183 Times a Year (14 page)

The petition did help secure the Library an extra two hours a week though. Unfortunately, it is two hours mainly covered by unpaid volunteers. Don't get me wrong, most volunteers are great but their shelf life is short. They come and go in quick succession, using their role of volunteer to gain experience, then – hopefully – paid employment.

‘Do you know' Mrs Lambert continues, ‘we didn't even
have
a phone in our house when I was a gal? Nowadays it seems as if everyone has a phone, even very young children. I don't know if it's a good or a bad thing?' she continues, shaking her head of very white hair. ‘I mean in a way all this technology is making us antisocial isn't it?'

‘Hummmph, I'm not sure? I know what you mean though. I have two teenage daughters at home that probably couldn't function without their mobile phones. It's actually quite hard to tell where their hand ends and their phone starts. They're constantly looking down at them too.'

Mrs Lambert clucks and raises her eyes. ‘I know all about that,' she states. ‘People are constantly bumping into me in the street, and it's
not
to pass the time of day either, it's because they jolly well don't look where they're going.'

Her knowing eyes remain steely but she lets out a small laugh.

‘Yes, that does happen, a lot, doesn't it? Annoys the hell out of me too. Although, if I'm completely honest,' I raise my finger, wincing, ‘I've probably done it a few times myself.'

Mrs Lambert tuts and shakes her head again but continues to chuckle all the same.

I
think of Cassie and Maisy, part of the device dependent generation, heads down, ambidextrous thumbs at the ready, expressions of great disdain or great joy perpetually morphing into one another, their moods dictated by the words and emoticons flashing across portable screens of colourful technology. A huge part of my daughters' daily interaction.

‘I'm always amazed how superfast and nimble their fingers are though aren't you?'

‘Yes, they do seem to move at lightning speed don't they? Not like these knarly old things,' Mrs Lambert replies, waving slightly deformed arthritic fingers at me. ‘So you agree with me then, about technology being anti-social?'

I think back to my recent conversation with Ruby and I'm reminded what an awkward and precarious time one's formative years can be.

‘Yes, I suppose so. But then again isn't some of it just, well, being teenagers?'

Mrs Lambert contemplates her reply. She sighs before she speaks again. ‘I suppose some of it is.' A hint of reluctant resignation tinges her voice. ‘Nothing a good clip round the ear wouldn't sort out though, sometimes. There was much more discipline around when I was young. Never did us any harm either. Taught us to respect our elders. I pity some of the parents and teachers today. Can't even tell a child off without someone ringing social services.'

‘Humph, it does feel a bit like that sometimes doesn't it? Children do need boundaries, and guidance. But we live in very precarious times. I want my children to have a voice, even if it is across cyberspace and Twittersphere.'

Mrs Lambert stares at me, her crumpled face bright but mapped and worn with lines of time. ‘And as far as technology goes,' I continue, ‘I think there always has and always will be, a certain amount of anxiety around technological advances, don't
you?
It's up to us to put that technology to good use isn't it?'

Mrs Lambert sighs heavily again. ‘Yes, I know what you mean dear. What we lose in some things we gain in others I suppose. All this texting, skype thingy, face whotsit and emails do help us stay in contact with everyone more easily. That's why I'm doing this course because I have family and friends abroad. They email me quite a lot but I'm never quite sure how to open my messages properly or how to reply, so I thought it was jolly well time I learned.'

‘And so you shall Mrs Lam – I mean Beryl – with my help, so you shall.'

My conversation with Mrs Lambert stays with me. She's certainly made me think, evoked a few memories and I mention it to Simon, as we're getting ready for bed. I like this twilight hour. Dinner is done, packed lunches for the following day are made, and it's a weekday so there are no parties or sleepovers that beckon the girls so I'm slightly more settled, at ease with sleep, which never comes easy when they're out.

The house in the main is quiet, except of course for the faint sounds of technology in one form or another, seeping and bleeping from respective bedrooms, before sleep inevitably – as it always must – wins the battle for peace for a few hours.

‘I know what you mean,' Simon says, punching his pillow several times, in the same way he does every night (when he's not working away), before finally settling his head against it. ‘Things were different when we were younger. For a start divorce was rare, everyone's parents stayed together. Did couples work at it more though or were they just stuck with each other?' he asks, his face creased with thought as he considers his own question. ‘Anyway,' he continues, ‘divorce – just the word itself – was a
dirty
one. Nowadays it seems like the opposite is true.'

‘Hmmm, yeah I suppose,' I reply. ‘Ruby and Andy have managed to stick at it though eh?'

Yes, but why was Ruby so dressed up to go shopping the other day?

‘True, true. And they lost a child so they actually had more of an excuse than most to chuck it all in, so all credit to them.'

Simon's words, unintentionally sharp and jagged, sever my train of thought. I tried – really tried – to keep our family together. Scott's departure, even now, still proves to be painful at times, and never more so than when Cassie is in floods of tears, usually over some occasion or event Scott has once again failed to mark or acknowledge. I struggle with Cassie's grief, struggle to placate her (mostly) justified but extremely emotional outbursts; but to lose a child forever? How does anyone ever manage that pain? How can that possibly ease over time?

