Buyer’s Remorse Chapters 3 - 4 by Maeryn Lamonte Copyright © 2023 The new life isn't quite what he anticipated. He'd asked to be similar age, similar intelligence, same culture, not unattractive, and he'd been given all those things, after a fashion. What he hadn't counted on was being married to a fat, lazy and abusive husband with a couple of troubled pre-teen sons. It wasn't the life she'd wanted, but was better than nothing?

Chapter 3

The stairs groaned out in protest, signalling the emergence of – and I already hated thinking of him as such – my husband. He didn’t join us, but went into the front room, closing the door firmly enough behind him to indicate he didn’t want to be disturbed. A few short moments later, the muffled sounds of some Saturday morning sports fixture made their way through the thin walls. Despite his deliberately separating himself from us, I was almost certain he would expect me to present him with breakfast and possibly a fresh cup of tea or coffee without asking. I wasn’t sure I wanted to risk angering him any more than I already had, but not knowing what he expected, I was as likely to incur another outburst if I presented him with the wrong thing as if I went and asked.

The boys, who had been gently squabbling over their breakfast, stopped the instant they heard their father. They now sat, silent and afraid, whatever they hadn’t eaten of their breakfast now forgotten.

“Why don’t you two go and get yourselves dressed?” I suggested quietly. “I’ll find out what your dad wants for breakfast.”

They didn’t need telling twice. Chairs scraped against the bare wooden floor and two pairs of small, but surprisingly loud, feet thundered up the stairs.

I pushed open the door into the living room to see Daddy Bear spread out across the three-seater sofa in a way that left no room for anyone else. Even his youngest son would have been hard pressed to squeeze into the space he’d left unused.

“What do you want?” he asked sullenly without even the courtesy of turning his eyes from the TV.

Of all things, it was an American football game and, as seems typical of such, appeared to consist primarily of grown men standing about for minutes on end, trying to decide what they were going to do with the next twenty seconds of play. I found his casual disregard too much to ignore.

“Well, if you’re going to be like that,” I sniffed, “you can jolly well make your own breakfast.”

The television went on mute and he turned what I imagine he hoped was a baleful glare in my direction.

“What did you say?”

“You heard,” I turned to leave. “And if you could do some of the washing up while you’re at it, that would be appreciated.”

It was a step too far, but I’ve always had a problem with bullies and boundaries. Of course, I’d always been better equipped to deal with them once I’d pissed them off before.

“Come back here, you fat cunt!” He yelled after me.

I didn’t. I headed upstairs.

I didn’t make it up more than three steps before something grabbed hold of my dressing gown and yanked me backwards. In the confines of the narrow stairwell, I fell awkwardly, banging the back of my head on the wall, and landing painfully on my coccyx.

For a fat git he could move quickly when he wanted to. He leaned in and grabbed a double handful of nightdress, hauling me bodily to my feet and tearing the thin fabric as he did so. My head was spinning from my collision with the house, and I was still reeling as he pulled me close in front of him.

“I don’t work all the hours that God fucking sends,” he growled into my face, “so that you can spend all your life sitting back on your fat, lardy arse. It’s the fucking weekend and you will make me my fucking breakfast, you lazy fucking piece of shit.”

He pushed me backwards through the door into the dining room, where I barely managed to hold my balance.

“Eggs, bacon, sausage, beans, fried bread, in case you’re going to try and tell me you’ve forgotten again, and a coffee with milk and three fucking sugars.

“I swear, you’d better buck up your fucking ideas woman, or you’ll fucking well regret it.”

The door slammed leaving me staring at it, dazed and bewildered. I straightened my glasses then absent-mindedly raised a hand to the back of my head and felt where I’d cracked my skull. It was tender but there was no blood. What really hurt was the base of my spine, and, to a slightly lesser extent, my pride.

I thought about grabbing a frying pan and laying into him with it, but it wouldn’t be worth the risk. Fat and out of shape as he was, he was still immensely stronger than me, and he obviously had a temper on him. If I enraged him further, there was no knowing where he would stop, or even if he would.

Feeling helpless, terrified and frustrated beyond measure, I turned to my mess of a kitchen to put together his breakfast of choice.

Despite earlier comments to the contrary, I do know my way around a frying pan. There was a time in my life when my diet had been this bad, but I’d noticed in myself the early onset of what had become a full blown equator on Mr Blobby in the other room, and I’d found healthier ways of feeding myself. As I set the rashers of bacon and sausages sizzling – three of each in the hope that would be enough – I found myself wondering what I might do to increase the dose of fat, and whether murder by cholesterol poisoning could be proved.

It didn’t take long to prepare. The eggs were the last to go in, along with the fried bread, soaking in enough grease to harden the arteries just by looking at it. The coffee was instant, so quick and easy enough to make. I’d regained my composure by the time the greasy mess was ready, to the point where I no longer actually wished a heart attack on him, but even so, I doubt I’d have shed many tears if he’d had one.

