When The Tide Turns
Could he win over Rufus?
The seagull looked like it was here on business. I think it was because it reminded me of my boss, Ray – beady eyes, head somehow too big for its body, the sense it might poo on me at any moment. It edged along the harbour wall, so I transferred the bag of chips to my other side and flailed an arm at it. The seagull cocked its head, entirely untroubled.
I looked around. Had anyone on the beach seen my wild, ineffective shooing? Had Rufus? Thankfully not. He was playing his favourite game of the holiday – building a sandcastle and standing on top, waiting for the tide to come in, seeing how long he could remain on dry land. Oh, to be three years old and so carefree.
It was the hottest day of the summer. A haze rippled the air along the harbour wall. The beach was packed, a situation not helped by the competitive dads erecting gazebos of such epic proportions it was as if they were cementing defence positions. Was that what being a dad was? If I lacked that alpha streak would Rufus ever respect me? He’d been raised for two years by a six-foot-four Consultant Radiologist who did Ironmans for fun. Now I was on the scene – an IT drone who spent his days helping people put smiley faces in their email signatures, and whose only recent exercise had been running after an ice cream van.
I felt movement behind me.
“You’re slouching,” Tess said, tweaking my ear as she swung her legs over the wall to sit beside me. “You need to engage your core.”
“I haven’t engaged my core since the late nineties,” I said. Tess stole the chip that was en route to my mouth and redirected it into her own.
Satisfied with his defences, Rufus was standing atop his mound with his hands on his hips, looking out at the waves like a little melancholy sea captain – an illusion that was only briefly broken when he shoved both hands down the back of his shorts and accidentally mooned us.
The family next to us had spent all day building an impressive wall of sand to trap seawater and make their own pool. They were packing up now, as were others. It was definitely feeling like the end of the holiday.
Tess leaned back, tilting her head up to face the sun, and not for the first time that year I wondered if I was actually dreaming. I often found myself so startled by how beautiful she was that I’d be rooted to the spot – milk halfway to the fridge, or socks unpaired mid-air – while she fixed me with a look that said, don’tknowwhat’shappeninginthat headofyours,andfranklyI’mquiteglad thatIdon’t.
Tess and I met in the most romcom way ever – she was the paramedic who saved my life. She would tell you I was being dramatic, but I’ll let you be the
Ijudge. I was crossing the road after work, settling on “freezer surprise” for dinner – would it be a lasagne or chilli in the unlabelled food box? Only nine minutes on high power would tell! – when a van jumped a red light. I closed my eyes and heard tyres screech. Time stopped. This was it. This was the end.
Anyway, it missed me, but five minutes later while trying to avoid a wasp I walked straight into a lamppost and knocked myself out. Tess was on a break, leaning on the side of an ambulance outside the hospital with a cup of tea, and had seen the whole thing.
Apparently, there’s something about drifting in and out of consciousness that emboldens me, because I heard myself asking Tess if she wanted to go for a drink. She laughed it off at first, but after we’d chatted and she’d patched me up – perhaps for longer than was strictly necessary – she said, “That drink sounds like a good idea.”
“Great. How about now?” I asked, looking at my wrist, before realising I hadn’t owned a watch for twelve years.
“Why don’t we wait until you’re not so… concussed?” Tess suggested.
A week later, we were in a pub I had chosen for our first date. What it lacked in ambience it made up for in novelty crisps and a plethora of livid bartenders. I am very bad at choosing pubs, which is annoying because I am very good at drinking wine.
“By the way,” Tess said. “I’ve got a two-year-old… Rufus. Thought I should mention it.” She sipped her drink. “Does that bother you?” she asked, with a forthrightness I was soon to become used to.
“Nope,” I said, as if she’d asked me something as inconsequential as whether I cared for tzatziki.
At the end of the evening, we exchanged a typically awkward first date goodbye – handshakes and hugs and cheek kisses all arriving in an intricate dance before, delightfully, Tess patted me on the side of the face like a continental football manager.
As I took the bus home, already punch-drunk with love, and drunk-drunk on wine, I actually considered the question for the first time. Did I mind that she had a two-year-old child? I didn’t know, was the honest answer.
By the time I’d got home I realised that the only part of me that did mind was the part that worried I’d be rubbish at looking after kids. I thought of the time a friend asked me to feed their cat when they were away. After ten minutes of swearing and sweating as I failed inexplicably to open its food pouch, the cat actually put its paw on my knee, in what was unmistakably a gesture of reassurance, as if to say, Hey!You’re doinggreat,kiddo.
As I’d feared, things got off to a rocky
Things got off to a rocky start with Rufus, even though I had tried several different tacks to gain his trust
start with Rufus. I tried several tacks – playing the wacky fool, then earnest and interested, but nothing seemed to win him over.
“Do you think I’m trying too hard?” I asked Tess.
“No,” she said, but only after a pause that told me that I definitely was.
A year passed, and – gloriously – Tess and I were now an item. But though Rufus had begun to trust me a little more, I still wasn’t able to connect with him in the way I’d hoped. This was particularly disappointing, because I’d really started to like the little chap. Maybe he was too young to have trust issues, but was he worried that I was going to leave, like his dad? All I knew was I would stay with Tess until the moment she came to her senses and realised she was far too good for me.
Gallantly, I offered Tess my last chip. “Why thank you, squire,” she said. She looked over at Rufus. “You all right, Ruf?” she called. Rufus did a quick pirouette and waved, before returning to his sea captain pose.
“Has he got sun cream on?” Tess said. “Yep,” I said, brandishing the factor forty. Suncream was a real battle with Rufus. The only way I could convince him to wear it was by dolloping out a great load in his upturned hand, whereupon he would slather it carelessly over himself like a bored performance artist.
Tess dismissed Ray the seagull with