Simon's Choice Read online

  “Melissa, as we no longer live together, I can’t really see why this is your business. But yes, on hearing – no, sorry, reading - that my marriage was over, on top of the fact that my little girl is dying and even, yes even that the custody of my dog was going to be up for discussion, I decided, on a whim, to go to the pub and get utterly wankered. I’m sorry if I wasn’t in to take your call. Our lives, as you so dramatically put it, have taken separate paths. My path, joyously, happens to have a pub on the corner. Now. How can I help you?”

  There was a long silence. “So you’re okay with this?”

  Simon paced up and down the garden, needing to quell the adrenalin pumping around his body. “No, Melissa. I am not ‘okay’ with being ousted from my own house during the worst weeks of my life. However, you have apparently made a decision, and as much as you lambaste me for being weak, you may remember from our twelve years together that I am remarkably staunch when it comes to taking things on the chin, so to speak.”

  “There’s no need to be so angry. I’m hurting too, Simon and …”

  “Don’t try to play the victim in this, Melissa.” Simon snarled. “It’s your split. Your decision. You don’t get to be hurt.”

  Melissa’s voice when she spoke again was quiet. Childlike. “What have your parents said?”

  Simon let out a bitter-sounding snigger. “Oh, I’ve been saving that conversation for when I see them this afternoon. Seeing as it’s going to tear my mother apart, I thought it would be more thoughtful to discuss it in person. I’ll be sure to say you said ‘hi’.”

  “Simon don’t …”

  “Goodbye, Melissa.” Simon hit the red button on the digital phone, wishing he had an old fashioned phone that he could slam down with theatrical vigor.

  * * *

  As his parents' front door opened, Simon was hit with the familiar scent of home, along with the fug of semi-tropical heat in which his mother insisted on keeping the house. Barbara had been a determined and vocal detractor of central heating, claiming for years that it caused everything from eczema to cystitis. Her beliefs changed dramatically when, after decades of being able to see her own breath in the morning, she had finally been talked into having central heating installed. It was an epiphany - her Damascus moment. The thermostat had been stubbornly turned to maximum ever since. It was no wonder her ferns and potted palms thrived.

  Barbara cooed as she opened the door, her delight at seeing her only son obvious. “Simon! How lovely to see you, pet. Get down, Porridge. No Melissa? How’s Sarah? Oh God – is everything alright?” Her features rearranged themselves quickly into a vista of panic.

  “It’s okay, Mum. Sarah’s fine. Well, not fine. You know. It isn’t that. Porridge, if you jump up once more you’re going in the car.”

  “Well, come in, lovey. Would you like a cup of tea? I’ve just put the kettle on. Your Dad’s at the allotment but I’m expecting him back for lunch. Can I make you a sandwich? I’ve got beef …”

  Porridge’s small but serviceable vocabulary included ‘beef’ and his ears pricked.

  “I’d love a sandwich, thanks. Have you got horseradish? Great. So how long until Dad’s back?”

  Barbara edged past Porridge, working her way into the small kitchen, and took a loaf out of her bread bin. The same bread bin, Simon noted with nostalgic contentment, that he had bought her for Christmas sometime in the seventies.

  “I can’t imagine Dad will be more than ten minutes. Though it’s a busy time for him at the moment. He’s having trouble with his lettuces. He thinks someone is pilfering his compost as well. There’s been a big hoo-ha. They’re having a meeting. Stop looking at me like that, Porridge. I’ll give you a bit at the end. How’s Sarah?” Barbara flicked a strand of beef fat towards the Labrador, who dispatched it in under a second.

  Simon exhaled slowly. “She’s probably in The Mad House for the duration now.”

  “The what?”

  “Sorry – Madron House. They call it The Mad House. I suppose it’s a bit of an unfortunate connotation, but actually it is a magic, slightly mad place. I thought I’d find it really hard to see her go into the hospice, but in some ways, I’m glad. The nurses are great. Her room is pink, with beanbags. They’ve even given her a goldfish in a bowl.” He raked his fingers through his hair, leaving it standing in tufts, which his mother smoothed for him. “She’s slowed down now, Mum. She’s not the little girl she was. I think a part of her has gone already. She sleeps most of the time. When are you coming to see her?”

