulled open her drawer and silently handed him a Mars Bar, and he thought she was pretty, like the princess in the story.
Nick’s eyes were heavy with sleep now. The ten o’clock news was on so it shouldn’t be too much longer before his mum came home. In a bid to stay awake Nick pinched the red crayon harder between his fingers and pressed down on the page. There was a crack as the crayon split into two, and his head snapped forward as Nick’s dad slapped him. Hard. ‘Do you think your mum works all these bleedin’ hours so you can break things?’
Nick shook his head as he tried to stop his lip from trembling. His dad hated it when he cried.
Dad’s eyes had glinted in the light of the flickering TV as he ripped the dragon picture out of the colouring book and tore it in two.
‘That was for mum. For the fridge.’ Nick drew his knees up to his chest and tried to stop trembling.
‘I’ll let you into a secret. Mum hates your pictures and tacky fridge magnets. Says they make the place look untidy. Let’s not tell her I told you; I’m trusting you to keep your mouth shut. Deal?’
His dad held out his hand and Nick slipped his small one inside and tried not to wince as his dad shook it so hard his shoulder felt like it was being wrenched from the socket.
That was the last time Nick ever coloured and the first time he had to keep a secret, but it wasn’t the last time.
And it was far, far, from being the worst.
6
Now
I jump as I feel the weight of Nick’s hand rest on my shoulder. I hadn’t heard him come into the kitchen.
‘Are you okay?’ I twist my head around. My eyes drawn to the bruise on Nick’s forehead. It was blue yesterday, today it’s purple, and somehow that looks worse.
‘I’m fine. Stop fussing. I’ve told you it was hot in Richard’s office and I was a bit stressed that’s all. I fainted. There’s nothing wrong.’ He nuzzles my neck.
Reassured, I dip my cloth into the bowl filled with warm water and lemon multi-surface cleaner, wringing it out, wiping the worktops until they are so clean they squeak. Lisa is coming and I want everything to be perfect. The air is citrus fresh, and my hands are pink and raw. The copper pans hanging over the Aga shine as the sun streams through the trifold doors. Swinging open the fridge, I pull out peppers and celery, and after shutting the door I wipe my fingermarks off the handle.
‘Just think,’ I say to Nick as I rub the stainless steel until it shines, ‘one day this could be covered in drawings from our child. What do you think? A fridge covered in gaudy magnets?’
Nick doesn’t answer, and as I turn around I am shocked to see the anger plastered over his face. ‘Nick?’
‘Sorry, I was miles away. Let me help.’ Nick rinses the vegetables under the tap before I shake them dry, cool droplets of water speckling my forearms. I’ll chop them into crudités to have with humus. Spotify streams a pop playlist; Little Mix threaten ‘Black Magic’.
Nick usually laughs and tells me I’m too old to like them, but we all have them, don’t we? Guilty pleasures. And although he says he hates pop music, often we bop around the kitchen together while we wait for dinner to cook. Stupid, over-the-top dance moves from an era that doesn’t fit with the music at all: The Mashed Potato; The Twist. Today, though, there is no singing or dancing. We are both on edge.
‘Are you getting changed?’ I ask Nick. ‘You look too casual.’
He’s wearing jeans and a white T-shirt, his hair shower-wet. His bare feet have left dull marks on the floor I’ve mopped twice.
‘It won’t make any difference what I wear. I wish you’d just—’
I step forward and silence him with a kiss. His stubble grazes my chin, and I taste peppermint.
‘I’m sorry.’ I wrap my arms around his waist. ‘You must be nervous too.’ I snuggle into him. Sometimes I forget how hard it must be for him and, once again, I am grateful he chose to stay with me and didn’t leave me for someone who could give him babies. I never could understand why Nick chose me in the first place. Why he pursued me so hard, with my hair that hangs limp and my bottom that strains my jeans at the seams. As he holds me, my mind drifts to the memory of the night he proposed.