There were no clean plates or cutlery, so I gave a few dirties a brief wipe with a piece of kitchen roll. I’m not usually slovenly, but then, most of the mess here was not of my making. I didn’t feel kindly enough to the fat slob to do the job properly, so think of it as the equivalent of a waiter gobbing in the coffee of a particularly obnoxious customer. Brits have a long-standing tradition of acting in quiet rebellion against their oppressors; I was just making my own cultural contribution.

I put the plate and mug on a tin tray and carried it through to him. I didn’t wait for any response. I doubted there would be one, but even if he had deigned to say anything, I was pretty sure it would be sufficiently patronising that I’d have ended up dumping it all over his head. Leaving him engrossed in his game, I headed upstairs to see what the boys were up to, and to get dressed myself.

…

I stuck my head into the kids’ room to find Steven wearing his football kit and the younger, as yet unnamed, brother sitting on the floor playing with his Lego.

“I thought I told you both to get dressed,” I said.

Steven’s face twisted into something approaching a gloat. “Michael’s wet himself,” he announced delightedly.

“I have not!” the newly labelled Michael shouted.

“Oh yeah?” Steven shouted back. “Then what’s that disgusting stink?”

“Okay, that’s enough!” I yelled at the top of my lungs. Both boys stopped mid-row and stared wide-eyed. Was it possible they weren’t used to their mum raising her voice? What did that say about the old me? Not the time to think about it now. Firm hand needed. “Steven, why are you wearing your football kit?” It seemed unfair to pick on the older boy all the time, but at the same time, I was getting fed up with his attitude and the way he kept trying to wind up his brother. As it happened it backfired this time.

“Because I have a football match this morning, you silly cow!”

I was not having that. I marched up to him across the debris-strewn floor and took firm hold of his wrist.

“Don’t you dare talk to me like that,” I told him in low, measured tones.

“Ow!” he cried, twisting his arm to get free. “You’re hurting me.” His voice turned whiny and pitiful, but I suspected he was causing himself more pain from the squirming than I was from simply holding him.

“And I shall hurt you a lot more if you don’t apologise. I will not be spoken to in that manner. Not under my own roof.”

“Dad does it.”

“And we’ll just have to see where that leads, won’t we? Besides, just because he doesn’t have the manners of a pig, that’s no reason why you can’t learn to behave better. Now, I’m waiting.”

He stopped squirming and I eased my hold on him a little. Giving a sudden tug on his arm he snatched it free, making a run for the door.

“Fine! No football then.”

That stopped him short in his tracks.

“You can’t!”

“Watch me.”

“They’re relying on me, Mum!”

It was so strange being called that. I’d been slipping into the role I’d been given, regardless of how little I was enjoying it, but just hearing his young voice call me mum brought with it an odd mix of feelings, the main contenders being an unwarranted softening of my resolve and a renewed sense of the strangeness of this whole situation.

“Well,” I said, managing, with a supreme effort, to keep my head clear, “if they’re relying on you, I suggest you man up and do what you know you have to do.”

He looked sullenly at the floor. Michael, meanwhile, was looking back and forth between us as though we’d each grown a second head.

“Any child of mine,” there it was again, that weird mix of contradictory feelings, “who doesn’t know how to keep a civil tongue in his head does not deserve privileges like being able to play football on a Saturday morning.”

The sullen look shifted from the floor to my eyes. I could all but see him slapping me around the room in his mind. Well, it was about time the spoilt little brat learned a lesson or two. I walked over to Michael and had a feel of his pyjama bottoms.

They were dry but padded. Apparently, he was having bedwetting problems because otherwise why would he be wearing pull-ups? I pulled the elastic back and was rewarded with a wave of pungent unpleasantness. At least it was only urine.

“I don’t care what you say.” Steven, it seemed, had decided he wasn’t going to be ignored. “I’m going to the football match with or without you.”

“You’re not leaving this house without my say so,” I told him, my voice returning to something approaching normal.

“You can’t stop me!”

“Try me.” I stared levelly into his eyes. He looked away first.

“But Mum…”

“Sorry sweetheart. If you can’t be man enough to apologise for your own rudeness, then you’re obviously not man enough to play football, and that’s all there is to it.”

“I hate you!” he yelled, yanking the door open and disappearing downstairs.

I turned to Michael. “Shall we get you cleaned up, sweetie?”

…

It only took a few minutes to wash my younger son and get him dressed, after which I sent him downstairs to play. My turn at last.

I opened the large wardrobe that cluttered up one wall of the bedroom I shared with the shambling mountain downstairs. It was bulging to the point of bursting with clothes — mainly mine it seemed. His nibs had a fair share in there I suppose, but more than three quarters of the space was taken up with a wide selection of dresses, skirts, blouses, leggings, shoes, boots, you name it. I pulled a few of the things out. Mainly they were cheap and just a little trashy, and most were the worse for having been worn in the unfriendly environment of a family home with young children.