  Barbara cut the stack of sandwiches into triangles with unnecessary force, tutting as one flew off the side of the plate. “This week. We were sorry that you weren’t doing Sunday lunch today. I know that you and Melissa have a lot on, but it seems more important than ever, that we, you know – stay strong. Stay together. I haven’t heard from Robert and Diana for at least a week, I don’t think I’ve gone for more than a week without speaking to Diana in ten years. Do you want a packet of Wotsits?”

  Simon nodded and took the plate of sandwiches over to the oilcloth covered kitchen table. He took plates and napkins from a drawer, enjoying the fact that nothing in the room had changed for over thirty years. There was a comfort in returning home and recognizing every corner, every picture. Every piece of cutlery - the chipped bone handle of the butter knife and the stain on one of the napkins - all were expected, their histories known, their stories part of his very fabric.

  There was a ruckus at the front door and Terry entered the hallway. “I knew he were taking my compost, Barbara. I practically caught the bugger at it. Simon, is that you? Saw your car outside. Where’s my favorite daughter-in-law”? Terry appeared in the kitchen doorway, muddy boots in hand, his gardening jacket as familiar and loaded with past history to Simon as the school photos cluttering the staircase walls. “Aye now, Porridge. Get down, there’s a good dog. Get down, Porridge. Simon. Good to see you, lad. No Melissa?”

  Simon waited a beat, hoping that his mother would launch into her usual tirade regarding muddy jackets scraping across the wall, but none was forthcoming. “No. No Melissa. Mum’s made beef sandwiches, Dad. You’d better come and have some before Porridge and I do them all.”

  There was a brief but uncomfortable silence. Terry took his jacket off and hung it in a cupboard under the stairs. “Is everything okay, Simon? Only we haven’t been able to get hold of Robert and Diana and there hasn’t been a Sunday lunch for weeks. We were going to suggest that we did it today, only we struggle to get more than four round this table … There hasn’t been an argument has there?” Terry sat down and took a sandwich, tearing a piece off and feeding it into the mouth of the awaiting Labrador.

  “Terrance!” Barbara tutted.

  “Oh, give it a break, woman.” Terry’s voice was gruff.

  Simon looked up in astonishment. The choreographed dance his parents usually played seemed suddenly out of step. There were clearly defined boundaries to their daily petty bickering, and his father’s retort, whilst minor, was harsher than the normal game rules allowed. Tension prickled the air.

  “She left me.” There really was very little else to say. One cannot polish a turd, thought Simon grimly.

  “Oh no. I knew it!” Barbara’s voice jumped three octaves. “I told you, Terry. I told you, didn’t I?” Barbara began to sob quietly into her tea towel.

  “It can all be sorted out. Tell me what happened.” Terry’s voice was grim. It was the same tone, Simon recalled, that his father had used on the few occasions that he had been in trouble as a lad. Smashing a greenhouse window, graffiti in the school toilets. The failed attempt to steal a porn magazine (as part of a gang) from the local corner shop. His father would deal with whatever problem Simon had caused, protecting his son as best he could, standing his corner, resolving any situation before soundly thrashing him.

  “Nothing happened, Dad. She just left.”

  “People don’t just leave!” Barbara wailed. “Something must have happened. You must have ha
d a row. Oh, what did you say to her, Simon?”

  Simon gnawed the inside of his cheek. This was exactly the reaction he had expected. Both of his parents adored Melissa, seeing her as a glowing example of wife and mother, the perfect daughter-in-law. So proud of Simon and Melissa’s charmed middle-class existence, they both upheld Melissa as the fairy princess who held it all together. The tasteful décor, the charming and thoughtful gifts, the perfect Sunday lunches. All Melissa. All the magical flourishes that only Melissa could achieve. She was the one that sprinkled fairy dust on the family’s perfect, shiny life. Simon’s medical career paled into insignificance against his wife’s social touches, thought Simon bitterly and somewhat unfairly. “I didn’t say anything. Neither did Melissa, as it happens. She left a note.”

