Losing Me (18 page)

“I suppose I’m used to it.”

“You know, I do realize that you raised me and Ben pretty much on your own. And you were amazing. It’s only since I’ve become a mum that I’ve started to appreciate how hard it must have been for you. I find every day a struggle—and I’ve got Matt around.”

“You’re right. It wasn’t always easy.”

“Well, I want you to know that I get it.”

“Thank you, my darling. I appreciate that.”

If Jess had been standing in front of her, she would have hugged the life out of her. She felt ashamed that she’d ever felt jealous of her daughter.

•   •   •

Tuesday arrived and Barbara realized that she hadn’t had a panic attack for more than a week. She hesitated to say it, but the pharmaceuticals appeared to be doing their work.

She swam in the morning. After lunch she got started on the first volume (there were seven) of
The
Life and Opinions of
Tristram Shandy, Gentleman.
She had a degree in English literature. She was used to heavyweight tomes, but this, like
The Iliad
and
The
Odyssey
, had her nodding off after half a dozen pages. At three she set off for Islington—armed only with a Monopoly set and a copy of
The Fabulous Fart Machine
.

A gray-haired man with a welcoming smile opened the door. He was wearing a floral Cath Kidston apron. Bertie was nowhere to be seen.

“You must be Barbara,” he said, extending his hand. “Jack Dolan, Freddie’s grandfather—aka, the temporary au pair.”

He had clearly noticed her noticing the apron. “Shrove Tuesday,” he said. “Freddie and I have been busy making pancakes. You must come and try one. Although I can’t promise it will be the finest you’ve ever tasted.”

“I’d love one,” Barbara said, following Jack Dolan downstairs. “I’d completely forgotten it was Pancake Day.”

She noticed Bertie fast asleep in his bed next to the radiator.

“Granddad, I flipped this one. I actually flipped it. Yaay.” Freddie gave a little jig.

Barbara was taken aback. What had happened to the sullen child she’d met the week before?

“Well done,” Jack said. “Now tip it onto a plate, and don’t forget to turn the gas out. There’s lemon and sugar on the table.”

“Hi, Freddie,” said Barbara. “How are you?”

“Fine.” On seeing her, the excitement left his face. “It’s Pancake Day. I don’t want to do work.”

“He’ll buck up once he’s eaten. He’s just got in from school. Low blood sugar.”

Freddie sat down at the table and squeezed lemon on his pancake. “I will not buck up.”

“Now, then, Barbara, before you get to work with young Fred, let me make you a pancake.” He turned to his grandson. “Or maybe you’d like to make it—show Barbara how it’s done.”

“Don’t want to.”

“Come on, don’t be like that.”

But Freddie refused to make Barbara a pancake.

“In which case,” his grandfather said, “I will do it.”

Barbara was starting to feel a bit awkward. “Honestly. You don’t have to.”

“Nonsense. My pleasure.”

Barbara and Jack ate their excellent pancakes at the table while Freddie made another one for himself. Only then did she realize how much Freddie and his grandfather resembled each other. The same long legs, the same strong, handsome features—although Jack’s had softened a good deal with age and his hair was white. He reminded her of that actor. What was his name? Oh, for heaven’s sake. The one who played the handsome silver fox in
Mad Men
.

“So, have you had to take time off work to look after Freddie?” Barbara said, by way of making conversation.

Jack said he was pretty much retired. She asked what he’d done before gave up work.

“I was in the building trade.”

Barbara was taken aback for the second time in as many minutes. The diffident English charm, the cut-glass accent, the brogues that she would have put money on being handmade, did nothing to suggest that this was a person who used to throw up house extensions for a living.

“Not that I ever got my hands dirty.” He’d clearly read her thoughts. “I ran a building company.”

Then it hit her.

“Goodness . . . You’re Dolan—as in Dolan’s who build half the homes in Britain.”

“I wouldn’t go quite that far,” Jack said. “But, yes, we own a healthy market share.”

“So you’re the company chairman?”

“Was. I took over from my father, who inherited the business from his father. He was an immigrant Irish laborer and he started the company. I still have a seat on the board. But these days my role doesn’t extend to much more than showing up to the occasional meeting.”

“So you keep your hand in without any of the stress. Sounds perfect.”

“It is rather.”

John Slattery. That’s who he reminded her of.

He asked her how long she’d been tutoring.

“I probably shouldn’t be saying this, but Freddie is my first-ever tutee.” She found herself telling him about her job at Jubilee and how she’d been made redundant.

