The sounds of the kitchen are becoming distant: Nessa’s voice runs away from me; I try to move towards it but I’m stuck; I’m paused. Nessa continues to move around the kitchen, the minute hand on the clock continues to tock, steam is still billowing from the kettle . . . but I’m still on pause. My eyes try to search the room for Kerry, but they won’t move; I need to breathe, but I can’t. A fly is bouncing in front of me, its jerky flight path zigzagging in front of my face. Nessa’s hand flaps it away, then her eyes meet mine, the panic I’m feeling reflecting in her eyes.
‘Jen? Jen!’
Red coat, red boots, emerald ring, car brakes and my name.
‘Jen? Oh God, Jen!’
I blink.
The play button has been pushed and I find myself clutching on to Nessa; my body is reaching for her, desperate to hold on; I don’t want the pause button to be hit again by mistake.
She holds me, as my body heaves and shakes, the tears salty along my lips as I repeat the words: ‘It should have been me.’
I don’t know how long I have been crying, how long I have been wrapped in Nessa’s arms on her kitchen floor. She hasn’t tried to move, hasn’t tried to talk; she has just held me.
‘We need to get you to a doctor, Jen,’ she says softly.
‘A doctor won’t bring her back.’ I pull away from her and wipe my face with my hands as she stands, holding out her hand to me, which I use to stand myself up. I smooth down my hair, suddenly embarrassed by my episode.
‘You won’t tell Ed, will you? That I’m, well, about . . .’ I flap my hands in the direction of where I had just been having a panic attack, ‘that?’
‘Jen . . . I don’t feel comfortable keeping something like this to myself, I—’
‘Please Ness, he’s worried about me enough. Look, I’ll change, have something to eat and then go home for a lie down . . . OK?’
She chews her bottom lip.
‘I promise I’ll tell him, just let me find the right time.’
She considers this and then gives me a quick nod.
‘Thank you.’
Chapter Thirty-Five
Ed
My phone rings, pulling my attention away from the Facebook analytics for our plastic-free hand sanitiser. I take the call, relieved to have something else to focus on.
‘Edward Jones,’ I answer.
‘Mr Jones?’
‘Yes, hello?’
‘Hello. It’s Mrs Park from Highbrook Junior School. I’ve tried to contact your wife but there was no answer.’
‘Oh, is something wrong?’
‘No, well, nothing serious, nothing to panic about.’
OK. Those words should never be uttered when you’re getting a call from your kids’ school. I’m putting this out there right now.
I panic.
‘Oscar has been in a bit of a . . . scuffle on the playground, and—’
‘Oscar has been in a fight?’
Right. So, I know that I shouldn’t have sounded proud just then. I don’t condone fighting, of course I don’t, but, well, I’ve always worried that Oscar might have trouble sticking up for himself and . . . I can’t help it, can I, if I’m proud that he’s got a bit of fight in him?
‘Not a fight as such.’
Oh.
‘Oh. So what’s happened?’
‘He’s punched a child on the nose.’
A smile creeps back on my face, but I correct it straight away. I know he shouldn’t have done that, but still . . . the smile reappears.
‘So he was sticking up for himself then?’
‘Not exactly.’
‘Oh, right. Sticking up for someone else?’
‘It seems that Hailey—’
‘Hailey?’ I catch my reflection in the computer monitor. Gone is the proud, slightly amused smile and instead my face is creased with concern.
‘Some of the children were saying a few unkind words to her. Hailey did the right thing,’ she is quick to reassure me. ‘She was walking away from the children, who have been spoken to, Mr Jones, so no need to worry there, but it seems that Oscar took it upon himself to hit one of the children.’
‘Hold on. How did Oscar hit a child who is older than him on the nose? He wouldn’t be able to reach, surely.’
‘Oh, the children were his peers.’
‘Sorry? Let me get this straight. The kids who were picking on my daughter are Oscar’s age?’
‘That’s right.’
‘What were they saying to her?’
‘I’m not entirely sure but I’m going to have another chat with Hailey.’
‘So how is Hailey now?’
‘She’s fine. I think she was more concerned that her brother was going to get into trouble. She’s in her English lesson with Mrs Woodley. Would it be possible to have a chat about this after school today?’
What do I do here? Jen is so vulnerable right now but on the other hand, the kids need her. I run my fingers through my hair, take a deep breath and reply. ‘I’ll see if I can get hold of my wife, but if not, I’ll be there. I’ll pick up the kids today.’
If I fire this advert through and don’t hit too much traffic, I can make it.
‘That’s great. Thanks so much, Mr Jones, I’m sure we’ll get this sorted. There are lots of children who are having a tough time at home and who get through it if we address the inappropriate behaviour swiftly.’
I nod. My mouth has lost the ability to speak.
Since when have we been a family having a tough time at home?
I run across the playground, cursing myself for being late. I get a glimpse of Oscar standing beside his teacher by the doors of the empty playground. My heart swells as I catch the look of worry in his eyes; I give him a smile and wave my hand as I jog across the tarmac. Hailey is biting the skin around her thumb – she’s looking for Jen, I realise – and seems shocked when she notices it’s just me.
I’ve decided to handle this myself. I rang Jen earlier and told her I wanted to pick up the kids; she sounded tired . . . the sleeping tablets are helping her during the night, but they seem to be making her lethargic during the day too. I make a mental note to mention it to the doctor at our next appointment.
‘Hello, Mr Jones, lovely to see you.’
‘Sorry I’m late.’
Oscar steps forward and clings to my leg, and I instinctively begin to stroke the hair on his head. Hailey looks straight at me. ‘Where’s Mum?’ she asks.
‘She’s not feeling well.’
Mrs Park, the headteacher, leads the way. Oscar is still hanging on to my leg like a monkey and I half drag him with each step. ‘The children can stay in one of the rainbow rooms while we have a little chat.’ She smiles at me as I try to detach Oscar’s hands from around my thigh.
The rainbow room is so rainbowy. I hate this kind of place; the bright colours are splattered all over it, like it’s telling you that you have to be happy, you have to be rainbowy. If Jen was here, she’d be telling me not to be so grumpy, and give some reasoning for the bright colours having a positive impact. I’d argue that it looks like someone ate too many ice creams with sprinkles on and threw up all over the place. Rainbow room, my foot. But I am the parent and so I smile enthusiastically at my kids and encourage them to have fun. Hailey’s face seems to mirror my own thoughts. She doesn’t feel rainbowy either, but Oscar is easily swayed by the tub of Lego and so they both leave us.