I probably shouldn’t use words like ‘numbnut’ in front of fiveyear-old boys.
I wrote a message on the paper and gave it to Owen, who was laughing and pointing at my shoes.
‘Give this to your daddy,’ I said.
Owen beamed at me. He’d been given a job. A job, by a grown-up! Me! I was his gaffer! This was precisely the same innocent beam of gratitude I could expect from the builders. He scuttled off to find his dad, pushing past Stefan and Georgia, who were walking towards us with big smiles and rosy cheeks.
‘Listen, guys,’ said Georgia. ‘Time for the question. We were just wondering… and you can say no if you want to… but would you two possibly consider being… well…’
She paused, and looked to Stefan.
‘Being what?’ I asked.
‘Godparents,’ said Stefan.
There was a silence.
My mouth dropped open.
And I realised.
Somewhere deep inside me, the earthquake had finally hit.
Godparents! Responsibility! Adulthood!
Forget buying focaccia instead of Hovis! Forget buying wheels of brie instead of Dairylea Dunkers! This was the moment! This was grown-up! How had I not seen this coming? How had I been lulled into this? How could anyone see me as someone worthy of being a godparent?
We had just registered on the Richter scale.
All this had happened in a tenth of a second.
I looked over their shoulders. Poppy, their six-month-old daughter, was asleep on the sofa, a picture of calm and beauty. So tiny, and so frail, and so precious…
‘We… what, us?’ I said, in disbelief, and not a little panic.
Stefan’s smile started to fade, but Lizzie jumped in.
‘We’d love to,’ said Lizzie, who is excellent in almost every situation, her job in PR helping her to put a distracting spin on my rather surprised reaction. ‘We’d love to be Poppy’s godparents.’
Stefan and Georgia nodded, then smiled. And then Lizzie smiled. And then I pulled a face which I hoped was one of confidence and adulthood – a face that said, ‘yes, of course I am capable of looking after your child and rearing it should anything render you unable to do so yourself!’, but which doubtless actually looked like I’d just trapped something I needed in my zipper.
And then we all hugged.
Stefan and Georgia walked away, arm in arm, under some kind of impression that they had just made a wise parenting move. As they went, I realised with a sigh that during the hug I had managed to smear some Chicken & Mushroom Pot Noodle down the back of Stefan’s shirt.
I grabbed Lizzie’s arm.
‘Jesus, Lizzie, this is it!’ I whispered. ‘This is how they get you!’
‘Who?’
‘The grown-ups! It’s like a club. We’ve been selected.’
‘You are a grown-up.’
‘I’m not! I’m a child! A boy! I’ve been faking everything else so far! I didn’t understand a bloody word of those DVDs. I watched Kung Fu Soccer when you went to bed! Sometimes when you’re out I buy Wotsits! The other day I went on eBay and looked at Scalextrics!’
Lizzie smiled and touched my arm.
‘You’re twenty-nine years old!’ she said. ‘I’m pretty sure you would’ve got into the club one day. And there’s no crime in the eBay thing – everyone looks back when they hit thirty…’
‘But this is automatic entry! This is responsibility! Am I ready for this? I need more time! And what do you mean, “when” they hit thirty? I’m still in my twenties!’
‘You’ll be thirty in six months,’ she said. ‘But yes, you’ve got time…’
She smiled, soothingly, not realising she’d just added to the terror.
‘I’m here to help you, baby. You’re ready for adulthood…’
It sounded reassuring. The trouble was, when she’d said ‘you’re ready for adulthood’, she’d said it in the way that mothers tell small children they’re ‘ready to use the big pot’. It rather took the edge off the whole ‘adulthood’ thing.
And then I heard the rumble.
The rumble of anger, and danger, and fear.
It wasn’t the earthquake. It was an aftershock. It was…
‘WHO GAVE YOU THIS?’
It was loud and aggressive and instantly I knew – it was Owen’s dad.
‘Oh Christ,’ I said.
We looked over the crowd, to the French windows. Owen’s dad, with a copy of Stefan’s book and a glass of something that looked rather strong, was leaning over his son, demanding more information.