“And I’m guessing that with all the cuts, it won’t be easy to find a new job.”

“Plus my age is against me. Who’s going to employ somebody knocking on sixty?”

“Good Lord. You’re nearly sixty? I would never have guessed—not for a second.”

“Well, thank you very much,” Barbara said. “That’s the nicest thing anybody has said to me in a long time. Flattery will get you everywhere.”

“No, I mean it. I wouldn’t put you a day over forty-five.”

“Huh. As old as that?” She watched his face turn pink. “It’s OK. I’m only pulling your leg,” she said. “I appreciate the compliment. Really.”

Still looking uncomfortable, Jack turned to see how Freddie was doing. “Is that the spattering of oil I can hear? Remember what I said about not using too much. That’s the secret to great pancakes—a hot pan, not much oil.” He carried on watching. A moment later Freddie was tossing his pancake.

“Done it again.” Another jig.

“I have to admit I’m puzzled,” Barbara said to Jack. “This isn’t the boy I met last week. Back then he was sullen and irritable, dishing out orders to his mother. OK, I admit he’s not particularly pleased to see me, but otherwise he seems completely different. And if you don’t mind me saying—so does Bertie.”

“All Fred needs is love, attention and a firm hand. It’s the same with the dog. I keep telling Sally and Jeremy, but they seem incapable of grasping it.” Barbara got the impression he was about to say more, but Freddie reappeared with his pancake. His grandfather ruffled his head. “Well done that, boy.”

“Do I have to do schoolwork?”

“Come on. It’s only for an hour.”

“And I’ve brought a brilliant book,” Barbara said.

“Not more Roald Dahl.”

“Uh-uh.” She took the paperback out of her bag.

Freddie managed a smile. His grandfather burst out laughing. “Come on, Fred. A book called
The Fabulous Fart Machine
has to be worth a try.”

“I thought we could read bits aloud and then talk about it,” Barbara said.

“Only if Granddad can join in.”

“Sure . . . Jack—what do you say?”

“If I’m invited, I’d be more than happy to oblige.”

Despite its scatological title,
The Fabulous Fart Machine
, invented by a mischievous boy who loved nothing more than causing his stiff and prim parents maximum embarrassment at inappropriate times, was fast becoming a children’s classic.

When it was Freddie’s turn, he read without a single stumble. He paused at all the right places, understanding instinctively how to read for dramatic effect. He gave the characters comedy voices. More than once he had Jack and Barbara laughing out loud. Afterwards he was able to answer all Barbara’s comprehension questions, which she’d disguised as general discussion. His grasp of the vocabulary was excellent, too. She was impressed. Sally appeared to be right about her son. Maybe he wasn’t getting the stimulation he needed.

“OK, so, who’s for a game of Monopoly?” Barbara said. “Granddad can play, too.”

Freddie seemed positively eager. Barbara suggested that he be banker. “That means you’re in charge of all the money.”

Since he hadn’t played the game before, much less been banker, Barbara was prepared to give Freddie a good deal of leeway arithmetic-wise. But from the get-go it was clear that he was struggling. The average six-year-old could add and subtract better than he could. But he enjoyed the game. It helped that Jack and Barbara rigged things so that he could win. When the hour was up, Freddie was forced to admit that he’d enjoyed himself.

“So can I come again?” Barbara said.

“’K. But it has to be this good every time.”

She promised to do her best.

Freddie helped her pack the game away without being asked. “So, Freddie,” Barbara said as he arranged the bank notes in order, “can you help me with something? If it’s the fourth today, what’s the date going to be a week from now?” She took out her diary to make it look like a genuine inquiry instead of a test.

“I dunno.”

“You need to start with four and add seven,” Jack said.

“Why seven?”

“Come on, Fred. . . . That’s how many days there are in the week.”

Freddie began counting on his fingers. “Monday, Tuesday, Friday, Wednesday, Saturday . . .”

“OK, not to worry,” Barbara said. “So, Freddie, remind me—what month are we in?”

“Winter.”

“And can you tell me the months of the year?”

He got as far as April and gave up. “I’m bored. I don’t want to do this anymore. Can I go?”

“Don’t worry, hon. That’s fine. Off you go.” Then: “Right, I should get going, too. Freddie, what’s the time?”

He stared at his wristwatch. “Dunno. Battery’s run down.”

Barbara was pretty sure it hadn’t.

