Short story

Martin's Boys

​

He has blonde flaxen hair, a lovely smile and round laughing eyes. He is interesting and fun to be with. It’s his children that cause me problems. Martin has two. Jake’s six and Harry’s eight. They’re casual names, as though they might have ridden into town out of the prairie after two weeks in the saddle. And they act like it. Their room has all the revolting features one would expect from children allowed to live almost as they please. Action men, books, trucks, Lego, games consoles and dirty clothes are randomly spread over the floor loosely intertwined with computer cable. Apart from the clothes, Martin makes little effort to keep a semblance of order.

 

‘You should let them do what they want,’ he says. ‘As long as it isn’t dangerous.’

 

As he’s almost as casual as they are the remark isn’t surprising. It’s just that untidiness is something I have a problem looking at and I have to look at it when I read them a story at night while they hit each other with pillows and hide under the bedclothes. I never know whether they’ve heard a word until I miss a bit out. Then they suddenly resurface and say, ‘That’s not next. Read it properly.’

 

They’re assertive, like Martin. They know what they want and make sure they get it. Many of the pictures I take have one of their intrusive screwed up faces at the bottom whether I’m snapping them or not. They stand in front of the television when I’m watching it and rock my chair when I try to drink my coffee. I know I should treat it as a joke. Have a laugh with them. But when they’re not your own, too often you see faults and irritations and you have to break through that before you can get to the fun bit, watching them grow up, learn, explore the world. And I can’t deny that, since he lost his wife in an accident, he’s done a terrific job bringing them up.

 

The other morning we laid the table, cereals, marmalade, orange juice and tea. Martin was in the kitchen making toast. The boys had been summoned but were in no mood to sit and wait for their dad. Harry poured himself a glass of orange juice, giggled and proceeded to pour it into the milk jug while Jake watched, wide eyed.

 

‘Now don’t do that,’ I said.

 

He laughed louder and stepped back to avoid my reach. Juice slopped out of the glass. He shuffled forward, laughed again and poured more juice in. I walked round the table but he kept his distance, knowing I didn’t dare run for him. A boy of eight had me helpless and he knew it.

 

‘Put that glass down,’ I shouted.

‘Make me,’ he said.

 

My control vanished. I leapt forward as he turned to run. I grabbed the glass as it fell out of his hand but the juice had long since departed and was now spread around floors, walls, curtains and picture frames.

 

‘What the hell is going on?’ Martin rushed in from the kitchen. ‘My God, what do you think you’re doing?’ He looked at me accusingly.

‘Trying to save your breakfast. He was pouring orange juice into the milk.’

‘And now its everywhere,’ he said. His eyes were fierce. ‘What a stupid thing to do. What were you thinking of, chasing him while he was holding a drink?’

‘Don’t accuse me of being stupid. What about this child of yours? Can’t you teach him how to behave?’

‘So what do you know about bringing up children?’ Martin shouted.

‘If they were mine they’d have a lot more discipline than these two, that’s for sure.’

 

I ran out of the room in tears, got my coat from the hook in the hall and slammed the front door behind me.

 

My brother’s got two as well. Daniel and Gregory seem nice children. They’re a bit older than Martin’s.

 

‘What a shame,’ says Jane, my sister-in-law, when I drop in for a coffee. ‘I liked Martin. Can’t you patch things up?’

‘I still feel too angry. He made it clear they’re his kids and that I haven’t got any. It’s so hurtful, specially when you see them behaving like animals.’

‘They’re perfectly normal children,’ says Jane. ‘Just unusually boisterous. You’ll have to learn how to deal with children. You’ll have some of your own one day.’

 

I’m on my second cup of coffee when there’s the sound of crashes and screams outside the room. Gregory is lying at the bottom of the stairs. Daniel is crying at the top, ‘I never pushed him mum. I never pushed him. He fell.’

 

Jane and I run to Gregory. At first there’s no movement then he starts to get up. He looks ghostly white.

 

‘I’ll phone for an ambulance,’ I say.

‘No. Let’s get him to hospital,’ says Jane. My brother’s on a trip abroad and I can tell from Jane’s voice she’s having difficulty staying calm.

 

I rush them all to Casualty in my car. Gregory is given an initial ‘once over’ by a doctor and taken to a cubicle. We wait outside, mainly in silence, for hours.

 

‘Sorry mum,’ says Daniel.

‘Did you have a fight?’ asks Jane.

 

Daniel nods.

 

‘You’re always fighting.’

‘I didn’t know they fought,’ I say. ‘Not like that.’

‘Of course they fight,’ replies Jane. ‘They’re boys.’

‘What happened?’ I ask Daniel.

‘It was my turn on the computer,’ says Daniel. ‘It’s only fair.’

‘Last week they had a sword fight at dinner,’ says Jane. ‘With the table knives. Show Auntie Pauline your scar, Daniel.’

 

Daniel has a cut across his hand. It’s not severe but the potential for tragedy is obvious.

 

‘Can’t you be good for your mum?’ I ask. ‘Specially when your dad’s away.’

 

Daniel finds no answer and looks at his feet.

 

‘You might as well ask them to take over the cooking,’ says Jane.

 

I wonder if I’ve been blind to their faults because they’re my nephews. I think back and try to imagine how I’d see them if they were someone else’s children.

 

Gregory is kept in overnight with concussion but otherwise seems fine. The following weekend their dad’s still away so Jane and I promise to take them to the park. On the way I stop to buy them a wicket keeper’s glove each. Jane is going to tell me off for buying them something. ‘The last thing they want is more presents,’ she’ll say. But what else are aunts supposed to do?

 

As I walk round the department store I bump into Martin and the boys. He’s as good looking as ever but when he stares at me there’s not so much shine in his eyes.

 

‘You left a few things behind,’ he says.

‘I know. I’m sorry I stormed out like that.’

‘I heard a bit more of the detail afterward. Harry’s got something to say to you.’

 

The boys seem subdued. Normally, I imagine they would have been darting round the store, bumping into clothes displays and trying the lipstick samplers on each other’s neck. Harry looks at me but says nothing.

 

‘Did you want to say sorry to Pauline?’ his father asks.

Harry nods. ‘Sorry, Pauline.’

I smile. ‘Sorry I got so angry.’

‘They miss you,’ says Martin, ‘and so do I. They want you to read them their bedtime stories because you do it better than their dad.’

‘I find that hard to believe,’ I say. ‘Maybe I’ve got more to learn about children.’

‘Well I saw you walking out of the toy department. What can that mean?’

 

I open the bag and pull out the gloves.

 

‘Would Harry and Jake like these?’

 

Martin and the boys stare wide eyed. Harry and Jake would clearly like them.

 

‘What do you say?’ he asks his sons.

‘Thanks, Pauline,’ they call in unison.

‘You’ve got the wrong sizes.’  Martin says. But he’s smiling while he says it.

‘I’m not into sport much,’ I reply.

‘Perhaps being a mother is more your line.’ The smile has gone and I know he’s serious.

 

I look into his eyes. ‘Yes, perhaps it is.’