I sorted through for something I felt I would actually like to wear and found very little. A lot of it seemed to be the sad result of impulse buying – something to help raise flagging spirits, to make a despondent and perhaps somewhat oppressed, housewife feel a little better about herself. A restricted housekeeping budget had kept the quality depressingly low, and most of it hadn’t survived more than a couple of runs through the washing machine unscathed.

I pulled out a dress – faded black with pink and green flowers, and lace trim around the collar and cuffs. It was pretty enough, apart from where the lace had come away from one of the cuffs, but in my plus size it looked more like a marquee than an item of clothing. I put it back, shaking my head.

In the end I settled on a sweatshirt and a pair of jogging bottoms. It was the weekend after all, and who made an effort attending a kid’s football match?

I took my time sorting through drawers to find all the bits I needed, a bra being an absolute and immediate necessity. My new body was well enough endowed in that area that my bits had a tendency towards independent motion given the least provocation. They blended quite well into the surrounding fleshy contours, making them appear a little less impressive than they were – in much the same way that Everest doesn’t look as imposing as Kilimanjaro, hiding, as it does, among a range of surrounding mountains – but they were a sizeable couple of handfuls even so.

Clothed and comfortable, I brushed my hair again, undoing the minor disruption of pulling the sweatshirt over my head, and attempted to add a small touch of makeup. It was all new to me, so it took several tries to get it right. Finally satisfied that I didn’t look too much like Krusty the Clown – not that I’m a great fan of Matt Groening you understand – I headed back downstairs to find out why the boys were so quiet.

The main reason, it turned out, was that Steven was still sulking. Michael had found a pile of toy cars and was quietly vooming them around in one corner, while Steven sat on a dining room chair with his legs drawn up and his face buried in his knees.

I sat down next to him and let out a sigh. I knew enough about kids to realise I couldn’t give in to the little toe-rag, but I also knew that, young as he was, he didn’t have the wherewithal to resolve these sorts of issues by himself. I needed to be the bigger ma… er woman.

“So how are we going to sort this out, eh? Should I just let you get away with being rude?”

“I don’t care. You won’t let me play football.”

“No. What I won’t do is let you get away with talking to me disrespectfully. I need a way to make you understand how important this is.”

“But I want to play f…”

“We’re not talking about the football game, Steven. What we are talking about is the way you think you can get away with insulting your mother.”

“I don’t want to talk about that.”

“Fine. That gives me the rest of the morning to tidy up around here. When you are ready to talk about your manners, let me know.”

I headed for the kitchen and started rearranging things so I had an empty sink. The tap ran cold even after a couple of minutes, so I filled the kettle and set it boiling. I couldn’t do anything more while I waited, so I checked on the kids – still much as before, Michael vooming, Steven sulking – and went through to the lounge to collect the dirties from the human slug, still vegetating in front of some rubbish involving grown men and balls.

“Hot water in the kitchen’s not working,” I said as I leaned over to pick up his empty plate and mug.

“What do you expect me to do about it?”

“Fix it, or get it fixed would be nice.” I tried to keep my voice neutral in the hope of avoiding another heated exchange.

“I work five days a week. Don’t I get any time off?”

I suspected I could trump him on that, but mentioning it would pretty much guarantee a fresh row.

“I can use the kettle for now, but if you could have a look at it sometime, I’d be grateful.”

He gave me an odd look, but I was done talking to him. I let out a deep sigh and withdrew, leaving him to his mindless viewing. I didn’t expect anything from him anytime soon – or ever maybe – but stranger things have happened.

It took half an hour to wash up, put away and wipe down the surfaces. By the time I was done, Steven’s sulk had diminished somewhat, and he was glancing about – mainly at the kitchen clock. It was quarter past nine, which, from his nervousness, meant that kick-off was probably at nine-thirty, or maybe ten o’clock.

I had no intention of helping him any further though. If he wanted to play badly enough, he knew what he had to do. Or maybe he was waiting to see if I might relent, in which case he was about to be disappointed. I opened the cupboard under the stairs and pulled out the ironing board. I caught the increase in concern in his expression out of the corner of my eye and pretended not to notice.

I’m not lightning fast with an iron, but I still had three shirts, two skirts and a dress on hangers before Steven’s fidgeting approached its limit. I paused between garments and raised an eyebrow in his direction. It might have gone either way just then, but I felt it was right to push him just a small amount. He’d already proved how stubborn he was, and he might have thought he could still manipulate the situation. I wanted him to know that his only way out was through complete capitulation. Fortunately for him he was bright enough to realise that.

“I’m sorry, Mum.” He mumbled the apology, but it was audible and it was genuine. I put the iron down and joined him at the table.

“And by that you mean?”

“I’m sorry I called you names and I won’t do it again.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” I said, keeping my voice level. “Right, I suppose you’d better fetch your boots after all.”

“Really?”

I glanced at the clock, which showed twenty to ten.

“What do you think? Can we still make it in time for the kick-off?”

He didn’t need any more encouragement. He tore up the stairs leaving me to sort out shoes and coats for Michael and myself.

