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FIFTY

Al comes home the day after Boxing Day and immediately tells Martha that he will have to go back to the Midlands and stay with his mother until they can get some kind of care plan in place.

“But what about Nala?” she asks. “The childminder doesn’t start back until the second. And I can’t keep bringing her to the shop. It’s a nightmare.”

“Surely Troy can look after her. He’s going to be eighteen next month. He’s virtually an adult. Or Matt? He’s not going back to work until the New Year, is he?”

“I can’t ask Matt to look after my child!”

“Or your brother? I mean, surely there has to be somebody.”

“No, Al. There really isn’t.”

“Well, then maybe you’ll just have to leave the shop shut. Until the New Year.”

“Are you serious?”

“Martha.” Al sighs and looks down at her.

His eyes are sad, a sheen of tears on their surface.

“I am so tired. This is so stressful. I genuinely can’t bear it, I can’t bear that I have to go away from here, go away from you, that I have to sacrifice all of this to be with her .

You know how I feel about her. You know I hate her.

But she has nobody else. I can’t just abandon her.

I have to do this. It kills me, but I have to.

” A tear escapes from his eye and trickles down his cheek and Martha resists the temptation to wipe it away with the side of her hand, keeping a tight rein on her emotions in order to maintain her resolve.

“Fine,” she says. “I’ll shut the shop. Milly will probably be happy. I know Jonah will be happy to have me home too.”

Al sighs at the mention of Jonah. “You know he sent me a message yesterday?”

“I know,” says Martha. “He asked for your number. What did it say?”

Al smiles sadly. “Here.” He passes her his phone.

Dear Al. How are you? I hope things are OK with your mum? We missed you today. I hope you will be home soon? Please send Mum a message so she knows because she gets really worried? See ya! J

Martha’s stomach rolls, first with sadness that her son sent such a sweet message, and then with pure rage and fury that Al hadn’t replied to it.

She hands him back his phone and sighs. “You couldn’t even reply to that.”

“I told you, Martha. I just wasn’t in the right headspace to look at my phone.

It wasn’t that kind of day. And you’re right.

I know you’re right. And I know this drives you mad, and to be honest, Martha, it drives me mad too.

It really does. I hate being the way I am.

I hate being so unreliable and so chaotic.

I’ve been trying so hard to be a better person, you know I have.

But every time I start getting myself together, something else comes along and upsets the equilibrium.

And I know it doesn’t make any sense—it doesn’t make any sense to me either.

I wish it did, but my brain, it just goes off on tangents, it spirals, it loses the thread, I lose track of time, I forget what I’m meant to be doing, and I know it’s not good enough, it’s really not good enough, but please, Martha, stay with me on this.

I’ll have this sorted before you know it.

I’ll get my mother a carer, I’ll get it all tied up, I’ll be back, and we can get on with our lovely life, OK?

Can you give me that time? Please? And in return, I will try my hardest to remember to reply to messages, to stay in touch, to be what you need me to be, because, Martha, I love all of this so much, I love this life, I love those boys, I love our beautiful daughter, and I love you, Martha. I love you so much it kills me.”

The tears come again and for a moment Martha finds herself watching him clinically, objectively, like he’s an exhibition or a piece of performance art, not a real man expressing real feelings. And into her head, a word lands, like a brick.

Bullshit.

As it hits her, Martha wants to laugh. But she keeps her face straight, her expression neutral. She nods and she says, “It’s OK. I understand. Thank you for explaining it all to me. It all feels much clearer now. I’ll shut the shop. It’s fine. You go and do what you have to do.”

She touches him lightly on the arm and walks away, her chest tight with resolve. She knows what to do next; her mind is clear.