“Good idea. I’ll do toad in the hole, Robin.”
Her dad’s not quite himself either. He stares at the TV but doesn’t laugh at the funny bits. He left some dinner uneaten earlier this evening and it was a mixed grill. That’s his favorite. Even Sarah raised her eyebrows back at Robin as she noticed their father’s half-finished plate on his tray. Also Jack and Angie don’t seem to be bickering; it’s like they’re both holding their breath all the time. Normally Robin’s mum would have stood over Jack, demanding to know what was wrong with the pork chop, fried egg and sausage that had been so uncharacteristically ignored. But she didn’t seem to notice.
As her dad moved his leftovers around the plate with his fork, resting his cheek on his free hand, Robin asked what the plans were for the weekend. She was hoping for a beer garden, where she, Sarah and Callum could run wild, and not the worst-case scenario—a craft fair.
“I’m not sure yet, Robin,” Angie had said, and Robin and Sarah both noticed that their dad had stopped pushing his food and was looking at his wife. He didn’t look surprised exactly, but there was something odd about it.
Now Sarah is in her room again, having an early night. The idea appalls Robin, who would rather chain herself to the sofa with her eyelids pried open than willingly go to bed. The doorbell chimes and the three remaining Marshalls look at each other. Eventually Angie sighs one of her dramatic world’s-end sighs and heaves herself off the sofa to go to open the door.
“Hiya,” Robin hears her mum say, “you want to come in?”
There’s the telltale mwah mwah of stage kisses but without the effort or humor they used to carry. Just air now.
“Hi, Jack.” Hilary’s soft voice reminded Robin of women from coffee adverts.
“All right, love,” her dad replies, flicking his eyes at Hilary briefly and smiling, then looking back at the screen.
The two women go into the kitchen to talk. Their blue-gray cigarette smoke seeps under the closed door, and the sound of the kettle springs on and off for the next couple of hours. It works out very well for Robin, whose dad generally doesn’t remember to put her to bed if she keeps quiet enough.
Hilary is about to leave now, but she comes into the living room and quietly asks Robin’s dad if their plan to go to the garden center at the weekend is still on. Robin’s ears prick up, practically standing on end when she hears Jack confirm that, yes, that’s still a definite plan, when just a few hours ago her question about the weekend had been brushed away.
“Perhaps we could all get lunch afterward,” Hilary adds, looking at Robin.
“P’raps,” says Jack.
No mwah mwahs at all as she leaves.
Robin’s dad suddenly notices the small child curling into the corner of the sofa, watching TV that she doesn’t understand. “Come on, then, squirt, off to bed,” he says, seeming to come to life for the first time that day.
That weekend, they didn’t get lunch together. Callum came round to the Marshalls’ house and he, Robin and Sarah stayed inside watching The Chart Show and a Carry On film while Angie went window-shopping and their dad went to a garden center with Hilary. And Angie and Jack had still not bickered by then. Something was up.
ELEVEN
SARAH|PRESENT DAY
6. Too Much Control
What does that even mean? As he’d said it, I noticed that Jim’s mother was nodding slightly. I doubt she even knew that she was moving her head, but it told a story. I’d always had self-control. It had often disappointed me that it was the women who’d looked down at that.
My appetites, my inclinations.
After slipping just once, I’d cultivated that control and was proud that it had seen me through. Perhaps he had meant too much control over Violet. Who can control a three-year-old to excess? They’re the Wild West of children. No longer babies, no longer easy to pen in a cot or high chair but too young to reason with. Besides, Violet is a good girl; she doesn’t need control. Our boy, my boy, he’d be the little rascal. The one beyond my control.
I had always said I wanted two children. I hoped for a girl and then a boy. Jim had always wanted two children as well. He said he didn’t mind if they were boys or girls. I said I didn’t mind too. My dad used to tell the same lie, but any fool could see that he’d wanted a boy. Robin scratched that itch in a way I never could. It worked out very well for her.
There was a lot I had to learn in preparation for a life with Jim. A lot I had to unlearn.
I tried to be attentive, but it was hard to know what that looked like. I hadn’t had the best examples.
Jim liked to eat with Violet as soon as he got in from work. As she grew up, he liked to do her bathtimes and bedtimes—the evening shift, he called it. He liked to strip out of his work things, shower the day off and get into his joggers and T-shirt, ready for dinner. His at-home uniform. He didn’t really like my cooking as much as he’d politely suggested in the beginning and started making more and more requests, remarks. It was hard to keep up. I often made mistakes. Not just with the food.
I still get it wrong, even now. The more I tried to fix things after the list was read out, the worse I made it. Eventually I had to stop and regroup. Refocus. But it had taken a while to realize that. At first, I just spun my wheels and sprayed mud all over myself.
It’s been four days since the list was read out.
The first night away from my home had been sleepless and bewildering. I wasn’t in the bed I’d woken up in that morning; nothing smelled the same. The following day, I didn’t need to get up at the sound of Violet’s call. I had no use.
The pull to her was as strong as ever though. I stayed away most of the day, trying to do as I’d been told. But I couldn’t. I’d shown up at our place with a teddy bear for Violet. The lights were off and the house was empty. My key no longer worked. The sheer speed of this project chilled me. The taxi had started rolling back out of the close we’d lived in, but luckily the driver saw me running after him. It was obvious where they’d be. I wondered how long it had been planned and when Violet’s Trunki suitcase must have been packed behind my back. While I was washing and folding her clothes, was Jim squirreling them away? I tried not to think about it, tried to swallow away the burning rage in my chest. I even asked the taxi driver to swing into the petrol station so I could buy flowers for Jim’s mother. Habit.