‘I know,’ I say softly, and I do believe this. I used to search for a reason. I tried to unpick it, rationalize it, trace it back to those first few weeks when a bout of stress at work and a few lingering family tensions had driven me to suggest that he should get some help. It has taken me a long time to realize that, try as I might, this won’t fall into the neat little boxes of cause and effect I want it to. It’s bigger than that. Senseless, irrational, powerful.
‘They did help in the beginning, you know,’ Francis says. ‘Too well. When you’re so used to being wound so tight, and then that gets released, it’s a relief. More than that. And of course, you want that feeling again and again. It’s not just the big stuff – it makes everything easier. But that’s the trouble with those pills. The more you take, the more …’ He breaks off, frowns in half-surprise. ‘The more you need,’ he says finally, and his face is briefly flooded with an almost childlike revelation.
‘I understand,’ I say. I’ve heard these things before, but there’s something different about his tone. Despite the sun, I’m shivering slightly. I have the feeling of walking a tightrope, delicately balanced, not wanting to move too fast. I bite my tongue, watching him as he looks out across the playground at Eddie in the sandpit, his hair fluttering in the wind as he bends his head in concentration.
‘I’ll stop for good this time,’ he says at last, his tone heavy with decision. ‘I don’t even want them any more. When I woke up this morning, it was really good to feel clean. They’re just fucking up my head.’ He pauses, then gives a quick ripple of his shoulders, somewhere between a twitch and a shudder, throwing the thought off. ‘I feel really good,’ he repeats. His gaze is steady and for an instant his green eyes widen and look straight into mine.
We stare at each other for a good ten seconds. It has to be nine more than I’ve spent looking into his eyes in months. The thought comes strong and unbidden. It’s going to be all right.
Across the playground, Eddie is shouting something. I glance towards him and see him scrambling out of the sandpit and gesticulating towards the seesaw, demanding to be put on. ‘Hold on,’ I say, and start to move away, but Francis stops me.
‘No, I’ll go,’ he says. I watch him heading towards Eddie, lifting him high into the air and placing him gently on to the seesaw, then striding across to sit on the other end. My heart is beating fast and an image of Carl comes into my mind. I’m sitting on his lap in the bar we went to last week, my arms laced around his neck and his hands holding the small of my back as we whisper to each other. He’s listening to me, and his face is lit up with eagerness and affection.
I can’t quite connect it with reality. A strange sense of division: two lives played out in parallel and sliding smoothly past each other without touching. Rarely, if ever, have I told myself that, sooner or later, I will have to choose one. But now the truth of it comes to me sadly and strongly, and it’s suddenly clear which life it should be.
Eddie is sliding off the seesaw and running towards me, his little legs doggedly pistoning up and down, a smile splitting his face open. Behind him, Francis powers in his wake. The sunlight is behind them and they’re cast in its glow, and my eyes are smarting again because I could so easily lose this, and I don’t want to. I don’t want to.
‘Good running!’ I cry, as Eddie reaches me, and I kneel down so that he can hug me. I dip my face to his hair, drawing in the scent of mint shampoo and cut grass. I’ll text Carl when I get home. I’ll cancel our meeting tonight. The thought gives me a pang of loss, but I push it down. It’ll give me some time and space to think, and Francis and I can spend the evening together. A film, maybe a takeaway. Normal things. It’s amazing what a powerful rush this idea is.
We stay another twenty minutes, then wander back towards the bus stop. When we’re on our way home I can barely keep my eyes open. It’s as if the tension of the past few months has dissolved into nothing and every muscle in my body has relaxed. I find myself slipping luxuriously in and out of sleep, resting my head against the warm glass of the window, Francis’s arm slung loosely around my shoulders.
‘Caro.’ Hazily, I realize that he is nudging me, trying to rouse me. ‘He’s fussing. Not sure what the matter is.’
With an effort, I raise my head and look at Eddie strapped into the buggy in front of us. Sure enough, he’s grizzling for no clear reason, his earlier good temper forgotten. Still half asleep, I lean forward and reach for his hand, trying to calm him, but I move too clumsily and knock the rice cake he’s holding out of his fist, sending it skidding across the bus floor. He stares at his empty hand, then squeezes his eyes tight shut and screams. Across the aisle, I see people flinch and whisper.
‘It’s OK,’ I say uselessly, stroking his forehead. ‘I’m sorry, that was an accident. I’ll get you another.’ I’m scrabbling around in my handbag, looking for the packet of rice cakes, but when my fingers close on it it’s empty. ‘All right,’ I say, feeling the first tiny flickers of panic start to lick. ‘Sorry, I don’t have any more, but when we get home we’ll get you another treat, OK?’ He ignores me, turning up the volume of his screams so that his face turns bright red. The noise jars through me, wiping out any trace of relaxation. I can feel myself begin to shake. I can’t stand this. I know what he’s like when he gets into this state, and there’s no way to calm him down. He needs to burn it out, and we’re trapped on this bus, still fifteen minutes from home.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Francis looking at us intently but blankly, the kind of expression he adopts to watch a news report of mild interest. ‘For God’s sake,’ I snap without thinking, ‘can’t you help?’
He looks taken aback, then shrugs, retreating into some private space. ‘I’m not sure what I’d do that you’re not doing.’
‘Well, Jesus,’ I fire back, ‘that’s useful. Thanks for nothing.’ As soon as I’ve said it, I regret it. The intimacy of the morning pops and vanishes. Francis leans back in his seat, eyelids hooded darkly, and turns to stare out of the window. ‘I’m sorry,’ I start to say, but I don’t know how to continue and Eddie is still yelling, drumming his fists on the side of the buggy for emphasis, and the words are drowned and suppressed.
By the time we get off the bus, Eddie’s tantrum has died down into the occasional hiccupping sob. We walk down the road towards the house in silence. The sky has clouded over and my muscles are tight and clenched. I force myself to smile at Francis, shuffling next to me. ‘That was stressful,’ I say lightly once we’re inside. ‘Sorry. Let’s just have some lunch, yeah?’
‘Yeah, sure,’ Francis says distantly, reappearing from the lounge. ‘I’m just going to pop up the road to get some juice, OK?’
‘Don’t go.’ The words leap to my lips so swiftly I don’t have the chance to consider them. ‘Please.’
He looks at me, frowning, arms folded across his chest. A beat of silence, the tension stretched between us. ‘So I can’t even go up the road now? You want to police me twenty-four seven?’
‘No …’ I search for something else to say, but nothing comes.
‘It’s fine,’ he says, but there’s a coldness in his tone that wasn’t there before.
I watch him walking slowly away from the house, head down. My mental timer clicks on. If he’s less than fifteen minutes, it’ll probably be all right. On autopilot, I make Eddie a sandwich and then settle him down for a nap.
Twenty minutes. Twenty-five. Half an hour.
It’s almost two hours before he returns and, when he does, he stumbles straight to the bedroom, drags the curtains across the window and collapses on the bed. There’s no point shouting but I do it anyway. I stand in the darkened room with tears streaming down my face and call him every name under the sun, and none of them makes the slightest bit of difference at all.