Every Day Is Mother's Day

“Yes, it is, Alistair,” Suzanne said remotely. She took her brother’s hand. He immediately suspected her of an ulterior motive.

“Well what was his other name, Dad?”

“Frank O’Dwyer.”

“Who’s he, Dad?”

“Just a man, Alistair, somebody at work.”

“You don’t go to work. You go to school.” A pause. “Why didn’t you phone him when you were at home, Dad?”

“Because the phone wasn’t working at home.”

“It was,” Suzanne said. Colin took her hand and halted her at the kerb. She removed her hand from his.

“I can walk by myself, thank you very much,” she said.

“Do your road drill,” Colin said wearily.

“What?”

“Look right, look left, look right again, if the road is clear begin to cross. Don’t you know that? Haven’t they told you at school? Alistair, look, don’t run, come here. Haven’t you been told not to run across the road?”

“What would it matter, if there’s nothing coming?” Suzanne said. “And if there was, you’d be better running, then it wouldn’t have time to hit you.”

“Suzanne, don’t argue.”

“The phone was working. Mummy phoned up Aunty Peggy.”

There was a time, he thought, when I had comparative peace of mind. I was dull, yes, but I didn’t spend all my days in frantic plotting and my nights lying awake worrying about when the plots would come home to roost; there was a time when I didn’t have to use my children as an excuse and get tied up in knots like this.

“I’ve finished my sweeties,” Alistair said. “Can I have some more?”

“You’ll be sick,” Suzanne warned him.

“I hope you saved some for Karen.”

“What?”

“Have you eaten Karen’s? Oh, blast.”

“She’ll cry,” Suzanne said.

“Come on then, we’ll go back and get her some. Come on.”

“You greedy pig,” Suzanne said to her brother.

“I’ll kick you,” he said.

“See if you can.”

“Will you stop this?” Colin hauled his son away. “Come on now. Hurry up.”

He swept them along the pavement, clutching one by either hand, quelling their struggles. One day, he thought, when it has all come out about Isabel, and it is over, and they are grown up, they will look back and remember that day I took them out to buy sweets, remember my uncharacteristic good nature; and how I went into a callbox, and how I lied to them; and they will begin to piece it all together and make sense out of it. Oh yes, they will say, he was phoning her, he must have been. He was using us to get out of the house—he was never so nice at other times—and didn’t he tell clumsy lies? How disgusting it all is.

When they got home, Suzanne said, “Is the phone working, Mum?”

“Yes, why?”

“Dad said it wasn’t.”

“Look, Suzanne,” Colin said, “anybody can make a mistake.”

“What mistake?” Sylvia said.

“He went into a phone box and phoned somebody. Just now, when we were out.”

Sylvia looked at him questioningly.

“I rang Frank O’Dwyer, it was just something I had on my mind, about plans for next term. I thought it might go out of my head if I didn’t do it right away.”

“Oh,” Sylvia said. She wasn’t greatly interested; to Colin it sounded extremely feeble, but it was the best he could do on the spur of the moment.

“Why did you say the phone was out of order?” Suzanne asked. “You told a fib.”

“Get off my back, Suzanne,” Colin said. “You’re getting very cheeky.” He picked up the newspaper.

“Did you get those Swiss rolls?” Sylvia asked him.

“Sorry. Forgot.”

“I asked you, Colin,” she said mildly.

“Then I’ll go back.” He put the paper down.