screamed and Vernon shouted back and called her an ‘uptight crazy Nazi health bitch.’
Not the happiest of memories. Things had changed between them so dramatically over such a short period; at a time when they ought to have been relishing every moment of Jack’s babyhood, not yelling at each other. Instead, Vernon had tried to convince her that her depression at the decline of the relationship was a sign of burgeoning insanity, and that she needed intensive therapy and anti-depressants to ‘cure’ her.
‘Where is everyone?’ Paul wondered, getting out of the car and rubbing his upper arms, and then producing a pair of shades from his pocket. The shades were overly trendy and made Paul look older than he was: the opposite of their intended effect. She didn’t feel that she knew him well enough yet to tell him this though. Stop trying to look like a movie star, she wanted to say. You don’t need to make such an effort.
She couldn’t imagine Stephen trying to be trendy. He wouldn’t have known the difference between Gap and Gucci.
‘Mummy, I’m thirsty.’
She ruffled Jack’s hair. ‘Let’s go and get a drink, shall we?’
‘Coca-Cola?’
‘No, you can have orange juice.’
There was a newsagent across the road and as they walked towards it Jack said, ‘That wasp was looking at me. It wanted to sting me.’
A couple of teens thundered past on skateboards and Jack gawped after them, the insect forgotten. Paul pointed towards a board outside the newsagent advertising the Salisbury Journal with the headline Cathedral in Buddhist Row. Another board yelled Blues Boss Quits.
Inside the shop, Kate took a couple of cartons of orange juice from the double-fronted fridge, a bottle of water for Paul and a copy of the Journal from the top of a stack of newspapers on the bottom shelf. She carried them all to the counter, where a girl leaned against the till with her index finger in her mouth. Kate thought she was trying to make herself sick, then realised she was playing with her tongue stud. The girl wiped her saliva-soaked finger on her jeans before using it to stab the price of their purchases into the till.
Back outside, Jack held his juice carton up to Paul, who helped him by stripping the cellophane from the straw and poking it through the hole in the carton. Jack sipped, then pulled a face.
‘It’s gross,’ he said.
‘What’s wrong with it?’
‘It tastes like crap.’
‘Don’t say that.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘A little phrase he picked up from his father.’
‘I don’t like English juice. I want proper juice.’
‘This is proper.’
‘I don’t want it.’ He threw the carton onto the floor.
Kate watched the juice dribble through the straw onto the pavement. Normally she would really tell him off, but right now she felt like she needed to hold back. He’d been so good over the last few days, acting like the model child she’d often fantasised about while she was pregnant. She’d known it wouldn’t last forever, but she didn’t want to be too hard on him. He deserved a break. But that didn’t mean he could be allowed to get away with this behaviour or he’d get worse.
‘Pick it up please, Jack,’ she said in her most calm, reasonable voice.
‘No. It tastes like crap.’
‘Do not say that.’
‘Crap. Craaaaaap. Crap crap crap.’
Paul laughed.
Kate shot him a look. ‘That doesn’t help.’
‘Sorry.’
Kate crouched so she was on Jack’s level. ‘Look, I know it tastes different to what you’re used to, but if you don’t drink it a wasp will get it.’
‘The wasps can have it.’
‘Just pick it up.’
‘Go on, Jack, do what your mum says,’ Paul interjected.
Kate held up her hand, a sign for Paul to keep out of it. He walked a few steps away. Kate said, ‘Okay, if you pick up the carton, I’ll drink it and we can buy you another drink. What would you like?’
‘Chocolate milk.’
She sighed. ‘They might not sell that.’
‘But I want it.’ He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand and she realised how tired he must be.
‘Okay, we’ll look for a chocolate milk. If you pick up the juice.’
Finally, he did as she asked, handing her the carton. She went into the shop and, luckily, found a bottle of chocolate milk, which Jack grabbed from her hand and had running down his chin within seconds.
Kate wiped Jack’s chin with a tissue while saying to Paul. ‘Sorry if I snapped at you, but it’s best if I deal with these things.’
‘I understand. So . . . shall we go back to the car, then, and try to find the CRU?’
Kate didn’t reply. She didn’t need to look at any map. She remembered exactly where the Unit was. She had driven there many times. When she was living with Stephen, he would often leave her his car to use during the day, and she would drive out to the Unit to pick him up after work. She’d park in a lane down the road and sit there with the radio on, listening to Radio One – all the silly love songs whose lyrics she would eagerly embrace, waiting for the moment her heart would flutter as Stephen came over the crest of the hill towards her. Some evenings they’d drive down to the local lovers’ lane and spend a while in the car before going home. Weird how she could remember some aspects of that summer in such filmic detail while the really important stuff had been . . . well, what did it feel like? Like it had been erased.
‘You’ve gone very quiet,’ Paul said. ‘Everything okay?’
‘Yes.’ She hoped she hadn’t flushed pink. ‘Everything’s fine.’
They walked back to the car. Kate watched Paul, wondering what he’d meant by his comment about jail on the drive down. It worried her. She was putting a lot of trust in this man, mainly because of who he was – or rather, who his brother had been. But despite this hint that there was something unsavoury in his past, just watching him with Jack, the way he’d tried to help, even if his attempts were misguided, she was sure she was right she could put her faith in him. She hoped she was making a wise judgement.
‘Do you want to drive?’ Paul asked.
She hesitated. ‘I don’t know. I haven’t driven a stick for years.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘You really have been living in the States too long.’ He held out the keys. ‘Go on.’
‘My Daddy says my Mummy’s a bad driver.’
‘Does he?’ said Kate. ‘Right, that decides it.’