  Terry slipped another lump of sandwich to Porridge, ignoring his wife’s protestations. “Well, what did the note say? She must have given a reason. People don’t just walk away from marriages without good reason. There isn’t somebody else involved is there? You’ve not had an affair have you?”

  “No, Dad. I’d like to make clear, right now, that I am the victim in this, okay? I don’t want everyone walking around declaring me the monster. All I want is for us to stay together and work through this time. All I really give a toss about right now is my daughter. If Melissa wants to go, then fine.”

  “So she’s having an affair?” Barbara joined them at the table.

  “No. There are no third parties involved. Melissa has decided to stay at her parents, and apparently she wants me out of our house by Tuesday. So, just to make sure everyone is clear on this, I am about to lose my daughter, I have lost my wife and I am about to lose my home. Oh yes, and she’s announced that ‘she doesn’t know what to do about Porridge yet’, so I may well be about to lose my dog as well. Yet somehow, somehow the blame is being placed firmly in my lap.” Simon quietened himself, realizing with a shock that he had been shouting. Porridge placed his nose in his crotch, by way of comforting him. Simon ran his hands through the dog’s fur. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have shouted. I’m sorry. It’s just – I knew that you’d react like this. Like the unraveling of my life somehow ruins yours. And that any damage to your life is therefore my fault. I’m sorry. I’m just – I’m just tired of being in the wrong all the time.” There was a pause.

  “Do you want to stay the night?” Barbara asked, shattering the silence and surprising everybody by dropping a whole sandwich on the floor for an equally surprised but delighted, Porridge.

  “I’d like that, Mum. If it’s okay. I don’t want to put you out.”

  Terry stood up and flicked the kettle on. “No problem at all, lad. Don’t worry. We’ll get this all sorted out.”

  Barbara smiled as if nothing had happened, and got up to do the dishes. “Your dad will sort it, Simon. I’ve got Angel Delight left over from yesterday. It’s butterscotch. Grab a bowl from the cupboard and I’ll get you some.”

  “Thanks, Mum.” Simon forced a smile, whilst wondering if his mother truly believed that the fragments of his life could be glued back together with Angel Delight.

  * * *

  He woke early to the sound of Porridge snoring on the rug beside him. Simon had slept deeply, sinking into the womblike reassurance of his childhood bed. The old duvet cover, blue with red and yellow triangles, was thin, cheap. The mattress was uneven. Yet he knew the contours, knew the smell of the pillows and feel of the sheets. For nine blissful hours he had been ten years old again. Safe in his bed and in the knowledge that no matter what happened, his dad would sort it all out.

  Clattering noises and the smell of burning bacon lured him out of his sanctuary. Porridge was already nosing the bottom of the bedroom door in delight. Simon slipped on the dressing gown from the back of the door. It was the same red toweling affair that had hung on the door since he was a teenager, and it hadn't grown alongside him. The sleeves ended just below his elbows. His bottom was adequately covered, though his thighs were not.

  He stuck his head around the kitchen door. “Can I help?”

  “Oh Simon!” Barbara exclaimed, patting her chest dramatically, “You scared the life out of me. I was going to bring you breakfast in bed.” She nodded towards a tray on which she had put a glass of orange juice, and a plate of bacon with very greasy eggs. A single crocus peered out of a tiny vase.

  “Oh, Mum. You shouldn’t have. Listen, why don’t you sit down and let me make the tea. I’ll eat this down here with you. It’s a long time since we had some time alone, isn’t it?”

  “Well if you’re sure, but I can bring it up if you like …”

  “Mum, sit down.” Simon pulled out a chair for Barbara and took over tea making.

  Barbara sat down obediently. She looked as if she wanted to hold her tongue, but lost the battle in the end. “Tell me, Simon. Have you really not had any row with Melissa? I just don’t understand it. You always seemed so happy. Apart from, well, you know. But you seemed like the perfect couple. I’ve always been so proud of you. All my friend’s children are divorcing all over the place – that’s if they even bother getting married in the first place. And then there was you and Melissa. Unbreakable.”

