smells bad in here,’ he observes, taking out the orange juice carton and swigging from it.
I clear my throat, deciding I must dispose of Sinead’s note while our son’s back is turned, which probably gives me about three seconds. My immediate options appear to be a) eat it or b) conceal it. I opt for stuffing it into my pyjama pocket.
‘Dad, I said something smells.’ He bangs the fridge door shut and glowers at me, as if I might be the source.
‘I think it’s Scout,’ I say quickly. ‘If that’s the smell you mean, it’s been happening more often since we bought the liver-flavoured food. I think we should go back to chicken …’
Flynn nods, and for a brief moment I think, well, I can’t be a complete disaster as, somehow, I have managed to resume an air of relative normality despite Sinead’s note and apparent disappearance.
‘Where’s Mum?’ he asks, pulling the lid off the cookie jar and grabbing a fistful of biscuits.
‘Er …’ I look around, as if it has only just occurred to me to ponder her whereabouts. ‘She must’ve popped out.’
‘Popped out? Popped out where?’
‘Er, to the shop, probably. Maybe for bread.’
Flynn eyes me suspiciously. I have always been a terribly unconvincing liar. ‘So, is she taking me to school?’
‘Erm, I’m not sure, but don’t worry. If she’s not back in time, I’ll do it.’
He frowns. ‘Aren’t you going to work?’
‘It doesn’t matter if I’m a bit late,’ I fib. In fact, I’m due to start at 8.30 a.m., and my timekeeping is normally impeccable – because no one wants to be kept waiting for their driving test. That’s my job. I am a driving examiner, possibly one of the most derided professions on earth, which requires me to be on high alert for the minor and major faults of the general public. Right now, my alleged faults are causing a curious bulge in the breast pocket of my pyjamas.
‘I’ll just get the bus,’ Flynn remarks, posting an entire Oreo into his mouth.
‘No, no, I’ll drive you.’
He munches his substandard breakfast, his attention caught by my lumpy pocket. I clamp a hand over it. ‘Dad … are you … all right?’
‘Of course I am. Why?’
‘Have you got, like, a pain or something?’
‘No …’
‘It’s just, you’re clutching at your heart like that …’
I whip my hand away. ‘I’m fine. Absolutely fine. Anyway, we’d better get ready,’ I add briskly, establishing a firm boundary right there, ‘or we’re going to be late. You have a shower first …’
‘Yeah, okay, Dad,’ Flynn says carefully, addressing me now as if I am a confused and vulnerable adult he’s found wandering about in his nightwear.
With Sinead missing, and her bizarre note stuffed in my pocket, it feels like a pretty accurate description right now.
The trouble with being left a note like that is that you need time to figure out what the hell’s going on. Ideally, you also want access to the person who wrote it to see if they really meant it, or just lost their mind temporarily.
I mean, my record collection! Is it Springsteen that’s tipped her over the edge? One too many playings of Born to Run? I need to know as a matter of urgency, but it seems that Sinead’s phone is turned off.
The other trouble with this whole list business is that real life must continue, which means putting on a great show of everything being normal. It’s 7.46 on a bleary Thursday morning, and our son must still go to school, even if he does have a selfish incompetent father, and I need to go to work – plus, obviously, track down my wife.
While Flynn showers, I try to keep calm and not overreact, and only call her mobile eleven times.
Hi, you’ve reached Sinead. Please leave your number and I’ll call you right back …
Such a warm, cheery voice, husky with a soft Yorkshire lilt; the voice of a woman who has always embraced life, who has reams of friends – from childhood and her art school days, and even more through being Flynn’s mum. Everyone knows her as being supremely capable, great fun, delightful company and, of course, a fantastic mother. We’d have had more babies – a whole gang – if we’d managed to conceive after having Flynn, but it only happened once. Sinead miscarried at ten weeks, when Flynn was three, and after that it just didn’t happen at all. We’re not really into ‘signs’, the two of us, but we consoled ourselves that this was probably nature’s way of urging us to count our blessings and focus fully on our son. So we didn’t go down the IVF route. Our friend Abby did, and she reckons the stress and disappointment killed off her marriage. Plus, with Flynn’s condition, Sinead and I spent enough time in clinics and hospitals as it was.
I hear Flynn emerging from the bathroom. Once he’s back in his room, I dive in, turn on the shower and take another look at the list, as apparently I hadn’t quite got to the end.
You treat me like an idiot (i.e., always texting to remind me not to leave things on trains)
Don’t make me feel special
Keep referring to Rachel as ‘your shrink’ (i.e., making a joke of it and so belittling the issue)
Constant untidiness
Mouse issue (traps!!!)
YOUR MOTHER!
Refusal to pick up Scout’s poos in garden!!!
The exclamation marks are coming thick and fast now, pinging into my face like air rifle pellets.
‘Dad?’ Flynn raps on the bathroom door.
‘Yes?’
‘It’s ten past eight. I can just get the bus if it’s easier?’
‘No, it’s okay.’
‘Why are you insisting on driving me? I don’t get it …’
Because it’s imperative that you go to school under the impression that everything is normal, as indeed it will be by the time you come home this afternoon, because I fully intend to sort everything out.
‘I’m nearly ready, okay?’ I shout back. Through the door, I hear him muttering about my weirdness – the word ‘mental’ is clearly audible – then wandering back to his bedroom and firmly closing
