Little Miss Question Mark

Kelsey’s inquiring mind is all the harder for me to deal with after her dad and I parted on bad terms

We’re having a May miniheatwave and if the Saturday shoppers keep crowding me I may melt into a puddle. Keeping a tight grip on Kelsey, I battle through a heavy glass door into the depths of a big store; it’s no less crowded but at least it has air conditioning.

Kelsey tugs my hand. “Mummy, who dresses the shop dummies?” I smile down at her. “People are trained to do it. They’ve made the bright summer clothes look lovely, haven’t they?”

Meet Kelsey, my daughter, pretty as a picture in her pink dress and rabbit backpack, wide grey eyes taking everything in. She’s bright and curious – my, is she curious! – a non-stop chatterbox and a walking question mark. www.myweekly.co.uk

We’re holiday clothes shopping. I’ve been looking forward to going away for spring half-term so much, but now I’m putting on a happy face for Kelsey while actually stewing over the terrible argument I had with my husband, Jon. We both lost our tempers and probably all sense of proportion.

Next thing I knew, Jon was leaving with his one, inadequate-looking suitcase and it was sinking in that he may not make this holiday I’ve scrimped and saved for.

Of course, I’ll still make the week in Disneyland Paris magical for Kelsey. Five-year-olds deserve magic.

Kelsey heaves a discontented sigh. “Why does everyone come here at once?”

I resist saying, “Just to aggravate me!” Answering a Kelsey-question flippantly is bound to lead to wild circles of “Why?” and “But you said…” So I offer a sensible explanation.

“A lot of people work on weekdays, the same days you go to school.” Inquiring eyes gaze up at me. “When does Daddy work?” Here we go – groan. “I’m not sure with his new job. Shall we –” “Why aren’t you sure?” “He hasn’t told me. Shall we –” “Then he might be working right now?” “He might.” Then, at top speed to pre-empt the next interruption, “Shallwehaveacake?”

Kelsey shelves her interrogation to join the crush in the coffee shop and chooses a large iced doughnut, peeping at me through the centre with one eye. “Why’s there a hole?” This is relatively easy. “To make a nice ring shape.” The grey eye twinkles. “How will you know whether I’ve eaten the hole?”

I laugh, and Kelsey laughs back. Her attention switches swiftly to the waitress who’s bringing her juice and my tea. “Why’s the cup white?” The waitress shrugs. “Um… I suppose that’s the colour the lady who buys our crockery chose.” “Why?” The waitress shakes her head. “Err… I don’t know.” Eek! Not “I don’t know.” That’s a challenge so far as Kelsey’s concerned, a positive invitation for a hail of questions. I interpose hastily.

“Maybe so that it’s easy to see when they’re clean?”

Kelsey gives a satisfied nod. All she requires is a reasonable answer. We sip our drinks while I wonder if Jon’s OK. “Can Mickey Mouse whistle?” “I’m pretty sure I’ve seen the cartoon Mickey do it. I think the one at Disneyland might not have the same mouth, though.” I pass her the Mickey Mouse book we bought earlier, hoping for a few moments’ peace. It’s not that I can’t be bothered – kids learn by asking – but occasionally I need a breather. Why’s the sky blue? Why haven’t fish got feet? Who made up the first song?

And, recently, a lot of questions about Jon’s absence.

Even as the thought crosses my mind she brings the subject up. “Did Dad have to go?” Tricky. How do you explain to a five-year-old that, sometimes, grownups’ options are not clear-cut? We all know we should do the right thing but knowing what “the right thing” is can be difficult. I temporise.

“He certainly felt that he had to.”

I WRITE LISTS and try not to add Jon’s name to the STILL NEEDED list

“He’s gone away to do his job, hasn’t he? An important job, planning buildings. Why hasn’t he phoned?”

“I don’t think he’s near a telephone and there’s no mobile signal.” None the less scary for being true. Kelsey swings her cute blue trainers. “Will he be back for Disneyland? Couldn’t he wait until after the holiday?”

It’s as if an entire doughnut has lodged abruptly in my throat. I hear echoes of myself that horrible evening that Jon left. Why now? Do you have togo? What about the holiday? When I was really asking: Will you be safe?

I remember Jon’s conflicting loyalties showing clearly in his expression.

“Don’t make this more difficult than it is. It’s something I have to do.”

He’d tried to console me. I’d snatched away, frightened and disappointed. Kelsey recalls me again. “Dad’s far, far away, isn’t he?” “Quite far.” I blink back the hot tears I refuse to shed. “Is he lonely without us?” I ruffle her fluffy cap of hair. “Shouldn’t think so. He’s not alone.” She licks doughnut sugar from the corners of her mouth.

“At least there’s still time for him to come home before Disneyland.”

As the days pass, I’m racked with uncertainty. I resort to fierce gaiety as we start getting the suitcases down and packing the clothes we won’t need before half term begins. I write lists and lose them and try not to add Jon’s name to the Still Needed list.

I’ve bought him some holiday clothes, in case he makes it home. I hope he does.

