The Cherry Tree

Chapter 2

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Max eased his Mini Cooper onto the drive and pulled on the handbrake. Four pints he and Carl had had at lunchtime. Four pints. After Elizabeth and Jilly had raced to get back to work before twelve thirty (clerical staff were timed to the minute), Carl had teased Max fiercely over his knight in shining armour routine. Though, strangely Max thought, he had not picked up even the slightest hint as to the turmoil in his head. 

They’d returned to the office at one thirty to find a note from the boss saying that there was a vitally important meeting in Wakefield at three and he would be back in the office in the morning. 

“Bloody vitally important?” Carl had said. “Golf if you ask me.”

The two of them took the opportunity to go out in Carl’s car, pick up double portions of chips, curry and buttered bread-cakes and eat them out in the countryside. As they eased their way out of the city, Max was thankful that Carl headed towards the Manchester Road and Ladybower Reservoir. If he’d been driving he would have made straight for the Cherry Tree, and he wasn’t sure that he was ready for that yet.

Now, parked up at home, his stomach had turned to acid and he desperately wanted to go to sleep. The problem: his house was no longer a place where rest came easily. The very fabric was tainted with bad thoughts and dark memories. Visions that kept Max awake until the early hours, drinking vodka until he knew he’d had enough to sleep. As he sat outside what once might have been a family home, the urge to fire the ignition and just drive away was huge. But where would he go? His parents were now retired and living in France, in Caen. His brother, Oliver, five years his elder, lived in Glasgow with George, his partner of nearly ten years. Max felt like an orphan. 

I’m just being melodramatic, he thought, I’ve gone through the worst. We’re beginning to get somewhere, starting to put it all back together again. Maybe she’s seen the light.

Self pity was driven away as Sarah’s seven year old smiling face appeared at the living room window. It was then joined by George’s and the two of them waved frantically at their father. Max climbed out of the car dragging his guilt and impending hangover behind him. Slamming the car door, he crunched down the short gravel drive feeling like a man condemned.

* * * * *

“Hi, hon! Had a nice day?” Harriet called across the kitchen. She was dressed as though ready for a night out at the Oscars: face made up, tight, black dress, high heels, jewellery, the lot. The kitchen smelled of perfume rather than food. “Just doing the kid’s tea,” she said. “Lasagne and garlic bread. They love that.” She crammed two cardboard boxes into the microwave oven, slammed the door, twisted the timer and cat-walked into the living room. “Ten minutes, kids. Get your spoons ready.”

There was absolutely no reason why he should object to his wife making herself look good and feeding his kids on convenience food, after all, everyone else did it. So why did he want to scream, tear the de-natured, nourishment-free rubbish out of the microwave and throw it at her? Calm, calm, Max, he told himself. “Heard anything from Stewart?” he called after her.

“The school say that they’re due back this evening, around seven. It’s been so nice, having a break from him for a few days. But that’s over now. I don’t know how I’m going to cope, what with two kids, the house, everything else and an autistic eleven year old.”

“Did they say how he was?” Max kept his voice low and steady as he leaned on the work-top.

“No, but if there had been any problems, I’m sure they would have mentioned them.” Harriet walked back in. “You never answered me; have you had a nice day, dear?”

The smile was so insincere that Max felt like throwing up. He knew that their eldest son, Stewart, could be very difficult, and that a bit of respite was very welcome, but did she have to talk about him as though he was just a problem to avoid? Eleven years old and they were no further towards knowing what the future held for the boy than when he was first diagnosed. It drove Max crazy even thinking about what might be going on inside his poor son’s head. And when Harriet was so dismissive of him: it made him want to…

Forget it. Just go and say hello to the other two.

He walked through the kitchen, past never-used pans and utensils, brand-new chopping boards and food processors, still-sealed herb and spice collections and well-dusted and buffed bottles of coloured vinegar and infused oils. Plastic red and yellow sweet peppers and a plastic garlic grappe hung on either side of a spotless ceramic hob and built-in cooker. On the dining table was a bowl of flowers so large that it would prevent even the tiniest family from eating there. The kitchen looked more like something from the Ideal Home Exhibition than a real home, a home where normal people lived.

