A Spot of Bother - Mark Haddon [37]
He gave her a tissue. “That’s great news.”
“I know.” She blew her nose messily. “And you? What about you?”
“Oh, nothing much.”
“Tell me,” said Katie.
“I was seeing someone from work.” He took away her soggy tissue and gave her a fresh one. “It didn’t work out. I mean, she was great, but…She wore this swimming cap in the bath to keep her hair dry.”
He took out some Fig Rolls and they talked about the safe stuff. Ray putting his foot in it with Jamie. Graham’s gran modeling for a knitwear catalog.
After ten minutes he made his excuses. She was sad. It surprised her and he paused just long enough to suggest that he felt the same. There was a brief moment during which one of them might have said something inappropriate. He cut it short.
“You look after yourself, OK?” He kissed her gently on the top of the head and left.
She sat quietly for a few more minutes. Jacob had stopped crying. She realized she hadn’t felt the pain while she and Graham had been talking. It was back with a vengeance now. She swigged two more ibuprofen with a glass of water then shuffled upstairs. They were in Jacob’s room. She stopped outside and glanced round the door.
Jacob was lying on the bed, facedown, looking at the wall. Ray was sitting next to him, patting his bottom and singing “Ten Green Bottles” very quietly and completely out of tune.
Katie was crying again. And she didn’t want Jacob to see. Or Ray for that matter. So she turned and silently walked back down to the kitchen.
27
Above all it seemed so profoundly unjust.
George was not naïve. Bad things happened to good people. He knew that. And vice versa. But when the Benns were burgled by their daughter’s boyfriend, or when Brian’s first wife had to have her breast implants taken out, you couldn’t help thinking that some kind of rudimentary justice was being done.
He knew men who had kept mistresses their entire married lives. He knew men who had gone bankrupt and registered the same company under a different name the following month. He knew a man who had broken his son’s leg with a spade. Why were they not going through this?
He had spent thirty years making and installing playground equipment. Good playground equipment. Not as cheap as Wicksteed or Abbey Leisure, but better value.
He had made mistakes. He should have sacked Alex Bamford when he found him half conscious on the floor of the office washroom. And he should have asked for written evidence of Jane Fuller’s back problems and not waited until she appeared in the local paper doing that fun run.
He had made seventeen people redundant, but they got a decent settlement and as good a reference as he could write without perjuring himself. It was not heart surgery, but neither was it weapons manufacture. In a modest way he had increased the happiness of a small part of the human population.
And now this had been dumped on his plate.
Still, there was no point in complaining. He had spent his life solving problems. Now he had to solve another one.
His mind was malfunctioning. He had to bring it under control. He had done it before. He had shared a house with his daughter for eighteen years without coming to blows, for starters. When his mother died he went back into the office the following morning to make sure the Glasgow deal did not fall through.
He needed a strategy, just as he would if Jean had booked a holiday for two in Australia.
He found himself a sheet of stiff, cream writing paper, drew up a list of rules, then hid it in the fireproof cash box at the back of the wardrobe with his birth certificate and the house deeds:
1. Keep busy.
2. Take long walks.
3. Sleep well.
4. Shower and change in the dark.
5. Drink red wine.
6. Think of something else.
7. Talk.
As for keeping busy, the wedding was a godsend. Last time round he had left the organization to Jean. Now that he had time to spare he could keep himself occupied and earn brownie points into the bargain.
Walking was a genuine delight. Especially the footpaths round Nassington and Fotheringay.