“I don’t want to go to the football,” the younger boy whinged as I pulled the Velcro strap across the front of his shoes.

“Well, you can always stay here with Daddy if you prefer.”

I meant it as a joke, but the way the colour drained from his face, I regretted my words instantly. No child should be that scared of his father. I pulled him into a hug and reassured him that I hadn’t meant it.

There was an impressively sized shoulder bag in a fairly neutral floral print sitting on the table. I checked inside to make sure it was what I expected and was gratified to find a purse, a mobile phone, a few bits of makeup, and a few other miscellaneous items. The purse held, among other things, a driver’s license with the photograph of a younger, considerably less plump version of the new me. She — that is I — had been rather attractive a few years ago. The name read Sandra Bush. Had my former self really chosen to marry her first name to that surname?

I dropped the purse back into the bag and spotted something out of the corner of my eye which raised my anxiety levels all over again. My actions had disturbed the contents of the bag enough to reveal the corner of a packet of cigarettes. A quick check revealed all but five had been smoked. How many and for how long, I wondered. Just how much damage had she done to her lungs before letting me have them?

I slung the bag over my shoulder just as Steven reappeared, wearing trainers and a track suit, his football boots laced together and hanging round his neck.

“Come on,” he said. “We’ll be late.”

I took Michael’s hand, and we followed Steven out past their semi-recumbent father and into the street.

Of course, it was too much to ask for there to be a car we could use. I mean the street was cluttered with them, cramming both sides until there was barely room for one vehicle to pass down the middle. A decrepit, old Transit filled the space outside our front door, the words, ‘Presidential Plumbing’ emblazoned across its side and the name, ‘George Bush, Plumber’ underneath in smaller letters along with a mobile phone number. I suspected that it was as much of a vehicle as we owned, which meant that I wasn’t going to have an opportunity to sit behind a wheel any time soon, but at least I knew who I was married to now.

Neither of the kids seemed to expect to be driven though, so I let Steven take the lead on the short walk to the local school.

Chapter 4

Fortunately, the school was only about ten minutes’ walk away, but with Steven pressing ahead impatiently, anxious to get there on time, and Michael pulling back, I was more than a little exhausted by the time we arrived at the school gates. It didn’t help that my body was hopelessly unfit, and that my lungs were struggling to work through a coating of tar, and by the time we reached the gates, my ample bosom was heaving up and down with the effort of re-establishing the level of oxygen my cells were used to receiving.

The school was actually two separate schools on one site, both primary and secondary standing side by side with just a low fence dividing the one from the other. The advantage was they shared playing fields, and today, it seemed, the secondary school had use of one of them for a year seven football fixture. Steven ran on ahead as soon as we reached the school gates, leaving me to plod along with a reluctant Michael in tow, now taking his turn to sulk.

With a degree of common sense that exceeds the normal level of organisational skill for most bureaucrats in our beloved country – either that or sheer fluke – they had chosen to hold the football match on the pitch closest to the primary school playground. The gate between the two was open and there was already a number of children Michael’s age clambering over the climbing frame, swings and slides that made up part of their grounds. I’d been hoping for something to keep him distracted, but this was beyond my expectations. He pulled his hand out of my grasp and ran on to join the others, leaving me to waddle that last few yards on my own.

Well waddle might be a little too unkind, though I was certainly of a size that didn’t lend itself easily to grace. I could only imagine what I looked like, but the picture I conjured was not overly pleasing.

Keeping half an eye on him, I left Michael to his own devices and followed Steven to a small huddle of bodies consisting of a dozen or so younger boys around his age and one adult — a beefy, middle aged man who looked up as we approached.

“Steven!” he called as we came into range. “We’d all but given up on you. Why’re you so late?”

Steven turned a baleful eye in my direction, apparently expecting me to say something about the way the morning had gone, but, as far as I was concerned, that was all done and dusted — nothing more to say, in public at least.

“Oh, that’s my fault I’m afraid,” I wheezed, still breathless from the chase. “I needed to sort a few things before we came and ended up cutting it a bit fine.”

“Well, no harm done,” the coach said. “You up to taking right wing, Stevie?”

Steven recovered from his surprise enough to answer in the affirmative. One of the other lads didn’t look too pleased at the change in line-up, but the coach promised him an opportunity later in the game. The boys re-established their huddle, assimilating Steven into their group, and I was no longer necessary.

I ambled towards the playground, scanning for Michael and finding him lining up to climb the slide behind a short queue of other children. I smiled quietly to myself. At least one of the men in the family had some manners.

Away from the house and with both children occupied, I’d been looking forward to having some space to think. I wasn’t the only soccer mum present though, and after the distinctly rocky start I'd had, I felt a need for a little friendly companionship.

I approached a huddle of women close to my age – all of whom I was glad to see had chosen to dress for comfort rather than style – and offered them a friendly smile.

It wasn't returned. Eyes turned my way then quickly drifted off to one side. A few expressions stiffened, a few mouths pursed or pulled down into frowns. A cold lump settled in my stomach as intuition told me I'd receive no welcome there.