The entrance to the living room was flanked by two, large, fake Greek urns, filled with dried flowers. Max was immediately assailed by his two youngest children.

“Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!” they both squealed, and wrapped their arms about his legs.

“Now,” said Harriet, “don’t get them too excited. We don’t want them sicking up their tea over the new carpet, do we?”

Max slumped onto the white, leather settee and hugged Sarah and George at his sides. The TV was blaring. “What’re we watching, kids?”

“Nick Junior,” George wailed.

“It’s rubbish,” complained Sarah. “I want to watch The Simpsons. I’m in the juniors in September.”

“What say we watch… The news!” said Max.

“No!” Both kids pulled away. George hid the remote and Sarah glared at him. Max smiled at her. She got her dark, Celtic looks from his side of the family, looked more like his younger cousin, Julia, than Harriet. George had Harriet’s looks but that didn’t matter, he knew that whatever happened between him and his wife, he would not be haunted by her image in his daughter’s face. Such thoughts were now commonplace for Max and no longer shocked him as they had once done. 

“Okay, tea’s ready,” Harriet called from the kitchen. She came in and spread a huge beach towel in front of the TV, then put two small stools side by side. George and Sarah sat down and waited. 

Max watched while his stomach churned and his heartburn flared as Harriet carried two disposable plastic, multi-compartmental trays into the room and placed them on each of his children’s knees. 

“Eat up. Try not to spill any, and clean up after you.”

It took less than five minutes for them to finish the meal and throw the dishes and the plastic spoons into the kitchen bin under the sink. Harriet carried the chairs and towel out and then pressed the plug-in air freshener on the wall three times. 

“There,” she said, “that’s that done.”

Max could hardly keep his temper. He was fuming but knew that his mood was darkened by the alcohol he’d had at lunchtime. Despite the fact that he put nearly half a bottle of vodka away each night, his alcohol tolerance had never been that high and dinner-time drinking murdered him. “I’m going for a lie down,” he said, and stomped upstairs.

“Don’t forget to take your shoes off, hon. And remember to straighten the bed cover when you come down.”

I’m not your fucking hon. And I might not ever be coming down.

Max reluctantly made his way into the bathroom to brush his teeth. The oppressive, cloying smell of air freshener in there made him feel sick. On the top shelf of the bathroom cabinet were his toiletries: razor, shaving oil, shower gel, toothbrush and toothpaste. On the three other shelves, were Harriet’s: lotions to smooth skin, cleanse skin, fill wrinkles and hide spots; aerosols for feet, armpits, hair and the bits she had trouble keeping to herself; cotton balls, cotton sticks, cotton pads; makeup, makeup remover, nail polish, nail polish remover; false eyelash kits, false nail kits; bath oils, shower oils, aromatherapy oils, skin conditioners, hair conditioners, hot oil treatments; tissues, condoms, pumice stone, pumice powder…

Condoms! 

Flavoured too! Why condoms in the bathroom?

Max tried not to think about it, but that one glance had been enough: a multi‑pack, multi‑coloured, multi‑flavoured, open, and only a couple of packs visible The scenario was complete before he’d had time even to attempt to block the gut‑churning conclusion. It doesn’t necessarily mean anything, he told himself. Can’t mean anything. Christ! No-one’s that stupid.

He brushed his teeth quickly, happy that it didn’t make him gip, and lumbered into the bedroom. He hated that room too, knowing what had happened in there. Ever since Harriet’s first confession his imagination had been no friend to him. What does it matter he thought. Why should I feel jealousy towards a woman I can no longer abide? He was about to kick off his shoes when his nostrils sent a panic message to his brain. Aftershave. Men’s aftershave. There was no denying that it was there and he never used the stuff; it sent his throat all spotty and sore.

Aftershave and flavoured condoms.

“Harriet!” he bawled. “Harriet! Get up here – Now!”

* * * * *

The row lasted no longer than a minute. He shouted accusations, she denied them. He called her a slut and she called him a suspicious drunk. 

