Saturdays at Noon Read online

  Rachel Marks

  * * *

  SATURDAYS AT NOON

  Contents

  Alfie

  Emily

  Jake

  Emily

  Jake

  Alfie

  Emily

  Jake

  Alfie

  Emily

  Jake

  Emily

  Alfie

  Jake

  Emily

  Jake

  Alfie

  Emily

  Jake

  Emily

  Jake

  Emily

  Alfie

  Jake

  Emily

  Jake

  Emily

  Jake

  Emily

  Alfie

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Rachel Marks studied English at Exeter University before becoming a primary school teacher. Despite always loving to write, it wasn’t until she gained a place on the 2016 Curtis Brown Creative online novel-writing course that she started to believe it could be anything more than a much-loved hobby. Her inspiration for her first book came from the challenges she faced with her eldest son – testing and fascinating in equal measure – and the research she did to try and understand him better.

  For Jacob, so you always know how magic you are

  Alfie

  I hope none of the grown-ups out there find me. I used my invisible spell to sneak under the table but I’m scared it might wear off. Sometimes, if I don’t make my spells very well, they don’t last very long. I still have to be really quiet because, even when you’re invisible, people can hear you. Mrs Young says, ‘Be quiet as a mouse,’ but when there was a mouse in Mummy and Daddy’s bedroom they said it was so noisy, scratching and running around, that they couldn’t sleep, so I don’t think mice are very quiet really. I’m going to be quieter than a mouse and try really hard not to move. But sometimes my arms and legs just move on their own without me telling them to. Mummy and Daddy get cross faces when they do that, but I don’t know how to make them stop.

  It’s really dark under here, like when I go to bed. I hate going to bed because I have to stop what I’m doing and I’m scared when it’s dark a robber will break in and steal me. When I’m busy with my Lego or my puzzles or my games, they fill up my head, but when Daddy makes me stop and go to bed, the worries come back because there’s more space. If I had my pebble light, it would be better. I like watching the colours – they go round and round, and I don’t feel so terrified. My pebble lamp goes red, purple, blue, green, yellow, orange then back to red and it does the same pattern every time, which is good because then you know which colour is coming next. I like knowing which one’s coming next.

  Emily

  To tell you the truth, it’s not quite what I’d expected. I had visions of hung heads, clenched fists, swear words muttered through gritted teeth. Instead, there’s an elderly man tackling a crossword, a woman crocheting what looks to be a mobile-phone cosy and a pair of middle-aged men chatting away merrily about the amazing bread peacock they saw on this week’s Bake Off. I re-check the venue details on the letter scrunched up in my coat pocket. Anger management? It feels more like games afternoon at a dingy social club.

  The irony is I probably look exactly like I belong in anger management: newly shaved head, hoody, chewing gum like an insolent teenager. It’s like I’ve come in character. But I shouldn’t be here. It’s a joke. I didn’t do anything wrong.

  To avoid having to engage in small talk with a bunch of people I’ve never met, I head over to the canteen-style table in the corner. There’s a dent in the wall behind it and I wonder, with a flicker of anticipation, whether it was caused by an irate fist or a hurled mug. Perhaps things are going to get a little more exciting after all.

  I make a coffee, piling in the sugar, and loosen the lid of the biscuit tin. It’s a meagre selection. A few digestives, an abundance of the blandest biscuit in the world – the Rich Tea – and two chocolate Bourbons. It’s not really a choice. I take out a Bourbon, dunk it in my coffee and, great, lose most of it as it disintegrates and sinks to the bottom of the cup. What I really need is a bacon butty, something substantial enough to soak up some of the excess alcohol currently circulating through my veins, but beggars can’t be choosers, I guess.

  As I look down to check that my jeans aren’t embarrassingly hoicked up over my socks, I notice two small shoes sticking out from under the table. They’re bright blue with dinosaurs embossed on the side. Crouching down, I lift the tablecloth to be met by the eyes of a little boy, his eyebrows comically furrowed.