I dropped the smile from my own face and kept apart, fighting back an abrupt surge of tears. For some as yet unknown reason, Sandy Bush was not a popular figure in the local community.

“Welcome to the pariah patch,” a voice said from behind me.

I turned to find a woman similar to me in both age and build. Unlike the rest of the women nearby, she possessed a heritage that had originated in a warmer climate. Coffee coloured skin and tightly curled black hair teased into cornrows, full, dark lips which curved into an easy smile that was mirrored in her eyes. I liked her immediately.

I put on my best southern drawl, which I’ll admit wasn’t great. “Oh please Br’er Fox, whatever you do, please don't throw me into that there pariah patch.”

Her smile widened, “Oh my, you don't come from around these parts, do you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Nobody here has heard of Uncle Remus or Br’er Rabbit”

“You're joking!”

“I kid you not. You’re the first person I've met who hasn’t given me a blank look when I opened my mouth.”

Was there a hint of an accent there? I decided to trust my instinct.

“Well, other than that you seem to have adapted to our peculiar ways pretty well.”

She chuckled. “Am I that obvious?”

“Other than your controversial choice of reading material? Not at all. I'm Sandy.” I held out a hand.

Which she examined cautiously. “You sure you want to do this? You'll be burning your bridges big time if you associate with the likes of me.”

“Well, the thing with friends,” I said raising my voice to be sure the gaggle of gossips who'd so recently snubbed me could hear, “is that it's quality that matters, not quantity.”

It turned out there was still a little stretch left in her smile. She took my hand. “Charlotte. Charlie. Do I take it your boy’s playing?”

I pointed Steven out, now warming up by running up and down the nearside edge of the field.

“Ah,” she sighed with mock sadness. “Regretfully, I'm not sure we'll be able to remain friends after all.” She pointed at a skinny boy with skin colour to match her own standing in the opposing goal mouth.

“What if I promise only to cheer as much and as loud as you do? That way any influence we have on the game will balance out.”

“I like the way you think, girl. That could work.”

The game started. Despite a lifetime’s intense dislike of team sports, I really enjoyed myself. For one thing, Charlie and I bonded over the experience in a way I'd never thought possible, breaking into gales of laughter from time to time as we each made our separate efforts to avoid cheering more than the other. For another, Steven proved to be quite an excellent player, not showing any of the Prima Donna tendencies so common to children his age, but instead manoeuvring the ball down the right-wing time and time again before launching it with uncanny accuracy into the box just as his team’s centre forward ran up to take possession.

The striker was beaten often enough by the opposing defenders, but had so many opportunities to score that Charlie's son was hard pressed to keep the ball out of the net. Despite his own evident skill, he did let one through shortly before half time.

Twenty-five minutes into the game I felt a small hand insert itself in mine and felt a brief pang of guilt as I recalled that I was responsible for two children and not just one.

Fortunately, Michael had not fallen foul of any of the playground hazards but had simply grown bored.

“Your brother's playing really well this morning,” I told him.

“I don't like football,” he replied.

Why was I not surprised? My new friend quirked an eyebrow and suppressed a smile.

Given the young age of the players, the match was limited to thirty minutes per half, so we didn’t have long to wait for the half time whistle. Charlotte and I moved in to congratulate and encourage our respective progeny, something which Steven didn't seem sure how to accept, suggesting a level of disinterest on the part of his actual mother, both in the game and the child.

Ten minutes to suck on a segment of orange and listen to a pep talk from their coach. I wasn't that into the game. I withdrew quietly and took Michael off to the swings for a while. He was making a bid to monopolise my time when the referee called the teams back out onto the pitch. I gave him one last gentle push and made my way back towards the edge of the playing field where Charlotte stood waiting.

Michael grizzled a little when he realised I was leaving, so I gave him the option of joining me and Charlie at the touchline. He decided he could find better entertainment without me and drifted off towards the other kids.

“You got your hands full with those two,” Charlie said as I moved within reach of comfortable conversation.

“They're not so bad,” I said. “It’s the one I left at home that's the real handful.”

“You got three kids?! What, didja leave one with your husband?”

“Not so much that as one of them is my husband. Lazy sod couldn't even be bothered to get off his arse and come with us. Honestly, I think he'd find his son’s game more entertaining than some of the crap he's watching.”

“Oh, I had me one of them a while back. Life’s too short to waste on a no-good sumbitch like him. I kicked him to the curb a couple a years ago and I ain't never looked back. Me and Jake, we doing just fine without him.”

And there was the African American in her, all rising to the surface over a bad memory.

“Well, I’m not sure I’m quite ready to do that myself,” I said quietly, although considering my morning I probably wasn’t all that far off. “Jake’s your boy’s name?” This felt like a good time to change topics and children seemed a safer one than husbands or ex-husbands – not that I knew a great deal about mine just yet.