At least we know how to use time for rowing economically, he thought, as he drove at fifty through the estate. Long gone were those excruciating, all night sessions of misery. Getting upset, then apologising, only to pick the scab off once more which caused more shouting and then more, pointless apologising. No, he thought, slowing down and indicating left, out of the estate and towards the town centre, we’ve got it down to a fine art now. Almost scripted.

Max parked the car in one of the few remaining parts of town where it was still possible to park for free and walked up towards the City Hall. There was a large, roomy bar across the way. It was an ideal place where he could be suitably anonymous and there would be plenty of people. He was in no mood for being alone but then he didn’t particularly want to talk to anyone. He needed somewhere he could blend in. First though, he sat on the stone steps of the City Hall, gazed up to the gold crown on the top of the cenotaph flagpole, and turned on his mobile.

“Put Sarah on,” he said. “I don’t care. Put her on. You can put the phone on loudspeak if you want. Poisoning kids’ minds is not something I’d be proud of.” He waited a few seconds until he heard his daughters voice. She was clearly still very upset. “Hello pumpkin, it’s Daddy. Don’t be sad. Me and Mummy just had a quarrel, like you and George do. It’s nothing to worry about. I had to come out and see some people from work though so we didn’t have time to say sorry and make friends.

“Yes, of course we will. Don’t be silly.”

Max and Harriet, having decided to stick at the hopeless marriage for sake of the kids, always made a big show of making up. Had, in fact, insisted that the kids made them say sorry if either of them were mean. For the most part it worked. The kids seemed more secure as they were doing something positive to repair something they’d previously felt no control over. Max was no child psychologist though and he did worry a little that he might be creating guilty feelings in his kids by encouraging their involvement but, as he fully intended sticking it out for that decade, he didn’t see it as that much of a problem. Obviously though, storming out of the house with no intention of returning until well after midnight sort of put the kybosh on that theory.

“Be good for Mummy,” he said. “Go to bed when she says – Yes, of course I’ll come and give you a goodnight kiss. You’ll be fast asleep then though. Is Stewart home yet?” Max listened as Sarah questioned Harriet. As far as he could make out the boy had been given a lift to the door by one of the teaching staff that had been away with him and that he’d fallen to sleep as soon as he’d gone into his bedroom. Sarah came back onto the phone and explained as best she could. “Okay, pumpkin. That’s lovely. I’m glad he’s had a nice time and that he’s safe. Put George on now.”

He waited a few seconds, watching young people, people younger than him, starting their evening’s entertainment. Groups of young men and young women, all single (at least in his mind), all going to the pub together; their futures not yet mapped. He envied them, even though he knew many would end up less happy than even himself.

“Hiya, George. It’s Daddy. I know, ignore her, she just a big sister. They’re terrible.” He heard the shouts of protest from his daughter. So, Harriet had put him on loudspeak. It didn’t matter. He would never tell them anything bad about their Mother. It wasn’t his style and it wasn’t their problem. “Yeah, I know, you watch it for me and tell me what happens tomorrow. Yeah, be good. See you later. Love you – you too, Sarah.”

Max heard the phone clatter to the coffee table and then be picked up.

“Hon,” he heard in the earpiece.

He immediately cancelled the call, cutting both the signal and his wife’s breath.

If only it were that simple, he thought.

Max slipped the mobile into his jacket pocket and wandered across the road to the bar. It was quite full, even though it was only six thirty. Nevertheless, even though it was a big bar and held a lot of people, Max could see there was still plenty of room for him to get comfortable. He needed some quiet time to begin with and then, maybe, if he felt like it, strike up a conversation with whoever might turn up later.

At the bar he was served by a young lad with terrible acne and a remarkable degree of clumsiness. His first pint pot was smashed on the delivery tap and the second overflowed, leaving only about two thirds of a pint of beer in the glass. Eventually though, he got his beer, a full pint, and a corporate smile that was in danger of curdling it. Max paid his money and took a sip.

Terrible.