  ‘Hey, are you OK down there?’

  The boy, who must be only about five, studies me as if reading the words on a page but doesn’t speak. Then he buries his face in his knees and covers his head with his arms. I’m only being nice. Surely my face isn’t that off-putting? I scan the room to see if he belongs to anyone but, unless they’ve simply forgotten that their child exists, there are no obvious claimants so I try again.

  ‘Shall we go and find your mum or dad?’

  Tentatively, the boy uncovers one eye and peers out at me, then shakes his head, so, using the only strategy I know to successfully communicate with children, I reach up on to the table, locate the biscuit tin and hold it out to him.

  ‘Want one?’

  The boy eyes me suspiciously, then examines the selection before taking out the last Bourbon.

  ‘Good choice. Go on, take another one, if you want.’

  He looks at me as if he suspects it might be a trick, then slowly picks out a digestive. I can’t exactly leave him sitting on his own and I’m in no hurry to join the adults in the room, so I squeeze under the table and position myself next to him. The cramped dark spot turns out to be strangely appealing, like returning to the womb. Perhaps no one would notice if I spent the whole session down here.

  For a short time, we both tuck into our sugary snacks, the little boy looking over at me occasionally but still not saying a word. I’m not really sure what kids like to talk about anyway, so I’m happy to adopt the silence. Then, suddenly, there’s the sound of the door slamming shut and a man’s voice, breathless and panicked.

  ‘Alfie? Alfie, are you in here? Anyone seen a little boy?’

  I slither out from underneath the table and stand up. ‘He’s here.’

  A man and a woman run over, looking like they’ve just escaped from the pages of Tatler, him in his woollen peacoat and her in her Burberry mac. They definitely don’t look like they belong here.

  ‘Where is he?’ The man looks at me accusingly, like he thinks I’m just pretending to have found his son as some kind of sick prank.

  ‘He’s under the table.’

  Clearly devoid of manners (I guess money can’t buy you everything), he practically pushes me out of the way before he bends down, grabs the boy’s hand and pulls him out from under the table. The woman looks on expressionless, evidently not surprised to see her husband being so obnoxious.

  ‘What were you thinking, running off like that? We were so worried about you. Do you understand that, Alfie? We were terrified. Anything could’ve happened to you.’

  The man glances at me as if his son being found by someone who looks like me is near the top of his list of feared outcomes.

  The little boy crosses his arms and turns his head away from his dad. ‘You and Mummy were shouting.’

  ‘We were not shouting. Anyway, that’s no excuse. You know you should never go where we can’t see you.’

  Alfie glares at his dad and then lifts the digestive to his mouth in an unmistakable act of rebellion.

  ‘Give me that.’ The man grabs the remains of the boy’s biscuit out of his hand and,
in what turns out to be an extremely unwise decision, throws it in the bin at the end of the table.

  Well, it’s like a switch being flipped. The once silent boy starts screaming, at an incomprehensible volume given his small stature, and pummels his dad’s thigh like it’s a punching bag.

  The dad holds his son’s arms by his sides. ‘Alfie, be quiet. You can’t scream in here.’

  ‘Come on, Jake. Let’s just take him out,’ the woman says in a hushed voice. ‘Everyone’s staring.’

  The man surveys the circle of chairs, then looks at me before finally turning to his wife. ‘And that’s my fault, is it?’

  The boy refuses to walk of his own accord so his dad pulls him along with his feet dragging on the floor and bundles him out the door while the woman hurries behind, her eyes glued to her expensive leather boots.

  As they exit, a man strolls in carrying a folder. From his authoritative presence, I guess he’s the group leader. He has dreadlocks down his back and his clothes look like they belong to someone twice his size. I pick up my coffee, now offensively cold and laced with remnants of Bourbon, and join the circle, locating the final three empty chairs and purposefully sitting on the middle one.

