‘Yeah, yeah, lunchboxes by the sink. We kno-o-ow-w-w-w,’ Finn replied, rolling eyes the exact same blue as mine from where he was pressed up against Nicky’s ribcage.
‘Well, if you know, then why do you make me say it every single day?’
‘Well,perhaps we need more incentive. Lorcan gets five pounds pocket moneyevery weekif he tidies his room and cleans out his rabbits,’ he said, flicking an overgrown strand of thick, dark-blond hair off his face.
‘We don’t have any rabbits,’ Isla said, slipping out of the embrace and coming over to hug me. She had her father’s grey-green eyes, but her hair was the same mass of mahogany curls that I’d had when I was five.
‘Shoes!’ I repeated, spinning her around to show her the fresh trail of mud across my sage-green rug.
‘But I needed to give you a hug!’ Isla’s lip wobbled precariously.
‘That’s lovely.’ My daughter would spend hours entwined around me if possible. ‘But it takes five seconds to take off your shoes, then hug me. It will take a lot longer to clean up the dirty footprints.’
‘Hello-o-o!’ My dad appeared in the doorway, wearing shorts, socks pulled halfway up his shins and no shoes. His hair was a white cloud enfolding his head, his beard bushier than ever. ‘Oh, dear. Did you scallywags forget to take your shoes off again?’
‘They did. As I’ve mentioned, it would really help if you reminded them. Especially when you decide to walk home from school through the fields.’ I hated the irritability in my voice, but I was beyond tired after yet another sleepless night followed by the drama of a baby being born in my kitchen, and adding cleaning the floor to the billion well-overdue tasks on my mentallist made me want to roll myself up in that muddy rug and scream.
‘My apologies. I was checking your tyres. Could do with a bit more air in the rear two. I’ll run it over to the garage, if you like.’
‘Thanks, Dad.’ I got up and kissed his cheek, an unspoken apology for snapping. My dad had been a lifesaver in recent years. After retiring from fostering six years ago, when he was fifty-five, he’d tried a few part-time jobs but failed to stick at any of them. After Isla was born he’d downsized from our family home to a tiny cottage and now survived on his share of the profits and a modest pension. He refused to accept any money for picking up his grandchildren from school three times a week, but I paid him in food, craft ales and the occasional gift voucher.
‘Did you check my tyres, too?’ Nicky asked, gesturing at Finn to take off his mud-encrusted shoes.
Dad winked. ‘What do you think?’ Then he disappeared into the kitchen, no doubt looking for any leftover cake from the Bloomers.
Nicky flopped back into a chair as soon as the kids had followed him. ‘Once upon a time you would have resented Dad insinuating you couldn’t take care of your own car.’
‘True. But that was the old Libby who had a point to prove. The new, improved, utterly knackered Libby is happy to admit that she needs help whenever it’s offered.’
She shrugged. ‘As I keep saying, you need to give yourself a break.’
I glanced at my dilapidated living room – the scribbles on the wall from Isla’s ‘creative phase’, the tatty old sofa, myriad stains and scuffmarks and pile of random toys and clutter. Mentally compared my sister’s tailored sleeveless dress showing off toned arms with my faded dungarees and roll of leftover baby bump. The List of a Billion Things to Do flashed into my mind, and Iwondered if there’d ever be a day I could find time to even think about a break, let alone give myself one.
‘Looking after two amazing but sometimes excruciatingly exasperating children. Working four days a week and two evenings. Spending your days off dropping round meals to new mums or holding their newborns so they can nap.’ Nicky snorted. ‘If you don’t start taking care of yourself, all that is going to start falling apart.’
I didn’t dare tell Nicky that I suspected it already was. Starting with me.
‘You need to get the dropout to help more. His amount of so-called support is pathetic.’
I cringed at the very thought.
‘I’m not sure Brayden would be especially helpful.’ I refused to call him ‘the dropout’ out loud, even if he had chosen to drop out of our family. He was still the father of my children, despite spending half our marriage sleeping with a woman he met at the gym. I’d discovered his affair when Isla was five months old, and coping with a divorce while raising a baby and toddler and trying to kickstart my business had nearly broken me. A couple of months ago he’d made a passing reference to his new baby, due in early autumn, which he’d assumed I’d known about because he’d announced it on his social media. When I’d replied that I hadn’t looked at his social media since our divorce came through, he’d seemed genuinely stunned. I would have questioned whether letting the mother of his current children find this out on an Instagram post was okay, but I was too busy trying not to burst into tears in front of him.
So, while happy to accept help from my dad, especially knowing that he was as lonely as me, I couldn’t imagine how bad things would have to get before I asked for anything from my ex-husband.
Once Dad had pootled off with my car, the kids played on the trampoline while Nicky and I reheated us all the leftover spaghetti from lunch, prepping a huge bowl of fresh salad because Nicky generally ran on about ten portions of fruit and veg a day.
‘Mummy, why is there a giant and tiny pair of pants under the table?’ Isla asked, her mouth full of pasta.
Before I could react, Finn had dived underneath and sprung up again with the underwear dangling off the end of his fork. ‘Giant and tiny,’ was an apt description for Daisy’s deep-red maternity thong. I leant over to grab the fork, but before I could reach it Finn flicked the knickers across the table, and they landed perfectly draped across his sister’s face.
‘Mu-u-u-u-u-u-ummy!’Isla screamed, frozen in horror with both hands in the air. ‘They smell like Finn when he needs a bath! Get them off me!’
Despite Nicky’s super-quick reflexes as she plucked the thong off Isla’s face and stuffed it into a plastic bag she conveniently had tucked in her satchel, it was too late. My anxious daughter had descended into floods of tears, while her brother channelled his guilt into defiance. By the time I had bundled Isla into the bath, dissuaded Finn from kicking a hole in his bedroom wall and tried to walk the fragile path between loving my children and overindulging them, the meal I was desperate to eat after missing out on lunch had congealed on the plates, and my sister had left with an apologetic hug.
She messaged hours later, after I’d cuddled Isla to sleep, read to Finn until he stopped feeling the need to punch himselffor being a bad brother, and had resorted to cold spaghetti and pyjamas in front of the television.
Sorry I had to bail!