His stomach had soured more than ever. The beer tasted foul. Max weighed up his options, accepted that there weren’t any, and downed the beer in one. He ordered again and, to his delight, discovered that not only did the second one taste better, but it didn’t hurt his stomach to drink it.

Over by the window, looking out onto Barkers Pool, Max found a black leather settee next to a low, polished table. There were no beer mats. There never were in modern bars now. He wondered if maybe the drinks industry and the dry cleaning industry had struck some sort of deal. Max installed himself and, after the two pints, found himself relaxing, reflecting, and enjoying the buzz of humanity as the place slowly filled. During that time his phone rang three times. On each occasion it had displayed his home phone number so Max pressed the cancel button. At least Stewart was home now so the calls would just be Harriet bugging him. She hated it when he took himself out of the way of an argument. It had taken him years to figure out that it was the best way to deal with her. It was as though she relished the actual argument itself whereas they just cut Max deeper and deeper every time.

By ten he was well and truly blocked in by people at least a decade his junior. He’d had four pints, he thought, maybe five, had refilled his glass and added a double vodka. He saw no reason to move in the foreseeable future (the foreseeable future now being no more that fifteen minutes).

The conversation around him had begun mainly regarding the day’s events and had then moved to the TV channels. The banal and asinine complexities of reality TV, followed by the either tedious or impenetrable plots of programmes he’d never heard of and certainly didn’t want to watch. The whole lot blended and writhed in a virtual domesticity that made his own problems seem ordinary: pregnancy and the ageing process; murder and suicide; bare flesh and body piercings; vampires and demons and dragons – what was a little adultery compared to such things? His phone continued to ring, on and off, until eventually he put it on silent. People were beginning to look at him. Why hadn’t he silenced it before?

Max tried to decide what his next move would be: home on the bus and sleep on the settee? Book into a hotel? Ring Carl? Go on to a club and try to make a new friend? He smiled at his own foolishness. It would be going home, he knew. He’d fled the house only because he knew he was about to behave irrationally. Whether there was an explanation for those things in the bathroom or not was immaterial. Hadn’t he already decided? Already explained it to Carl? He was sticking it out no matter what. He could survive in that relationship for the kids’ sake. There was nothing stopping him from having a life outside of his ruined marriage was there? Of course not. So why should he get so worked up about Harriet doing the same? 

His reasoning was disturbed by a rather drunk young man who stood up at the next table.

“Well, I don’t know what all the fuss is about,” he slurred, sounding in Max’s opinion, as big a prat as he looked. Why do some people have to stand in order to enter into a conversation? Is it a sign of insecurity?

“I mean,” the man went on, “in this day and age, who cares who does what to who. The days of being stuck with one person your whole life is old fashioned. All that family crap. You can stick it.” He waved his hands as if in order to illustrate how irrelevant families really were. “No way should any of us get trapped by those stupid, old ideas. You can do what you like with who you like. I mean: what’s the problem?”

“I’ll tell you the problem.”

Max couldn’t even remember standing up, never mind starting to talk.

“I’ll tell you the problem. The problem, pal, is twats like you who don’t know what they’re talking about.”

The arguments were clear in Max’s head but, for some reason, he was having trouble composing and voicing them with the clarity they deserved. This is something I know all about, he was thinking. This is something that everyone needs to be put straight about. I can save them all a lot of heartache. But all that came out, after the other guy said:

“Who’s interested in the opinions of some old git like you?”

was:

“Bollocks!”

After that, there was a lot of noise, a lot of shouting and pushing, a lot of beer spilled, glass smashed, and, within minutes, a police presence. The evening hadn’t turned out anything like the way that Max had intended. Two hours later, he reflected on his fortune. He’d set off from home with the intention of calming himself down or drowning his sorrows or just getting involved with something that would take his mind away from his troubles. In fact, he’d done none of those things. On the face of it, the night had been an utter disaster.

But, even so, he thought, leaning back against the wall, his knees hugged tight to his chest. Maybe the evening wasn’t a complete waste. At least now he could say that he’d been in a police cell.

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The Cherry Tree 

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