To Be Honest(30)

He tells me how he’s staying with his friend and it’s basically a holiday type thing, though it sounds like bloody hard work, ‘cos at five, he gets up and meets three other men at a boat. They do some warm-ups and then when they’re warmed, they pile into the boat and they row. For, like, ages. When he talks, I can see him, gliding through scum and the ducks and the dead reeds. Then out, to the clear, calm water.

I let him explain and he must think I’m dumb for not listening before when he and Miss Mint first started going out or something. He takes little sips in between talking, and it might be that nasty Mint tea that she drinks, but somehow I think that it’s beer. But who really cares about that. I just like hearing his voice.

* * *

Mr Morlis drops me off. I thank him and I’m almost through the door of 45 when I hear bawling.

Mrs Meadows is wrestling with a baby seat and shopping. She’s got one of those slippy, slidey side door cars that children fall out of. Dominic launches off the step and lands in the mud, followed by Edward who steps daintily over him, turns round; picks him up. Mrs Meadows clutches the baby, whose name is Francesca, close to her chest.

“Dom, Ed, get up and help,” she gasps as the bags pull and swing like pendulums; like Tao’s balls.

They don’t, so I do.

“Oh. Thank you. Miss ..?”

There’s recognition but she can’t find my name and I’m not surprised, ‘cos Miss Mint doesn’t know hers. She’s got on some kind of red, felty poncho and isn’t it weird how money can’t buy you style? Josh’s so like her: attracted to up-to-date, unflattering clothes like a magnet. She peers through her fringe and I just say,

“Mint. I’m Miss Mint. I teach your son, Josh.” Well, that’s strictly true, I think, and we walk in.

I do teach Josh.

I teach him what to say in French when he’s stuck, like pamplemousse and malheureusement and crack up when the question’s in fact what’s the time?

I teach him to match shoes to socks; shorts to tops. I teach him how to tie cravats. I teach him to ignore looks and whispers and just be himself.

“Where is he?” is the first thing she asks, but she’s not being wonky. She just wants to know.

The line of her mouth is the only thing straight in this whole house. ‘Cos the table’s a mess and the curtains are skewed and the kids run like chickens across Designer’s Guild rugs, pecking at Lego and legs. Francesca hiccups. A phone burrs off the sink. And I think, is Josh’s place always like this?

“I’m not all that sure.” I take two bags off her and make her sit, ‘cos she won’t let go of that baby.

On the fridge, next to the picture of Spain, is a calendar with seven columns. Josh’s family’s:

a father, Greg

a mother, Julia

a brother, Alex

a sister, Beatrice

Josh

a brother, Dominic

a brother, Edward

a sister (baby), Francesca



Francesca doesn’t have a column yet.

“He’s not often late,” she says mildly and picks at some bread. I start to unpack and strangely, ‘cos he’s really a brat, Dominic helps.

“Has he been, lately?” I’m Jane Eyre again. She ponders and then says, “not really. Just dreamy, you know?” And I do.

I offer her wine from her fridge and she looks a bit freaked ‘cos she’s breastfeeding, but takes it. Then I call Ed over. He’s a funny one, Ed. His fluffy hair’s pale, like sand dunes in winter. His favourite food’s broccoli. He stands stock still for a second or two when I ask him to find some eggs and some beans, then he trots to the larder and does.

And before he kicks off, I zap Dom with a look that says X Factor judge all over it. I pour oil in a pan and five minutes later, things start to heat up.

“I’ve never been sure about Josh’s friends,” Julia says, and my foot starts to twitch.

The eggs sizzle softly. “What do you mean?”

“He’s never with boys and he ...”

“What?”

“Really misses his father.”

Well, that’s news to me. ‘Cos Josh’s not mentioned him much, recently. He’s gone on a bit about Alex and Bea and his mum, and being ferociously gay does not have to mean loving his dad I s’pose, though now I come to think of it, it is a bit odd he’s not brought him up for a while. Not like I talk about mine. But Greg Meadows is in Hong Kong and busy, I think.

“He’s left us, you know.”

And the eggs spit and Dom yells and Ed puts his fingers in his. Right in. I turn off the heat and point Ed at the pan ‘cos it’s my turn to sit.

“I shouldn’t be whinging,” Julia says, slugging wine, “but he is such a pig. And the kids aren’t to blame.”