It didn’t seem to matter. Charlie was full to the brim with her own son, and I was happy enough to let it all spill over. I could feel the bond forming between us as I mainly listened and she mainly talked. It wasn't some magical mysterious thing, but with each nod and smile my feelings for her grew a little – and no, not those sorts of feelings either. Purely platonic, but strengthening for all that.

That was one positive about this new life. As my former self, any friendship I’d offer to a woman would likely have been viewed as having a romantic element, which would usually lead to disappointment and disinterest when I made it clear that wasn’t my intent. Here friendship was the natural outcome.

The game drew to its inevitable end. Steven’s team held the one goal lead but couldn't quite put another ball past Jake's very capable hands.

The final whistle blew and Charlotte shrugged her eyes at me – sorry I can't think of another way to put it, kind of a face she made that conveyed the essence of a shrug.

“Well, I guess I’d better get the little tyke home for some lunch. It was nice meeting you Sandy. Maybe next time our different teams face off.”

“Unless you fancy meeting for a coffee sometime.”

She laughed her easy laugh. “You really don't care what the others think of you, do you?”

“Well it's like you said, they've already thrown me into the pariah patch. I don't know exactly what I've done, but I doubt I could make matters worse. I could really use a friend right now.”

“You got your phone?”

I rummaged through my bag and dug it out. I felt a moment's worry over lock codes before discovering that it was new enough to have biometrics. A pass code would have defeated me, but a thumbprint I could provide.

I handed it to Charlie who typed in her number then used it to dial her own. She hung up as soon as her phone rang.

“Call me next week and we'll arrange something.” She passed the phone back and turned to greet her son.

“What were you talking to her for?” Steven eyed Charlie's retreating form.

“Aren’t I allowed to make friends then?”

“Not when they're the enemy.”

“Just because you played against her son’s team doesn’t make them the enemy.”

“You don't know what you're talking about.”

“Don't I? How many teams in this league of yours?”

“Fourteen.” Said with a superior tone in his voice.

“Including yours. So, if you consider them all enemies, then you’ll make a maximum of ten friends and...” my new brain didn't seem quite as comfortable with numbers, but I got there. “one hundred and forty three enemies. Doesn’t sound like a great use for your time.”

“There are eleven players on a team.” He didn't actually say stupid, but it was implied in his tone.

“One of whom is you, so ten others to make friends with. Eleven if you count the substitute, but he didn't seem that happy with you this morning. You have to admit Jake was a pretty good goalie.”

He shrugged which was as much of a concession as I could hope for.

“So maybe you'd benefit more from making friends and having an occasional kick about in the park than just hating him?”

“You'd let us do that?”

“Under the right circumstances I don’t see why not.”

A sneaky, calculating look passed across his face so swiftly I couldn’t be sure if it was real or my imagination. I let it slide.

“You played a great game out there, Steven. I was impressed.”

“Since when have you been interested in football?”

“You’re determined to be unpleasant today, aren’t you?” I tried to keep the sting out of my voice.

“You nearly made me miss the game!”

“As I recall, you were the one who called me a silly cow and then refused to apologise. Now it may not be the way I handled things in the past, but it’s about time you learnt there are consequences to your actions, both good and bad.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean if you behave well there will be treats, but if you behave badly then I may have to take away some of the things you like, such as playing football.”

“You mean you’re not going to let me play next week? That’s so unfair!”

“It’s also not what I said. Right now, I have no plans to stop you playing next week. Since the rest of your team evidently rely on you, it’s not even the first thing I’ll be thinking about taking away if you play me up, because I don’t necessarily want to punish them for anything you may do. Besides, if you behave like the young gentleman I expect you to be, I won’t have any need to impose any sanctions, will I?

“Shall we fetch your brother and head home for some lunch?”

“Great! Back to Auschwitz!”

“Oh, is that what you’re learning about in school at the moment?”

He shrugged, but he was working towards a sulk to match the one from earlier in the morning. I led the way towards the playground, now with one solitary figure moping under the slide.

“So, what makes you think home is like Auschwitz? Is it the fact that your dad and I are starving you to death, or maybe it’s the overcrowded sleeping arrangements? No, I know, it’s that gas chamber we’re building in the back garden so we can get rid of you once and for all.”

“Not funny.”

“No, I suppose it’s not. Hey sweetie.” This last was to Michael who had dejectedly risen to his feet and moped over to us.

“No-one would play with me,” he complained.

“Well they’ve all gone home now, and I suppose so should we. I imagine you’re hungry?”

“No, I mean before. Nobody would play with me before while you were watching the football.”

“I can’t understand why. I mean you’re such a cheerful little soul. Come on, we don’t really want to keep your dad waiting, do we?”

That sobered them up a little. They both still sulked, but at least they didn’t drag their feet at all. It was probably an unfair tactic, but what I’d seen of parenting – as well as what I’d experienced of it so far this morning – suggested it was largely about survival, and the key to survival is doing whatever works.

…

The walk back home was uneventful. The van was where it had been when we left, as was the lump of lard who usually drove it.

