The meandering child kicked a small yellow football (long since banned) against the radiator. It made a jarring, reverberating thwack and a wedding photo in a silver frame, sitting on a small shelf above, wobbled then fell with a heavy plonk face down on the carpet. It was a wonder it hadn’t smashed. Nobody moved to pick it up. The kids carried on screeching and larking about. Rob lay on the sofa watching Deadly Sixty and let a second Mars Bar wrapper fall from his outstretched arm onto the carpet.
It was nothing out of the ordinary. It was a scene that was pretty commonplace in that household. But Frankie had suddenly pictured herself standing in exactly the same spot five years from then. Ten years from then. Standing in the doorway, with everyone bigger (including Rob, probably, if he carried on eating all that chocolate) but absolutely nothing changed. Chaos, disorder, disregard. Nothing would ever change, would it?
‘Would anyone notice or care if I just left you all to it?’ she’d said.
There was silence.
‘If I just walked out and didn’t come back?’
Still silence.
Something crunched within Frankie. A switch that had been threatening to be pressed clunked down with a thump. She’d had enough. She turned and slowly walked back upstairs, like a robot.
It had all ground to a halt. Her enthusiasm for family life. Her energy for any of it. Her cooking mojo had been worn down to a nub. It had disappeared on a wave of non-appreciation and apathy. She didn’t want to iron another work shirt. She didn’t want to pick up another cowpat of compressed jeans and pants that Rob simply stepped out of before getting into bed. She didn’t want to look for another missing item whilst a shouting man stomped round the house. She didn’t want to load or unload another dishwasher. Or put anything else in the bin. Or answer any more questions. She loved them all so much – well, Rob, not so much, let’s be honest here – but they were driving her mad.
If she ever got time to do a full day of housework and get the house pristine, there were five brilliantly effective saboteurs who could trash all her good work in seconds. There really was no point. And she had a few stock laments that she trotted out almost daily to completely deaf ears: ‘Why is there cheese all over the floor?’, ‘Why does no one, no one, hang up the bath mat but me!’ and, ‘For the love of God, can’t you, just once, put things away!’
No one had explained it properly. No one had spelled it out to her. She’d had this ridiculous, fuzzy vision of marriage and babies when she was younger: a sweet-smelling, talcum-powder-dusted oasis of flowers and baby bubble bath and sunny days and holding hands with her husband while her beautiful children ran fresh-cheeked through a meadow. No one had spelled it out to her that marriage and babies actually meant years and years of drudgery.
And, most devastatingly, giving up any semblance of your life. The life you had before.
She was done.
Except she could never be done. This was not a job she could resign from. She had to stay here for ever. In that house. With that husband. With those children…
She had to get out.
Now.
Or she would go stark, staring insane.
Frankie went into her bedroom, silently packed a small overnight bag, and walked out of the house. She was shaking but determined. She was going.
The GetAway Lodge was five miles away. As she’d driven there, ‘Young Hearts Run Free’ had come on the radio and tears had clichéd down her cheeks. She was a lost and lonely wife. Well, not lonely. The opposite of lonely. She was surrounded by loads of the buggers. But lost, for sure. Self-preservation. That’s what needed to go on today. GetAway Lodge, GetAway Lodge, GetAway Lodge. She was coming. It had been a bright light, an oasis, a little piece of heaven in the distance.
She’d gone, breathless, to reception and asked for a room for the night. The girl there had looked at her in a funny way. Was it because Frankie’s surname was Smith? Frankie had almost laughed. Was this young girl – clearly hung-over and looking like she had hastily slapped Saturday’s make-up on top of Friday night’s – expecting some swarthy fella to suddenly appear from behind the potted plant, in a jaunty necktie? With a lascivious look. And dubious shoes.
‘Just you?’ the girl had said, her over-drawn eyebrows twitching and vodka breath distilling over in Frankie’s direction.
‘Yes, it’s just me.’
After checking in, Frankie had walked to the neighbouring petrol station and bought four magazines, three bags of Minstrels, a Galaxy, a Boost and a large bag of salt and vinegar Kettle Chips. Then she’d returned to her lovely room, and ate and watched telly until midnight. Unhindered. Uninterrupted. Unbothered. She’d replied, I’m fine, to each and every one of several texts from Rob, once she’d told him where she was. He shouldn’t have been surprised. She’d threatened it often enough. His texts had started off angry, then worried, then resigned. He obviously thought she was just having an episode. She could visualise him, on the sofa at home, trying and failing to work out when she’d had her last period, before returning to his television and snacks.
I’ll be back tomorrow, was the final text she’d sent, at about midnight, before she’d turned out the light and snuggled down, alone, under the white cotton sheet and the limited comfort of the dodgy striped comforter. The thought of being back had filled her with dread, but for those rapidly passing hours of bliss, she was free.
Frankie had arrived home at ten this morning and it was like she’d never been away. Actually, it was worse than if she’d never been away. She had let herself quietly in the front door. Shoes had littered the hall. A child’s padded jacket had been flung on the second stair up. A congealing, pink plastic cup of milk had been randomly placed on a windowsill.
She’d walked into the kitchen. There had been remains of a Saturday night takeaway strewn all over the table, an empty styrofoam burger box open on the floor like a Muppet’s mouth, an almost-empty bottle of lemonade on its side on the worktop, a sticky dribble coming from it and dripping down the under-counter fridge. Cupboard doors and drawers were gaping; there was a sink full of dishes and empty tins filled with water, and an overflowing bin. For God’s sake!
‘Rob!’
Silence. There had just been the slight rustle of the white plastic bag the takeaway had come in, left redundant on the table and flicking in the chilly January breeze coming through the wide open back door.
‘Rob!’
‘In the garden!’
They had all been out there. Rob, in his bright red fleece and Timberlands and, despite the weather, those bloody shorts she detested, the ones with the tar stains on the knees. Harry and Josh, duelling with cricket bats. They duelled with anything these days: light sabres, plastic pirate swords, and if it came to it, rolling pins and tubes of tin foil and cling film. At least they were doing it in the garden; they usually fenced at the top of the stairs when she was trying to come down with a massive basket of laundry. Tilly was doing cartwheels on the wet grass in double denim, and three-year-old Alice was plomped on her bottom on the overgrown lawn (where was the waterproof-backed picnic blanket?) and noshing on a very unseasonal choc ice. Half of it appeared to have exploded over her face, and all the children looked overexcited and under-dressed.
‘Mummy!’ Tilly had hollered, mid-wheel, and Alice had run over to Frankie and wiped her chocolatey cheeks on her mother’s leg. Frankie hugged Alice, waved ‘hello’ at the other children then retreated back to the kitchen, where she’d started tidying up. Within ten minutes, Harry had come into the kitchen for