The Vale - Part 1 (c)

I’ve grown used to our home, to the space, the cosy fug of central heating, clean white bathrooms, muted decor, nutritious food and luxuries. It still has that new house smell, fire retardant chemicals and paint but there’s something else, one of Lori’s expensive scented candles burning in the kitchen/diner. 

 

Our house is slightly lower than the road, it feels just like a cave, a warm, dry cave, the sort that cavemen would have fought over with spears and rocks, pulling each other’s hair, stopping at nothing in their quest for a claim on it. Then again, it’s big enough for more than one family. A cave the size of our house could have sheltered several families. In the distant past of human existence, I like to think people were more likely to share, or were they?

 

I can hear splashing coming from our family bathroom. ‘Hello,’ I shout up the stairs.

 

Lori and Fox are laughing. ‘Oh hi,’ she says, in a tinny voice, devoid of emotion. She’s not all that pleased to see me anymore, not since Fox’s arrival.

 

I step halfway in through the open door and hover there. Lori doesn’t speak, her eyes are firmly on her little Fox and his dark blue eyes turn to me as he grins, splashes his tiny hands on the surface of the bath water and makes his sounds which are almost real words. There’s a part of me that doesn’t want him to start saying real words, the gurgling is so wonderful, so unique and most of all, we understand it, or at least the sentiment behind it. He never needs to learn to speak, we know him so well. At this point in time, I see no reason why he can’t just carry on living with us forever within the protective walls of our cave.

 

Lori gets up suddenly. ‘Can you take him now. I’ve got something in the oven.’

 

‘Yes. Let me just wash my hands.’ My hands feel grimy from the communal dirt of the keyboards. Hot-desking is filth. I don’t want any of those germs anywhere near my son. He is pure, unspoilt, like an angel or a being still watched over by angels. He hasn’t long left the calm quiet of the womb, where all life begins; he swam up to the blinding sky above the surface and took his first breaths. I am always aware that there is so much here which can harm him, it seems like a miracle that babies can grow up intact without befalling some horrific accident.

 

I take the white towel off the radiator and place it on top of the laundry basket then I hold out my hands and Fox grabs my index fingers with a grip which is startlingly strong for fingers so tiny. I lift him into a standing position and one by one tease my fingers away from his and slide them under his arms. His skin feels too soft, it’s almost like my hands could pass through it, into some otherworldly realm of divine beings. I wrap him up in the towel, carry him to his small, yellow bedroom and hold him tightly in my lap as we sit on the wicker arm chair next to his cot.

 

‘There was once a little boy called Jam,’ I whisper into his ear, bouncing him on my knee,‘his name wasn’t really Jam but that’s what people called him because he was made of jam because that was mostly what he ate. His mother didn’t cook much, not like mummy and food was expensive in those days. Anyway he was a fussy eater and he really liked bread and jam. He also felt as if he were living in a jar of jam, everything was sticky and it was hard to get a clear view of the outside and it was just so hard to get away from people….’

 

‘Jamie?’

 

I sigh. It seems that wherever I’m having real quality time with my son, Lori interrupts. ‘Yes?’

 

‘Dinner’s nearly ready. Do you want to give him his bottle?’

 

‘Yes…bring it up.’

 

I hear her coming up the stairs, shaking the bottle. ‘Have you put his nappy on?’

 

‘No, he’s fine, I’ll do it in a minute. I don’t want him to get cold.’

 

Lori laughs. ‘He’ll pee on your trousers,’ she says, grinning as she passes me the warm bottle of milk.

 

I shake it and watch as Fox sucks down on the teat, consuming it in great gulps as he breathes heavily through his nostrils and rubs his eyes with the back of his hands. He is always so tired by the time I get home from work, I only seem to see him when he’s tired. There’s just never any time anymore. When most of the milk is gone he releases his grip and is slipping into a sleep state. I gently lay him on the changing mat but the cold plastic wakes him up and he starts crying. That was a mistake, why didn’t I keep the towel under him? Now I know Lori will come back upstairs and take over.

 

‘Shshsh, shshsh. His name was Jam,’ I say gently, touching the end of his nose with my finger.

 

He looks up at me with a serious expression and suddenly goes quiet as if he is concentrating then he attempts to mimic the sound.

 

‘No,’ I whisper, ‘don’t say that, please don’t let that be your first word.’

 

‘A…ammm,’ he says again, laughing this time.

 

Lori is coming back upstairs now. ‘Is everything alright?’ she says, ‘only dinner is ready now.’

 

‘Yes, yes,’ I answer dismissively, ‘I’m just getting him into his bodysuit for bed.’

 

I’m never sure whether I love Lori or I just love the idea of her, the notion of a perfect woman, good and neat, well-mannered, ambitious, not too much, just enough to not be dull but still devoted to us, Fox and me that is. There’s Lori and then there is the shadow which stands beside her. Inside the shadow is the hole where there is just enough space for everything to go wrong. For me to really love Lori the person is far too risky so I try to remain attached only to the idea of her.

 

I sometimes have to pinch myself when I think about how six years ago, I discovered that Lori was attracted to me. My colleagues, they all knew, whispered around the lockers and nudged each other when she walked into the office, flicking her shiny brown hair. The news left me shocked and bewildered and then I found myself in a position whereby I had little choice in my fate because Lori is one of the beautiful people and you don’t get one chance with them.

 

She is one of the girls you don’t say no to, don’t let slip through your fingers because you’d be mad to. To have rejected her would have raised questions about me, the answers to which are absurdly complex. My colleagues set us up on double dates. I thought perhaps she felt sorry for me but as the months went by I realised that she was serious and any resistance was futile. I met her loving and affluent parents and they loved me too. I saw a functional family and I slowly got dragged into this smooth, comfortable, normal existence.