  The elderly gentlemen who was doing the crossword puts it aside, leans across the empty seat and holds out his hand. ‘My name’s Bill. Welcome to the group.’ As he speaks, his eyes emit such kindness I can’t imagine him ever saying a cross word to anybody.

  ‘Thanks.’ I shake his hand. It always feels uncomfortable – a gesture more befitting a bygone era. Then there’s a pause during which he doesn’t look away – an implied expectation for me to offer more – but I’m not sure what ‘more’ he’s looking for.

  ‘And you are?’

  ‘Oh, sorry. I’m Emily.’

  He nods, raising his eyebrows in a playful expression that strips years from his face. ‘Ah, my granddaughter’s called Emily. I hope you’re nothing like her, though. She’s a pain in the backside, to be honest with you.’ He laughs and I smile awkwardly, looking down in the hope that will end the conversation. ‘Well, it’s lovely to have you here, Emily.’

  When I glance up to acknowledge his comment, I notice someone surveying me from across the room. It’s a woman in her forties. Clutching her imitation Prada bag and wearing shiny black patent heels, she brazenly looks down her nose at me. Women like that always do. Unfortunately for her, her low-budget hairdresser has gone for a slightly cheap-looking shade of red and her manicured fingernails are just that bit too long. Try as she might to disguise it, it’s obvious she’s from the same side of town as me. In fact, she looks a lot like my mum, which just makes me dislike her more.

  ‘Good afternoon, everyone.’ The group leader flashes perfectly straight white teeth, contrasting with his short black beard.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ the group responds in school-assembly-style unison.

  ‘Before we start today’s session, I just want to welcome a couple of new members to the group. They will be joining us until the end of this term, and beyond, of course, if they would like to.’

  No, thank you, I’d rather do an Aron Ralston and get my arm trapped by a boulder for 127 hours.

  Much to my embarrassment, he gestures towards me and all eyes turn in my direction. Then he looks around, searching for someone else. As he does so, the little boy’s dad walks back in, holding up his hands in apology.

  ‘Sorry I’m late,’ he whispers, walking through the centre of the circle.

  Unfortunately, the only empty spaces are next to me. He removes his posh coat, hangs it on the back of a chair and sits down. I shuffle away from him, my chair betraying me by squeaking against the floor.

  ‘Not a problem, Jake. There’s tea and coffee over there if you want to grab one in a minute. There might even be a biscuit if you’re lucky and these gannets haven’t eaten them all. Anyway, everyone, say hello to Emily and Jake.’

  ‘Hello,’ the group choruses.

  My face starts to burn and I sink into my chair. It’s like my first day at grammar school. Walking into the form room, worrying whether the heels of my shoes were high enough, if my skirt was the right length. Trying to disguise the rip in my second-hand blazer by wrapping my arms around my waist.

  I don’t say anything but offer a please-stop-staring-at-me twitch of the lips, then look down at my hands; the skin around my nails is dry and sore.

  Jake runs his hand through his exceptionally healthy-looking hair. ‘Nice to meet you all.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m not going to ask you to say anything about yourselves just yet, but I wanted to welcome you into the group. My name is Sam, by the way.’

  Sam has the perfect smile for someone whose job it is to maintain the calm of inherently pissed-off people. It’s warm and uplifting and I wonder if he’s developed it over time, practised it in the mirror, or if he’s just one of those irritatingly happy people who see the positive in everything. Lost your job? It’s the perfect chance to follow your dream! Car got stolen? Think of the health benefits! I’ve never understood it, myself. My counsellor once suggested that my ‘life experiences’ – what a great term that is – have skewed my view of the world, but I’m not convinced. I’m just a realist. Statistically, most marriages end. Most people work nine-to-five dead-end jobs that they hate, go home to houses that they’ll never be able to afford to buy, watch television programmes that don’t really interest them and then go to sleep, repeating the process until whatever ailment the Fates decide upon ends it. It’s like when my foster mum told me she had terminal cancer. I was heartbroken but, at the same time, there was a familiar inevitability to it. Of course the one adult who’d ever really cared about me was going to be taken away.