“Did you win?”

“One nil.”

Daddy-bear grunted and turned back to whatever rubbish he was watching.

“You could have come,” I said, still trying to keep my voice neutral. “You’d have probably enjoyed the match more than whatever this is.”

“Mind your own fucking business you stupid cow and make me a coffee.”

Steven looked at me expectantly. He was right, I could hardly expect him to live by my standards with his father showing him a wholly different set. On the other hand, he’d proved that he was quite capable of getting off his lardy arse if given the right incentive, and I’d already found out how inadvisable it was to poke the bear.

I herded the boys past his outstretched legs – which he couldn’t even be bothered to shift for us – into the back room, where I helped them out of shoes and socks.

“So how come he gets away with calling you a silly cow?” Steven wanted to know.

“Who said he’s going to?”

A little rummaging in the kitchen unearthed a tray large enough for what I had in mind. I loaded it up with the kettle, a carton of milk, a bowl of sugar, a mug, a spoon and the jar of instant. Another rummage, this time in my bag, unearthed my phone which I set to record video and propped against a pile of books on the table. If he decided to react to this particular challenge, I intended to have a record.

With everything set, I carried the tray through and put it on his lap.

“What the fuck is this?” He asked as I retreated from the living room.

“Call it a do-it-yourself coffee kit and be grateful for that much. You want more, you can start showing me a little respect.”

“Respect?” He roared, predictably rising from his stupor. “I’ll show you fucking respect!”

He barged through the door into the back room and threw the tray at me. It was heavy, especially the kettle, and even though I managed to raise an arm to deflect it, it hurt. He then advanced far enough to swing a backhander across my face which hurt a lot more and left me quite literally seeing stars.

“Now, d’you want more fucking respect, or are you going to make me that fucking coffee?” He stormed back out of the room.

I gathered my wits and reached for my phone, which somehow had fallen over so the camera was facing the table. I glanced at Steven, currently sitting nearby with an expression wavering between butter-wouldn't-melt and smug satisfaction. I’d not seen him tip it over, but the resident bull in the china shop hadn't been anywhere near it, so Steven was the only potential culprit.

“Did you enjoy that?”

In response he showed more smug and less innocence.

I played back the video. It showed the phone tipping slowly onto its front while my voice explained the concept of DIY coffee. I saved it for the sound recording and stared my oldest son square in the eyes.

“Consequences,” I said, noting with satisfaction his expression turning first guilty then worried.

The kettle sported a sizeable crack from its recent abuse so I threw it in the bin. The carton of milk, which had been all that was left in the fridge, lay on its side, most of its contents soaking into a threadbare rug. I rescued what little remained and put it back in the fridge before hunting out a cloth to deal with the spill. I knew from experience just how bad it would smell if I left it. The sugar bowl and mug were also in pieces though the jar of coffee somehow survived. With the milk spill dealt with I embarked on a brief hunt for a dustpan and brush and had just about finished clearing up when Mr Angry roused once more from his weekend hibernation demanding to know why he still didn't have his coffee.

“You broke the kettle and spilt most of the milk and sugar with your little tantrum,” I told him. “I could boil some water in a pan, but I'll need to go down to the shops for the rest.”

“Best you go down to the fucking shops then, hadn't you?”

“I’d be happy to as long as you'll look after the boys while I’m gone.”

“Your fucking kids, you look after them.”

He’d said that before, but I couldn't believe a man like him would commit to a marriage with someone who was already encumbered with a couple of kids, especially if her body showed a little wear and tear from the ordeal. Besides, Steven especially resembled him in both appearance and temperament, so I could only assume he was being an arse over it.

“Fine. It’ll take me that much longer and you'll get your fucking coffee in an hour.”

He glowered at me, which was at least one thing he did really well.

“Your children need feeding.” Emphasis on the your. I'd had about as much crap as I was going to take from him. “That's going to happen in the next fifteen minutes one way or another. If you want your bloody coffee as well you can bloody well try being a part of this family.”

His glower deepened. He turned it on his oldest son who he knew he could intimidate. “Go upstairs and play with your brother,” he growled. “And don't be a fucking prick. You do not want to give me a reason to come upstairs.”

Steven bolted from the room.

“Father of the year, aren't you?” I snarled at him.

“What's that supposed to fucking mean? No don't bother, I don't want to fucking know. Bugger off down to the shops and get what you need. You can make their fucking lunch once you've made my fucking coffee.”

I didn't particularly like leaving the boys in his care, Michael in particular, but I had no real excuse now. I grabbed my coat and bag and headed out the door.

We'd passed near a small precinct of local shops on the way to and from the football match. They included a general store and a chippy. I visited the store first. With the milk and sugar paid for I had enough cash left over to buy a couple of small sausages and a medium bag of chips. Along with a tin of beans they'd do for the kids’ lunch.

I hurried back to the house, total length of excursion about ten minutes, and set about lunch and his holiness’s blessed coffee. The beans heated through before the pan of water, so I called the boys down for their food before dealing with the lord and master. I still managed to get it to him before he stirred himself again.