 

The smoothness would suit almost everyone except people like me. The lack of friction leaves too much space around the sides. I feel like I’m in free fall and my mind keeps going astray, catastrophising terrible things that could happen to us. The scenarios give me something to grip onto and when I’m not catastrophising, I’m thinking about my past life, there’s plenty to grip onto there.

 

To date, I haven’t found anything about her which could be defined as less than top drawer in terms of human qualities. Aside from her fine, inoffensive looks, she is kind, compassionate and what is commonly termed as good. Although increasingly, I have noticed that she sometimes focuses too much on coming across as a good person, she jumps in, feet first to defend people who appear to be victims but when you poke around below the surface, they may not be. 

 

She’s a little too trusting but perhaps that’s good because I don’t trust anyone. If I’m picking holes in her that’s because I, myself have a plethora of rusty nails poking outwards through me and to push them back in would be too painful.

 

I know I’m so lucky to be on this current planet but since my son was born and as I approach middle-age, I find myself frequently looking back to the old one; through closed eyes, I can see it so clearly, it’s there, on the insides of my eyelids and in my dreams that world shines so bright. The sun reflecting on the tower blocks, the stark flat expanses of glossy grass, shimmering in the breeze. The litter blowing along the wide straight roads, runways from which we took off and flew away.

 

The place where I live now is filled with texture, green trees, an undulating landscape with a mix of houses, old and new, the humans who reside here do so in dwellings which are politely spaced. The view from my bedroom window is one of a walnut tree and the golf course beyond. It’s lush and leafy; a psychologist might refer to it as ‘restorative’. 

 

It has occurred to me that almost all of my neighbours from the old planet would look out of place walking on that golf course, it’s just a fact that they would each stick out like a sore thumb. The restorative nature of the surroundings would unleash gallons of backed-up oppression which would render their reaction to the beautifully manicured grounds inappropriate. 

 

Lori has cooked a sort of tray-bake of chicken with potatoes, vegetables and herbs, she knows about domestic stuff, about food. Our bodies are high-functioning vessels made from quality ingredients, we are healthy, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed as my mother used to say, not that she was, at least not after she had kids but for now at least, we are. Fox lets us sleep now for several hours a night. 

 

It’s our minds though, or at least mine; no amount of good food and pampering can quieten the mind, it just doesn’t work like that. I can’t imagine that Lori has a restless mind. Admittedly I am excellent at hiding from her the darker details of my own thoughts, they are so fast and so many that it’s not something which could be articulated in words, not without causing great alarm. I assume that Lori’s own thoughts are ordered and uncomplicated, built upon the foundations of a calm, happy childhood. I think she expects me to harbour an internal composure which matches my steady external demeanour. She is wrong.

 

‘That smells nice,’

 

‘It’s dead easy to make. Would you like some wine?’

 

‘No…no thanks. It’ll only wake me up during the night.’ 

 

Lori laughs. ‘You’re the only person I know who is woken by drinking wine. You’re so funny Jamie, I’ve honestly never met anyone like you.’

 

She’s staring at me now with adoring eyes, the sort that makes me feel guilty. What is it that she is seeing? I reach out and squeeze her hand. The truth is I don’t like wine, it tastes like poison. ‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’ 

 

The twinge of guilt dissipates. I don’t know why she loves me so much but sometimes it makes me feel uncomfortable. It’s a lot of pressure to be a good husband especially when the idea of Lori is so perfect. I don’t know who she thinks I am, whether she’s created her own version of Jamie, a sort of avatar. the mythical Jamie and that is who she loves. One day the layers will fall away and the inside of me will be exposed, then she will rub up against the rough parts and our relationship will be abraded and the bubble will burst. That cannot happen now because of our little Fox, I must do everything possible to avoid that happening.

 

‘It’s meant to make you sleep,’ she says laughing and chewing her food, subtly like a princess.

 

‘It does make me fall asleep but it’s a sick sleep and then at two or three am, I’ll be wide awake. Anyway I’ve got a horrible day tomorrow so I need a good night’s rest with no disturbances.’

 

‘Oh no, really, don’t tell me, what’s his name, Ian Rook again?’

 

I nod. ‘I’ve got a big meeting and he’ll be there, yes. He’s just got it in for me,’ I shrug, ‘not sure why. Maybe it’s my accent.’

 

‘You don’t have an accent, not anymore.’

 

I stared at Lori quizzically. ‘And what if I did?’

 

She looks down and shakes her head quickly. ‘Doesn’t bother me. I love your accent, well I did before you put it away in a box and put the lid on.’

 

I laugh. She’s right and I’ll continue to sit on that lid. There is a strange double standard which exists on this planet whereby people who would never discriminate against somebody on the basis of anything else may express pure hatred based on a particular local accent in their birth country. 

 

‘I don’t know what his problem is. He’s known by everyone to be a bit of a bully and I guess he’s picked me as one of his targets. Maybe I’ve upset him, somehow.’

 

‘It’s because he’s short, Jamie and you’re much better looking than him.’ 

 

‘That wouldn’t be hard. He looks like a sewer rat.’

 

Lori laughs, ‘That’s true. And you’re married.’

 

I shrug, ‘So?’

 

‘So, I bet he’s single. He can’t possibly have a family, all that man does is work and make other people’s lives miserable.’

 

‘I think he’s divorced. It doesn’t make it any easier though because he’s two job grades above me, I can’t really push back. I’d love to just kick the shit out of him, out in the carpark.’

 

‘Jamie!’

 

‘Don’t worry. I’m just joking.’ I wasn’t, I fantasised about it constantly.