‘OWEN – WHO HAS DONE THIS TO YOU?’
‘Shit,’ said Lizzie. ‘What did you write?’
I was panicking now.
‘It was a joke!’ I said. ‘It wasn’t meant in a bad way! He was rubbing donkey sausage in my shoes!’
Owen was now looking out into the garden, into the crowd, trying to pick us out, while his father flung Stefan’s book to one side and tried to do the same…
‘What did you write?’
I tried to think. What had I written? My mind was racing.
‘I think he really thinks Owen wrote that note!’ I said, terrified. ‘Why would he believe Owen wrote that?’
‘Wrote what?’
‘He’s going to see us in a second!’
‘What did you write?’
I had to come clean.
‘I wrote, “Dear Daddy, they have been feeding me booze. I am pissed off my tiny tits.”’
Lizzie looked horrified. She went into crisis-management mode.
‘Just keep still and don’t look over at him,’ she said, and so consequently we both instantly turned and looked straight at Owen. He locked eyes with us and his little arm shot forward to point us out. His dad’s face turned to one of thunderous fury. There was rage in his eyes and violence on his mind. Stefan and Georgia had heard the bellowing and were now upon him, calming him down and asking what the problem was. Owen broke free and ran towards us.
‘This isn’t looking very good,’ I said.
‘No, it’s not looking too good at all,’ said Lizzie.
‘What do we do now?’ I asked.
‘I’m not really sure,’ said Lizzie.
We looked back towards Owen’s dad, who was now pointing us out and whisper-shouting at Stefan.
‘I think it’ll be okay,’ said Lizzie. ‘Stefan will simply explain the situation and how we would never give a five-year-old booze, and—’
We looked down at Owen. He was standing at the buffet with a glass of red wine in his hand.
‘Whose wine is that?’ I cried.
‘I think that’s mine!’ said Lizzie, her face suddenly white with terror. ‘I only put it down when we all hugged!’
‘OWEN! YOU PUT THAT DOWN! YOU PUT THAT DOWN RIGHT NOW!’
Owen looked at me and smiled. Although Lizzie would later claim he did not, I swear to you it looked like he mouthed the word ‘numbnut’ at me.
Lizzie started to walk towards him, but I pulled her back.
‘Leave it! Don’t go anywhere near him! It’ll look like you gave it to him!’
Stefan was calming Owen’s dad, but Georgia was quick off the mark, replacing the wine with orange juice. But his dad hadn’t finished.
‘WHO ARE THEY?’ he demanded. Everyone looked round. ‘THOSE PEOPLE HAVE BEEN GIVING MY CHILD ALCOHOL!’
Lizzie and I suddenly found very interesting things in the garden to turn and point at.
‘I think maybe we should go,’ whispered Lizzie.
‘Yes, I think maybe we should,’ I whispered back.
‘How do we get out?’ she said.
‘I think we should simply walk past them with our heads held high,’ I said. ‘And try to convey a sense in our general demeanour that as responsible adults we would never feed a child alcohol.’
And so we turned, and we passed them, and it was only when we were in the hallway on the final stretch that we heard, from the garden, and in a tone of disbelief and anger that l
ives with me to this day, the words: ‘POPPY’S FUCKING GODPARENTS??’
One minute I had been welcomed into the adult world, the next I had proved beyond all doubt that I just wasn’t ready for it. But I had to be ready for it. I had to at least pretend. I knew something was wrong. I knew something didn’t feel quite right. But I didn’t know what it was. And not knowing what it was really didn’t help me understand how to make it better.
Lizzie let me buy a packet of Wotsits on the way home and I ate them on the bus. I told myself I would be fine, so long as I never stopped eating Wotsits.
A week or two later, I got a text from Ian.
And that was how it all started.
Chapter Two
In which we learn that nobody moves to Chislehurst…
LIKE ITS SENDER, the text had been fairly simple.
I have important news. We must meet up.