Freddie handed her the pile of the Monopoly banknotes he’d collected and headed upstairs to his room. Jack asked Barbara if she had time for a cuppa.

“That would be great,” she said.

“So,” Jack said as they sat drinking more tea. “What do you make of young Fred?”

“Well, his reading and comprehension are excellent. He’s a bright kid.”

“And his arithmetic?”

“It’s hard to say. It’s not great, but he could have been a bit anxious because I was there and he felt as if he was being tested. Plus I’ve only had an hour with him.”

Jack put down his mug of tea and crossed his arms. “Come on. I can tell you’re holding back. What do you actually think?”

“Goodness, you’re really putting me on the spot.”

“Sorry. It’s my worst habit. My late wife was always telling me that I tend to interrogate people rather than simply show an interest.”

Barbara smiled. “Look, I can see that you’re worried about Freddie, but I would need more time. It’s far too early. . . .”

“Do you think he could be dyslexic? I’ve been doing some research on the quiet and I know that you can read and write perfectly well and still be mildly dyslexic.”

“That’s true,” Barbara said. “I couldn’t say for certain, but it’s possible. Like I say, his maths skills aren’t great, but then again, kids fall behind for all sorts of reasons. The bigger concern is the way he got confused over the months and seasons and the fact that he can’t recite the days of the week in order.”

“And his watch hadn’t stopped. I know for a fact that it was working perfectly.”

“I guessed that.” She paused. “And there are other clues. He says he’s not great at sports. Lack of coordination can be another sign of dyslexia.”

“So do you think he stands any hope of getting into a posh school?”

“Not without a vast improvement. But I can see why his parents think he’s a high achiever. His language skills, his comprehension and his vocabulary are all excellent. He really is a smart kid. He’s lucky. Not all dyslexic kids are smart—if that’s what he is.”

“Well, for what it’s worth, I think he probably is dyslexic. And all the reading I’ve done seems to confirm it. In some ways it’s not Fred who’s the problem. It’s Sally and Jeremy. They’re both high achievers. The idea of their son being anything less is unthinkable. At the same time, they neglect the poor boy. If you ask me, he’s sullen and badly behaved because he’s desperate for attention.”

“It’s possible,” Barbara said, doing her best to be diplomatic. It wasn’t her place to wade in with her opinion—which was that Sally and Jeremy needed to spend more time with their son and stop compensating for their absence by spoiling him rotten and turning him into a monster. “But there’s another problem. Freddie knows he’s struggling at school. He probably thinks he’s thick. That’s another reason he gets so frustrated and angry.”

“That makes perfect sense. I hadn’t thought of that. So what do we do?”

“He needs to be assessed. After that his parents can take advice about where to go from there.”

“They’ll never agree to it.”

“I’m not sure they have much choice.”

Jack asked Barbara if she would speak to Sally. “I’m afraid I tend to charge in like a bull in a china shop. She might take it better coming from you.”

Barbara agreed to call her.

•   •   •

This time she came away feeling really sorry for Freddie. Poor neglected little mite. Still, at least his granddad paid him attention and was prepared to fight his corner. Kids like Troy had nobody.

Barbara decided she needed cheering up. She got into her car and hit Jess’s number. She would ask if she felt like seeing a movie. Jess hardly ever got out. It would do her good.

“I’d love to, but Cleo has got a temperature and she’s a bit chesty. I’m about to call the emergency homeopath.”

Barbara bit her tongue regarding the homeopath. “OK, darling. Not to worry. Maybe another time. So, is Cleo very sick?”

“She’ll be fine. It’s just a chest infection. The homeopath has got her on Pulsatilla. Martha said it worked wonders on Linus.”

“Well, give her a big hug from me and say Grandma wishes her better.”

“Will do.”

Barbara turned the car ignition. Why hadn’t Jess taken Cleo to a proper doctor? What was wrong with her? Where had all this alternative hippie, hummusy daftness come from? Certainly not from her or Frank.

She switched on the radio. Paul Simon was singing “Mother and Child Reunion.” It occurred to her that she hadn’t seen her mother in almost a week. Maybe she should pop over. Not that visiting Rose would cheer her up exactly, but at least it got a chore out of the way. She hated the way she’d come to think of visiting her mother as a chore, but that was the reality. She didn’t particularly enjoy seeing her. There was no mutual affection, no bond. All that held them together was blood and—for Barbara—a bucketload of unhappy childhood memories.