It is Sunday, and my wife is recounting our Saturday for the benefit of the oldest one. “We went to Sussex for the day, which was very nice,” she says.
“Being there was nice,” I say. “The getting there was a bit fraught.”
“He made me run for a train,” she says.
My wife shifts the story to a point earlier in the morning and paints an unattractive portrait of me standing in the garden, sipping coffee and waving away her appeals for increased urgency.
“This is not an accurate version of events,” I say.
“Yes, it is,” my wife says.
“Ultimately it was your decision to spend 15 minutes dicking around in a shop that caused our…”
“Sip, sip, sip,” my wife says.
“‘Why, yes, I would like it gift-wrapped,’” I say. “‘Because I have all the time in the world.’”
“Did you miss the train?” the oldest says.
“No, we made it,” I say. “But then I realised we only had two minutes to make our connection at Clapham Junction.”
“You know how much your father loves saying that sort of thing,” my wife says. “Being the bearer of bad news.”
“Yeah,” the oldest says.
“So I shouted at him in front of a trainful of people,” she says. “On purpose.”
“What, because that’s his worst nightmare?” the oldest one says.
“He literally can’t think of anything worse,” my wife says.
I can think of something worse, and I did: I was pretty certain that the couple sitting opposite us recognised me as soon as we sat down. “You think everyone recognises you,” my wife says.
“They were looking over, and sort of nudging each other,” I say. “And then all of a sudden your mother launches into this foul-mouthed tirade that lasts all the way until the next stop.”
“So they would have been like: that’s definitely him,” the oldest says.
“I was forced to retreat to a quiet place inside myself,” I say.
“Feeling ashamed,” my wife says.
“No,” I say.
“Then what happened?” the oldest says.
“Then he made me change trains at Richmond,” my wife says.
“I didn’t make you,” I say. “It’s the fastest route.”
“How can Richmond be the fastest way to Clapham?” she says.
“It’s not the distance, it’s the schedule,” I say.
“We weren’t speaking by then,” she tells the boy.
As the train from Richmond rumbled along between Mortlake and Barnes, I was left to calculate the distance we’d have to cover between platforms at Clapham. We already appeared to be behind schedule and the next train wasn’t for another hour.
“You can see my dilemma,” I say to the oldest one. “Mum lacks both the patience to wait and the inclination to sprint.”
“I ran!” my wife shouts.
“She can be a tremendous liability in these situations, as you know,” I say.
“She’s like extra luggage,” the oldest says.
“I had the wrong shoes!” my wife says.
“A carry-on bag filled with fury and impatience,” I say.
“What did you do?” the oldest says.
“I made the decision to run ahead,” I say. “When I got to the platform the train was already there. The guard was blowing his whistle.”
“Whoa,” the oldest says.
“I put one foot on to the train, and I turned around,” I say. “Your mother was nowhere to be seen.”
“There were people with bicycles in my way,” my wife says.
“I stood there, half in the train, half out, with the guard waving at me,” I say. “Still she doesn’t appear.”
“It’s all stairs,” my wife says.
“What do I do?” I say. “I can’t go without her. Then again, there’s no way I can spend an hour on a platform with her in the mood she’s in.”
“I got there in the end, didn’t I?” my wife says. “We made it.”
“Did she shout at you again?” the oldest one says.
“She couldn’t – she was too out of breath,” I say. There is a short silence.
“Sip, sip, sip,” my wife says.
