Bright Burning Things(9)

‘Beeootiful,’ Tommy announces brightly at the door.

‘Shall we go out to lunch, sweetiekins? Just you and me?’

‘And Hewbie?’

‘Ok. We’ll have to sit outside somewhere but that’s ok ‘cause Mr Sunshine is back. Now, let’s get you into the shower.’

He backs away from me, as if he’s terrified at the thought. Funny little thing, knowing how much he loves speed, and thunder and lightning, and jumping in the sea, even with high waves, and hanging upside down and spinning round and round. ‘Come on, will we bring Herbie in too?’ Tommy nods and holds on to Herbie’s collar, his eyes screwed shut, as the water cascades on both their bodies, Herbie stoically shaking, Tommy wriggling and sticking his tongue out to catch the spray. ‘There now, it’s not so bad, is it, lovie?’ I really should do this more often, get him used to it.

Once they’re dried and Tommy is dressed, I head into the kitchen and pour cornflakes for us all, soaking them in soya milk. I empty the dregs from the third bottle of white down the drain. The two remaining full bottles stand defiantly, whispering threats and dares and assurances. Fuck you. I put them in a black sack, tying it firmly before dumping it outside. Fuck you. Tommy claps. ‘You can have MiWadi owange, like me, Yaya. It doesn’t smell and won’t make you go all flop or your voice go gooey.’ I go to him and tickle him, rubbing my nose to his. ‘Eskimo kiss?’ He rubs my nose back. ‘Let’s go to the park before we have lunch?’ I say, although it’s already three o’clock and way past lunchtime.

He jumps up and down. ‘Can we feed the duckies?’

‘We’ll have to get some bread from Spar.’

‘Okey-dokey, super-duper,’ he says, and goes to get the lead that’s hanging on a hook under the stairs. How did I produce such a brilliant boy? Herbie throws his head back and barks in delight.

Mrs O’Malley is outside, watering her pink and red old-lady chrysanthemums, or rather loitering, hoping for a view of us. ‘Hello, all,’ she sings. ‘And how are we today?’ I wave, put my head down and attempt to walk by, but Tommy runs over and throws his arms around her considerable bulk, his face burrowing into the fat above her knees. Must teach him boundaries, let him know it’s not ok to go hugging virtual strangers. ‘Hi, little man. And where are you off to?’ Herbie is tugging at my arm, his whole body shaking with excitement. I always thought that dog had such an instinctive understanding of people; he’d usually never go anywhere near anyone except Tommy and me. Get your own goddam dog and son – my head is beginning to fill with that angry swarm, dark and maddening. Mrs O’Malley lumbers towards me, one hand grabbing Tommy’s.

‘Sonya, have you given some thought to what I said yesterday?’

Shake my head to drive out the insistent hum and buzz. ‘We’re just on our way to the park and then for lunch. Tommy?’ Mrs O’Malley checks her watch. Stupid, Sonya, careful. ‘A late lunch/early supper, that is…’ The old meddler whispers something in Tommy’s ear and hands him a biscuit, home-made no doubt, from the pocket of her apron, one for Herbie too. They both swallow without even chewing, like savages. Where are their manners?

‘Let’s all have dinner together later. We can talk then, Sonya.’

Interference, like static, builds in the air in front of my eyes and I swat it away.

‘Yaya, there’s nothing there.’

‘I know that, silly, I was just feeling a little hot. Now, come on, let’s go feed those hungry quack-quacks.’

Tommy hugs Mrs O’Malley again before saying, ‘Bye-bye, thank woo.’

‘Seven o’clock, Sonya. I’ll have some dinner for the boys.’

Mrs O’Malley morphs into a giantess with a looming shadow that covers me in shade and gloom. I fight the good fight and stop myself from throwing curses her way. Pull my shoulders back, plant my feet squarely on the ground and stand tall: all regal and upright. ‘Thank you. We’ll be delighted to come later, won’t we, boys?’ Tommy nods, Herbie wagging that treacherous tail as I grab them both, one by the collar, the other by the hand, before taking my leave. Don’t look back, don’t look back, don’t look back. Once we’re out of earshot, words fly out of me: ‘Don’t ever go near that woman again. She’s trying to take you away from me and keep you in her house and fatten you up like the witch in Hansel and Gretel.’ My little boy’s face crumples. Where did I get such capacity for cruelty, for puncturing happiness? My father’s voice: ‘No daughter of mine is going to be parading her wares in front of any Tom, Dick or Harry…’ And this, straight after I received the letter of acceptance from one of the most prestigious drama schools in London.

In the Spar, on automatic, I stuff a batch of white bread under my arm, paying only for the luminous-orange ice pop Tommy presents me with on the way out. No one even asks about the other, presuming a woman of my bearing and stature and, yes, breeding wouldn’t bother with anything as low as snatching bread. Anyway, it’s for the ducks, no harm involving the shop in my philanthropic activities.

The sun is a soft lemon shade of yellow today, or ‘mellow wellow’, as Tommy says, licking his orange ice pop as we walk around the duck pond. I lift my face to receive its gentle caresses and feel myself settle back down inside. That encounter with Mrs O’Malley was distressing, and stealing, though I’m such a pro, always gets my heart racing as if it might fly out of my mouth. I find a bench and sink down into it, pulling my dress above my knee to expose my long limbs and slim ankles, an attribute that only those in the theatre world gave a damn about: ‘Such dainty ankles and wrists, such a “drawing room” physique.’ Indeed. I stretch my legs and point my toes and let myself remember the feeling of being adored.