  Simon poured Porridge's kibbles into a bowl from an emergency stash Barbara kept under the sink. He poured milk into a little jug, knowing his mother would disapprove of tipping it straight from the bottle into a mug. “Do you want some toast, Mum? No?” He picked up his breakfast and settled himself at the table, beginning his eggs with some trepidation. His mother had never been able to fry eggs. “Melissa and I have been rowing for some time. Not about anything in particular. More – everything, really. We’re under a lot of stress, as you know. Perhaps it’s not fair to say that Melissa is taking it out on me. Maybe I am difficult to live with, I don’t know. But for reasons known only to herself, she’s decided she doesn’t want me anymore.”

  “Do you think she’s playing games?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Barbara stirred her tea thoughtfully. “Do you remember when you’d just left Med School? It was a couple of years before you got married. You were still living together in your Grandma’s old house in Leeds. Didn’t she flounce off then?”

  “Hmm.” Simon’s eyes fell on a framed photo on the dresser. It was of Simon and Melissa, wild-eyed, happy. Tipsy. It had been taken on the day he had gained his first position as a General Practitioner. They had gone to the local Italian to celebrate. Well lubricated on Prosecco and stuffed with calzone, they’d gone home and played strip Trivial Pursuit, whilst working their way through a bottle of Amaretto. It had seemed more grown-up than a nightclub at the time. When had they last played like that? How long was it since they played a board game that hadn’t been brought out in honor of Sarah? When had it all become so grown-up?

  “I seem to remember that she came back pretty quickly when you went to see her. Are you sure she isn’t just testing you?”

  Simon regarded his mother, surprised at the sudden insight into the female mind. “I don’t know why she’s doing it. Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps she wants me to storm into Robert and Diana’s, pick her up and carry her home in a fireman’s lift. I don’t know. But it doesn’t really matter, because I’m too tired to do it. I’m too tired to play games and I’m too tired carry her.”

  “But what about Sarah? You have to be strong for Sarah, love.”

  “That’s just it. I am being strong for Sarah. I don’t have room to be strong for anyone else. Right now it’s taking every ounce of emotional energy I have to be a father. I can’t be a chest-beating alpha male husband as well. Does that make me weak? Maybe it does. But right now, my little girl is scared and ill, and nobody is going to take my focus away from that."

  “Your father and I went through rough patches, you know. When I had the miscarriages. After you, I mean. I always imagined I’d have a house full of little ones, but it wasn’t meant to be. Two or three years it went on for. I’d think I was expecting and then, well.”
r />   “I didn’t know – sorry.” Simon pushed his eggs around his plate, awkwardly. He’d never questioned why he was an only child. It had never occurred to him to ask. He felt embarrassed by the insight into his mother’s most private history. As an adult and a father, it had occurred to him more than once that perhaps his parents were not the simple, boring souls he had presumed them to be. There had been no documented horrors in their lives. No tragedies, no dark secrets. There had been no giggling as they smoked an illicit joint after dinner. No frantic tumbles in the woods. No hastily regained composure when interrupted in flagrante by their son. Or had there? Hazy thoughts rippled the surface of his memory, recollections of jumping into his parent’s bed, the sheets hot and musky, his father distant and cold. How arrogant we are, Simon mused, to think that our parent’s lives pivot on the axis of our own.

  “How were you to know?” Barbara interrupted his thoughts. “You were only a little boy. I don’t think Terry and I said a civil word to each other for a whole six-month period. Of course we tried to keep it from you. Just a young lad you were, in your sweet little cardigans.”

  “I didn’t realize – I mean, you always seem to be so, together. You bicker a bit but I thought that was a joke, a sort of game you play.”

  “Oh, it is. He likes a bit of gentle nagging, does your father. Makes him feel loved. But no marriage is all sugar and cream, Simon. I would have thought that you realized that by now. There have been times when I would have happily choked your father on his own bloody parsnips. That said, I’m sure there are times when he would have murdered me. He was pretty cross when he found out I’d had a bit of a fling with old Brian Telford.”

  “Brian? You? Mum!” Simon put his knife and fork down, shock coursing through his body. He caught sight of his ludicrously attired arm and for just a moment felt like the fourteen-year old boy that had received the dressing gown one Christmas. “Mum – I don’t believe it.”