His voice, when he finally rings, during the night so I have to climb out of bed to answer, is like a stranger’s. As if he’s thousands of miles away on an outdated phone in an old hut, words disappearing into hiss before they reach me.

“I’m on my way so I should… day before, but it’s difficult to be sure of a time, so… taxi. OK?… Kelsey, too?… I love…”

I’m left holding a silent phone and wondering. I love… holidays? Fries with ketchup? You?

At least I gleaned enough to be pretty sure he’ll be here for the holiday. My heart, which has felt rather icy despite the weather, begins an experimental glow. Just a little one in among the nasty doubts, but it’s there.

Half term starts tomorrow and I haven’t told Kelsey that her daddy might be home today because “When, when, when?” could drive me demented. She’s bursting with joy as we come in

from school. “We’re going to Disneyland tomorrow, aren’t we? We’re going to put the car on a train.”

“That’s right.” I check my watch for the hundredth time.

“But why –?” Then Kelsey dashes to the window to investigate a noise outside. And there’s Jon paying a cabbie, suitcase between his feet. Through the flood of relief I feel a tiny dig of irritation that he looks so relaxed and healthy when I’ve been so anxious and pinched.

Kelsey catapults back from the window. “Daddy’s home for the holiday!”

I beam through a glitter of thankful tears and Kelsey races for the front door. Her words fall over one another. “Are you back for the holiday? Are you back forever? Have you been far away?” Jon laughs shakily. “You haven’t changed much, Miss Question Mark!” He swoops her up into the air and I watch the love and joy dancing across their faces.

His approach to me is more tentative, our anger still between us. I offer only my cheek for his kiss and so he makes no attempt to fling his spare arm around me. “Coffee?” I offer politely. “Thank you.” Like a stranger. We face each other warily over the drinks, Kelsey clinging tight to her dad. Jon gazes at me. “Have you been OK?”

“Apart from not knowing what might happen to you.” Part of me longs to hurl myself on him. The rest is cautious, until I know what I have to deal with. Kelsey, of course, simply romps in. “Is the work finished, Daddy?” Jon drops a kiss on her head. “No. It’s too big a job for that, it’ll take a couple of years.” My heart clunks into my boots. Stress suddenly shows in Jon’s face. He scoops Kelsey onto his lap, meeting my eyes over her head.

“I’m sorry it was so sudden but I thought going was the right thing to do.” He hesitates then addresses the rest of his explanation to Kelsey’s upturned face, in terms she’ll understand. But I know he’s speaking to me, too.

“You know I work for a big company? Well, they decided to help people in a far away country, people without something we take for granted – a home.

“I wasn’t supposed to be involved, but the man who should’ve been organising water and drains, he got ill. So I said I’d go. If I hadn’t, the whole big project would’ve been held up, and those people would’ve been without homes for longer.”

I fidget, remembering the shock of the phone call, his calm tones explaining he’d volunteered, was leaving in a matter of hours. My outrage by the time he’d reached home to pack. How upset I was. I’d hinged it all on not knowing if he’d make it back for the holiday. Not that he was going into danger.

When he wouldn’t assure me that he was only the stopgap, I demanded, “But surely the other bloke will take over when he’s better?”

Jon lifted his eyes from his packing. “I wonder if I ought to see it out myself.” “But you’re a family man,” I snapped. Each of us considered the other’s view to be selfish. After a chilly goodbye and a message through his firm that he’d arrived safely, I heard no more.

Now Jon strokes our daughter’s cheek and I notice how work-worn his hand is. The weariness in the set of his shoulders.

“I couldn’t call you – there were no phones. Just the radio for emergencies.”

“Were there postcards?” Jon grins. “’Fraid not. And even if there were, there wasn’t a postman to collect them. We were a long, long drive away from a town.”

“So what progress did you make?” I don’t realise I’m interested enough to ask until I hear my voice. My worries have been too much about Jon going to a ruined country with potentially hostile elements and few civilised conveniences to think much about what the team was doing for people who’d lost their homes in the turmoil of war.

Jon rests his head back. “Very good. Planning, mainly, so everything will work when development begins.” He tells us a little bit about the dust and the heat and the tearful cheers when a basic water supply was restored. Kelsey pops a question in. “So are you going back to build the homes for the people?”

Jon strokes her hair. “No. The other man’s going out there in a couple of weeks. A man without a wife and family to consider.” Again, his eyes find mine. “I knew the moment I left that I’d never sign up for the two years. I so wanted to help, but my commitment is to my family. I missed you both!” I swallow. “I missed you.” I’d been so afraid that he’d stay away, but also so guilty for wanting to take him away from people who needed him.

I gulp back a sob and launch myself to join Jon and Kelsey on the settee.

“I’m sorry! I had no right to be cross when you were doing something so worthwhile.”

Then strong arms are around me, and lips are kissing any further apologies from mine. “I should never have considered doing any more than filling in.”

We surface when Kelsey asks, “Shall we pack a case for Daddy?”

I grin at the thought of the suitcase standing in the spare room.

“It’s all done. I didn’t ever want to believe Daddy wouldn’t make it.”

Jon STROKES our daughter’s cheek. I notice how WORK-WORN his hand is