“Where's my fucking chips?” he demanded when the only thing I gave him was a steaming mug of instant.

“In the fucking chip shop,” I told him, “because you don't give me enough fucking housekeeping to afford fucking chips for fucking everybody. Would you like a fucking sandwich, dear?”

“Watch your mouth, bitch.”

“I will if you will, sweetheart.” I was playing a dangerous game and I knew it.

“You are getting on my last nerve. You keep This up and so help me I’ll...”

“You'll what? You'll slap me around some more? Go ahead. One day you'll push just a little bit too far.”

“And then what? You'll leave me? Go right ahead and see if I care. Take those fucking brats with you too. I've had enough of you.”

“So no sandwich then? I'll leave you in peace, darling.” I snarled the last word and withdrew.

Back in the dining room two pairs of saucer-like eyes followed me through to the kitchen. My hands were shaking and some degree of inherited instinct had me digging in my bag for the packet of cigarettes. When I realised what I was doing, I crushed the packet and threw it in the bin. However much this body might want nicotine, I wasn’t about to give it any, not in that form at least. The quick jaunt down to the shops had left me far more breathless than I liked. Caffeine would do as an alternative, but not the cheap and cheerless granules in a jar variety. I settled on a cup of tea. My stomach growled at me angrily, but I just growled back, aware that my breathlessness had as much to do with the extra weight my body was carrying as it did the cigarettes it had smoked.

The sound of the front door closing roused me from my reverie. I cautiously eased through into the front room to find it empty with the TV off. It seemed Arsehole the Great had found the smell of chips in the house too much to endure and had ventured out into the world in search of his own.

In a moment's pettiness I stuffed the remote down the back of the sofa. It wouldn't do to invade his space though. He'd be back as soon as he had his food and, I suspected, wouldn't be happy to see anyone in his kingly domain. His coffee was only half drunk so I left it in case he wanted to finish it.

I withdrew back into the dining room where chips and sausages were being eaten with great relish and beans were being ignored.

“Here are a few things you should know,” I said offhandedly. “The last thing you eat is the thing you taste longest after a meal, those plates will be empty before I'll allow you away from the table, and if you choose to ignore that last rule, then whatever you leave on your plate will be all you have for your next meal or your next until it’s gone. Oh yes, and there are other things I could put on your plates that you'd find considerably less palatable than baked beans.”

With some reluctance, first Michael then Steven started scooping beans.

“Okay, so what would you like to do with the rest of the day? Do you have any homework?”

Two heads shook. “We don't get homework, Mum,” Steven said.

That sounded about right on reflection. My former girlfriend with the primary school aged children had never seemed bothered by it, and it seemed likely that year sevens wouldn’t get much.

“I want to watch television,” Michael's all too irritating whine chipped in.

“Do you ever get to watch television when your father's around?”

It was a genuine question, but they both took it as rhetorical and turned their thought's elsewhere.

“You could play in your room, or down here,” I suggested, “or in the garden, or we could go down to the park for a bit. The choice is yours but if you want to go out you both have to agree.”

“What if we don’t?” Steven asked.

“Then I get the deciding vote, and I'll probably side with whichever one of you has annoyed me the least this morning.

“You might want to make up your mind before your dad gets back though. I’m going to check the kitchen to see if we need to go shopping any time soon.”

The inventory wasn’t too bad. We could make it through the weekend on the food we had stashed away. I’d have liked a few more cleaning things, but what there was would do until the Almighty Holder of the Purse Strings saw fit to replenish my meagre reserves, or I figured out where the old me stashed any spare cash.

“We'd both like to go to the park,” Steven announced with Michael nodding his agreement beside him.

“Fine. Do you want to keep your football kit on?”

“I was going to take my ball and have a bit of a kick around, yeah. Maybe some of my mates will be there.”

“Michael?”

“I wanna go on the swings.” For once without the unpleasant nasal quality.

“Alright then. Shoes and coat on Steven, while I help your brother.”

“Do you think Jake will be there, Mum?”

“Probably not sweetheart, but you never know.”

“Could you call his mum and suggest they come down?”

“Not today love.”

“Why not?”

“Because she most likely already had plans for today, and I don't want to impose on her, so today we take our chances, okay?”

He settled and I turned back to sorting out the younger of the two boys. By the time I had my own shoes and coat on, he was standing nearby offering me my bag.

We made it out of the house before the Lord and Master made it home, but only just. We encountered him waddling back towards the house in that way that only a man with a pronounced beer gut can. His packet of fish and chips was twice the size of the one I'd shared between his boys.

“Where the fuck are you going?” he asked as we drew within range.

“Somewhere the air isn't so blue,” I said cheerfully. “It’s a nice day so we thought we'd see what was going on down at the park.”

“You didn't say nothing.”

“I just assumed you like a bit of peace and quiet.”

“Yeah, well don't be too long.”

“Of course not, sweetheart.”