‘Mummy hit a man today,’ Lucy told Rob, the second he got home. She’d promised me she wouldn’t say anything and I’d been hoping to talk to Rob after she’d gone to bed. ‘I’ll tell Daddy about that later,’ I told her again.
‘What’s a blow job, Daddy?’ Lucy said. ‘Mummy won’t tell me.’
Rob dragged me through to the kitchen, where I explained exactly what had happened.
‘He was drunk,’ I told Rob. ‘He was just drunk, I think. I punched him and he fell into somebody’s garden.’
‘Jesus,’ Rob said. ‘And this was in front of the kids? He said that in front of the kids?’
I nodded. ‘It was pretty awful.’
‘Do you think we can go for a drive and find him?’ he asked. ‘Because if you can point him out, I’ll kill the…’
I believed him about that totally. ‘Yeah… I don’t think that would be helpful, hon,’ I said. ‘I’m not the prison visits type, me. But I do think – and I’ve been meaning to talk to you about this – I do think we maybe—’
‘… need to move?’ Rob said, finishing my phrase. ‘I know. The place has gone to shit. You know they’re calling it Little Kosovo here? Cliftonville is now officially a war zone, for God’s sake.’
I nodded. ‘It’s been rough for a while,’ I said. ‘Decades, really. But with the kids it’s just…’
‘I know,’ Rob said. ‘I’m sorry. I should have dealt with it before. It’s just the business… I’m all over the place these days. I barely have time to take a dump.’
‘Don’t apologise,’ I said. ‘I haven’t done anything about it either. But I do think the time’s come to look elsewhere. Before something bad happens. Wecanafford to move, can’t we?’
SEVEN
THE JOSS BAY YEARS (BY ROB)
I found Dawn’s Billy CDs during the move.
I’d actually seen him on TV late one night, long after Dawn had gone to bed, so I knew he was doing well. His music was OK so – despite the fact that he seemed like a bit of a knob – buying them wasn’t altogether unreasonable. It was just the fact she’d hidden them that concerned me. I worried she was still attracted by more than his music.
I’d found the letter almost five years earlier, too – thoughinterceptedis probably closer to the truth. Opening it had been a genuine mistake. It had been addressed to MsHavard, which I’d misread as Mr, and stamped Universal Music Group. I’d optimistically hoped it was an enquiry about supplying some kind of audio equipment. Instead, inside I’d found a signed, A3 poster of Billy Riddle, along with a standard printed reply. I can’t really remember what it said – I was too busy feeling pukey at the sight of all that chest hair – but it was something basic likeThanks for your fan mail – have a poster. That was the gist of it, anyway.
I’d sat on the letter for a week, not knowing whether to bring the subject of Billy up or not, and then finally I’d decided just to bin it. Let sleeping dogs lie and all that. I thought it was probably for the best.
Because living in Cliftonville had started to get lairy, we bought a new-build up near Joss Bay. Business at Havard Electronics had been flourishing for the last five years, and I’d got to the point where I was struggling to find time to even invest all the cash I made, let alone spend it. Sticking it all in a big house with a sea view seemed like a no-brainer, really.
It was during the great Unpacking of the Boxes that I found them, stacked between A-ha and Nirvana. I saw Dawn see me find them, and I saw her leave the room to make tea.
I added them to the CD racks a supplier had given me, and it became merely one more thing we didn’t discuss. A week later I noticed they’d vanished and been replaced with old Velvet Underground CDs from another box. I hoped that was a good sign.
It took six months to settle into that house and by the time we had I felt as if I’d aged twenty years.
There had been something about parking in Dalby Square I’d liked, and something about walking around the corner to our first house that had been special. Parking on the drive of our new-build felt middle-aged and middle-class and it definitely didn’t feel like me.
I’d sit there sometimes in the driveway, peering out through the rain-speckled windscreen at that alien house, and feel an inexplicable sense of unease. Occasionally I’d catch a glimpse of the family beyond one of the many windows and feel like a voyeur – like this was someone else’s family, like these were people I didn’t know at all. I’d have a queasy feeling in my stomach and a lump in my throat. Sometimes I’d even wonder if our relationship would survive the move.
Then, once I’d waited for as long as I thought I could get away with, I’d sigh and drag myself from the car.
Changing houses seemed to have changed the people I lived with, too.
Dawn stopped dying her hair. ‘Embrace the grey!’ That’s what she used to say.
‘You’re looking more and more like Patti Smith,’ I said one night. It was supposed to be a friendly nudge – an attempt at getting her to take more care about her appearance. I wasn’t much enjoying her transformation to wild gypsy woman. But I’d chosen the wrong reference: she’d always worshipped Patti Smith.
‘I know!’ she said. ‘I think she’s incredible for her age, don’t you?’
‘Incredible, but not necessarily that sexy,’ I replied, trying to sound like I was being a tease.