I had been in the queue at the Post Office when it came through. Someone had just coughed on the back of my neck and a large woman was arguing with her dog. I’d texted back immediately.
All right then!
I began to wonder what Ian’s important news could be as I edged closer to the front of the queue. I like it when people tell me they have important news. It makes me think they’re considering invading a country, or they’ve discovered the whereabouts of an ancient scroll that will save all humanity. He texted back, mentioning neither scrolls nor invasions. Perhaps he was being watched. We agreed to meet in an hour’s time at a pub near me.
‘Next, please…’ said the man behind the counter.
I handed him the slip of paper that had arrived through my postbox that morning. He disappeared for a few moments and came back with a large and mysterious box.
The day just kept getting more exciting.
*
‘Hello?’
‘Mum?’
‘Yes! Who’s that?’
‘Your only son.’
A pause.
‘Daniel?’
To be fair, I’d only given her one clue.
‘Yes, it’s Daniel!’
‘Hello, wee bean!’
My mum has a way of inventing names for me that have never before been said to anyone. Her strong Swiss accent somehow makes them sound quite sensible, and she says them with such confidence you wouldn’t be surprised if heads of state used the same terms when addressing each other at conventions. She doesn’t allow herself to be constrained by words that actually exist, either, creating new ones out of the ether or inserting strange Swiss German nouns. In the past few weeks alone, I have been greeted as Pomplesnicker, BimpleWicker and Bobbely. I got off lightly. My dad’s had thirty-five years of Minkeybips and Toodlebear. I’m not even sure if he knows his first name any more. I’m not even sure if I do.
‘Mum, did you just send me a massive box?’
‘Oh no!’ she said. ‘Was it too massive?’
She also has a knack of thinking everything is a potential disaster.
‘No, it’s just the right kind of massive,’ I reassured her. ‘But what’s in it?’
‘Just some things we thought you might need. You know. We’re having a clearout at home, and we didn’t want to throw this stuff out, and we thought it might be handy.’
‘What kind of stuff?’
‘Oh, you know. Old things we found in the loft.’
I’ll be honest – ‘old things we found in the loft’ didn’t scream ‘handy’. Suddenly, opening a massive box – ordinarily a deeply exciting moment – was something I didn’t mind putting off for now. So I thanked her, and promised I’d go through it all later, and somehow managed to lug it all the way to the pub to meet Ian.
It had been a recent discovery, this pub. It had pot pourri in the toilets and a sausage of the week.
I liked it here. Everyone in it seemed to be very comfortable in their skin. They belonged here. And I wanted to belong, just like them.
Once the shock of the events of Stefan and Georgia’s party had died down, I’d realised the only way to deal with what was happening was to let it. To succumb to its inevitable, brutal force. To allow myself to be swept along on the crest of this magnolia-coloured, basil-scented wave. I’d just have to accept it. Stefan and Georgia thought I was ready. Lizzie thought I was ready. Which meant: I was probably ready. And so, in the week or two before meeting up with Ian, I’d simply got on with things.
Ian had looked suspicious when I finally saw him walk in. He didn’t recognise me at first because I was hidden slightly by my copy of the Guardian. I called out his name, and three or four other men also reading the Guardian lowered their copies to look at him. They were all wearing similar glasses to me. Ian looked at them, and then at me, rolled his eyes and sat himself down.
‘So!’ I said. ‘Important news!’
‘Important news calls for important pints,’ said Ian.
‘They only do bottles here,’ I said.
Ian shook his head, solemnly, and I went to get them in.
When I got back, Ian was staring at my massive box.
‘So what’s in it?’ said Ian, poking at it with his finger, as if that would somehow tell him.
‘Handy things,’ I said.
‘Gloves?’ said Ian.
‘Handy as in useful. I don’t know. Maybe gloves. My mum sent it.’
‘How about the bag?’
He indicated the plastic bag next to it. This is Ian’s version of small talk. He’d be going through my pockets next. I opened the bag and showed him.
‘What in the name of God are they?’ he said, peering in. ‘What in the name of God have you brought to the pub?’