  It dawns on me, sitting here, that Sam’s is the kind of smile that makes me want to make a Sam effigy and stay up at night sticking pins into it.

  Maybe I am in the right place after all.

  Sam brings out a triangle and taps it. All at once, the group close their eyes, bow their heads and put their hands together in what looks like prayer. I’m not sure if my ears are deceiving me but I’m pretty sure some of them are actually emitting a low hum. They’re a few steps away from getting on the floor and launching into the downward bloody dog.

  After a few moments, Sam hits the triangle again and they all look up, like they’ve come out of hypnosis.

  ‘Now that we are all feeling centred and mentally and emotionally open, we shall begin. Please greet the person next to you. For our newbies, we make a declaration. Heather, Sharon, would you care to demonstrate?’

  Miss Hoity-Toity, the one who was eyeing me up earlier, sits tall in her chair, clearly revelling in taking centre stage. ‘Of course.’

  ‘Thank you, Sharon.’

  Her partner, a timid-looking woman with hair like black candyfloss, looks less sure, her head scanning from side to side as if she’s hoping there’s someone else in the room called Heather. But, with a sinking of the shoulders, she seems to accept there isn’t and takes hold of her partner’s outstretched hands.

  Predictably, Sharon speaks first, announcing her declaration theatrically. ‘I promise to listen without judgement and to be honest to myself and to you.’

  Heather repeats the line quietly, then they let go of each other’s hands.

  After that, excruciatingly, we’re all expected to do the same. Jake rubs his palms on his jeans, turns to me and holds out his hands. I keep mine tucked firmly under my legs.

  ‘Look,’ he says through gritted teeth, ‘I don’t want to do this either, but we’ve got no choice. Sam’s watching us.’

  I glance over at Sam and he looks away, pretending he hasn’t clocked my rebellion. Poor guy’s got his work cut out with me.

  Seeming to accept I’m not going to hold his hands any time this millennium, Jake drops his, then says, loudly enough for Sam to hear, ‘I promise to listen without judgement and to be honest to myself and to you.’

  I chew the skin around my thumbn
ail. ‘What you said.’

  ‘OK, everyone,’ Sam says. ‘Great. So the talking point for your pairs today is key triggers. Things that really set off your anger. It doesn’t have to be the big stuff – just anything that you know really riles you. Try to make a list, then we’ll share with the group. Because remember –’ and here the whole group joins in with him – ‘it is not until we understand ourselves better that we can heal ourselves.’

  Sam sweeps his hands out in front of him like a priest delivering a sermon and the group respond with a uniform bow. It feels like I’ve accidentally walked into some kind of cult.

  ‘You want to go first?’ Jake holds out the pen and paper we’ve been provided with.

  I take it and write, voicing my words aloud. ‘My main trigger is being forced to sit in classes that I do not effing belong in, discussing an anger problem that I don’t actually have.’

  Jake raises his eyebrows. ‘You sure you don’t have an anger problem?’

  He laughs, smugness striding across his lips.

  I smile in a way that shows him I’m not amused. ‘I’m sure. You, on the other hand …’ I stop and leave him to fill in the blanks.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, it’s pretty clear why you’re here.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  I bite my tongue. I’m not sure getting into an altercation at the class I’ve been sent to supposedly to curb such behaviour is in my best interests. ‘Nothing. Doesn’t matter.’

  ‘No, go on. Tell me why you think I’m here. I’m fascinated.’

  Arrogant prick.

  ‘Well, if you really want to know, I saw how rough you were with your little boy. No wonder he ran away. Your wife looked scared shitless too. It doesn’t take a genius, does it?’

  Jake exhales vociferously out of his nose, chin down, like a bull preparing to charge. ‘I was not rough with my son. You think you know everything about me because you witnessed one incident? You haven’t got a clue.’