‘They’re coasters!’ I said, delighted. ‘I just bought them!’
‘Hide them!’ he said. ‘Someone will see us. And please tell me they’re for Lizzie.’
‘No. They’re mine. Well, ours. I bought them. They depict various different industrial scenes through the ages.’
‘I can see that. Who are you? Your mum? Why’ve you bought coasters?’
‘If we put them in the living room, they will offset the display cushions perfectly.’
‘Right. You have display cushions?’
‘We have two display cushions.’
‘Do you sit on them?’
I put my finger in the air.
‘They’re not for bottoms. They’re for display purposes only.’
Ian put his beer down and studied me carefully. He seemed a little annoyed with me. There was a silence. And then finally he said, ‘So how are you, anyway?’
‘I’m fine,’ I said. ‘I’m fine. And you?’
‘Very well.’
But he was still looking at me, suspiciously.
There was another silence. This was odd. Usually we never found it hard to talk.
I looked out of the windows, desperate for inspiration. Some children were kicking a cone. It reminded me of something I’d just read in the paper.
‘League tables!’ I said.
‘Football?’ said Ian, confused.
‘No, the schools one,’ I said. ‘According to the latest schools league tables, the schools around here are well above average. Although others are apparently below average. I think that means they average out.’
‘So the schools around here are average?’
I nodded, eagerly.
‘You are a deeply interesting man.’
I smiled a smile of gratitude. And then I realised he was being sarcastic and tried to subtly change it into a smile of annoyance, but it just looked weird. Ian sat back in his chair and exhaled, heavily.
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘That’s it. My news can wait. Let’s deal with the matter at hand. What in the name of all that is right and proper has happened to you?’
I blinked.
‘How do you mean?’
‘You’ve bought some coasters! You’ve got display cushions! You have made reference to an area’s schooling!’
‘It doesn’t mean anything, Ian,’ I shrugged, hidin
g the fact that I knew perfectly well it did. ‘And the cushions are just a little cosmetic flourish.’
‘Cosmetic flourish? What’s cosmetic flourish?’
I thought about it. What was cosmetic flourish? And what was I doing talking about cosmetic flourish?
‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘I saw it on Property Ladder.’
Ian shook his head in disbelief.
‘You’ve gone all old!’
‘No, I haven’t!’ I said, defensively. ‘And if I have, you have as well! We’re not getting any younger, Ian!’
I made a wise face and took a sip of my beer. I looked at the bottle and made a satisfied ‘Aah’ sound. Ian put his head in his hands.
‘I have seen this happen before, my friend. I have seen this happen before and it’s dangerous.’
‘Seen what happen? What’s dangerous?’
‘This. You. Now. Approaching thirty. So-called “growing up”. Buying things no normal man would ever want to buy. Making “Aah” sounds. Using words like “flourish”. It’s happening to you, Dan. You’re becoming one of Them.’
‘One of who?’
‘Them!’
‘The New World Order?’
‘No. The thirty-year-old married man who’s lost all sight of his sense of self! Look around you. Are we in the Royal Inn?’
‘No.’
‘No. We’re not in the Royal Inn, are we? We’re not in the same pub we’ve drunk in for the past who-knows-how-many-years. We’re in some weird gastropub in north London with ironic photographs on the wall, drinking Taiwanese lager. Look! Look at that sign! They have a sausage of the week, for Christ’s sake! A sausage of the week! And it’s not even a proper sausage!’
‘Lamb, mint and apricot is not an unusual sausage. It’s very in right now.’
‘How do you even know what sausages are “in” right now?’
‘They do a newsletter.’
Ian sighed and took a sip of his pint.
‘Do you remember Micky Thomas?’ he said.
‘No,’ I said.
‘Exactly. No one remembers Micky Thomas. Because when Micky Thomas hit thirty, he bought a Volkswagen Polo and some Premium Bonds. You’re Micky Thomas!’
I was suddenly very frightened indeed.
‘I don’t want to be Micky Thomas!’ I said. ‘I don’t remember Micky Thomas! Why don’t I remember Micky Thomas?!’