‘Liz. Lizzie,' Simon's voice is dragging me back to the present. ‘Don't you think so?'

‘Sorry, what?' I ask slightly confused.

‘That Ruby and Andy are the exception rather than the rule.'

‘Maybe,' I say sadly, ‘it certainly feels like that doesn't it? Broken Britain eh?'

Broken families and broken kids?'

‘Hmmmm, I hope not.' His eyes glaze over for a moment, staring into space. I know he's lost in his own thoughts and concerns for Maisy. ‘You know what else?' he continues. ‘There weren't many fat kids, or adults for that matter, around in our younger days either.'

I throw him a slightly derisive look.

‘Don't look at me like that. It's true. You know it is. Too much bloody sugar in everyone's diet these days. We can blame the 80s war on fat for that, and for men wearing white socks and mullet haircuts of course. What on earth were we thinking?'

I
look at Simon and raise my eyes. He farts, loudly. I sigh. He laughs; confirmation that, if it were ever needed, the honeymoon period of our relationship is well and truly over.

‘Simon for god's sake!' I exclaim. He sniggers churlishly like a naughty schoolboy.

What is it with men and farting anyway
?

I look at him and tut. ‘I mean really, I just don't get it, why is farting so bloody funny? Please enlighten me?'

‘It's simply because men have a more advanced sense of humour than women.'

‘Hummmph, hardly. The truth is you lot just never grow up.'

At least he doesn't stick your head under the cover like Jodi's husband does
.

I shudder with mild revulsion afraid to divulge such information for fear of giving Simon ideas.

‘One of the disadvantages of being with a younger man,' I say out loud.

‘Only by a couple of years,' Simon replies.

‘You needn't think you're getting a shag now,' I state in mock disgust. He sticks out his bottom lip and folds both his arms defiantly across his chest.

‘Oooooohhhhh,' he replies sulkily, ‘go on, I'll do that thing you like.'

He glides over towards me and pulls me to him. He kisses my nose and cheek before his hot, wet mouth finds mine, confirmation that – on some level – the honeymoon period is in fact still alive and kicking. His kiss is hard and urgent and I'm safe in the knowledge (at least I think I am) that it's because he wants me. He wants to love, shag, fuck, call it what you will,
me
. He really wants
me
. And it's a very different experience from a pity shag or one of pure physical gratification (not mine), when you know damn well (in their head) the person inside you is fucking anyone (preferably successful and with money) but you.

Simon's
tongue expertly finds mine as his hand runs across my breast, hovering gently, playing with my now erect nipple. I pull away from his mouth and look at him as his hand continues to brush across both my breasts. His blue eyes, slightly craggy around the edges, are full of want. I can feel him harden.

‘I have to clean my teeth,' I suddenly declare. ‘What?' he exclaims, ‘you are joking right?' ‘Nope. I've been eating garlic. I really need to.'

‘Jesus babe, you really know how to kill the moment.' ‘Like farting in bed,' I reply. He laughs.

‘You're right though,' I attempt to shout through a froth of worked up toothpaste in my mouth, ‘there weren't many fat kids around when we were younger. I see loads of them at the library.'

‘Yeah, and you know why that is don't you?' he asks but answers before I get a chance to. ‘It's because we played out for hours on end, riding our bikes, fishing, building camps, meeting girls, meeting boys,' he continues. ‘I mean, if it was the weekend, or the holidays, we'd be told to bugger off first thing in the morning and we wouldn't be seen again until tea time. By which time we'd be starving and eat every mouthful of whatever was put in front of us.' He pauses for a moment. ‘And you know what?' He waves a lone finger with proud authority. ‘We were grateful for it.'

I laugh. ‘Aye,' I reply, making a very poor attempt at a Yorkshire accent, which actually sounds more like some bizarre mix of Scottish, Irish and Jamaican, ‘and yoos try tellin the young kids of today that, and they dunt believe ya.'

Simon grins at me and pulls me into bed, wrapping his arms around me. Holding me. Safe.

We talk about scrumping for apples and blackberries and going home with bellyache and red stained hands and faces. We talk about setting up camps and lighting fires, of racing bikes
along
the riverbank and swimming in the bower to escape the midday sun. Resurrected childhoods pervading and flickering across our sentimental thoughts.

‘And you know what else?' I add. ‘We didn't have half the technology our kids have got but … well …'

‘We survived?' Simon finishes my sentence.

‘Yeah, that's just it isn't it? We did survive didn't we? We didn't wear seat belts in cars or helmets on bikes. We only had three TV channels to choose from, not ninety. And if you wanted to turn the channel over you asked permission then got up and clicked the button of the mahogany encased set. We played on grass, we played on concrete, and we fell on both. We climbed trees and fell out of them; we broke teeth, broke bones and split lips. If we got in trouble with the police our parents sided with the law, and if we got in trouble at school we got the cane and our parents merely shrugged their shoulders and told us to make sure it didn't happen again. If we wanted to see friends we walked, or rode our bikes to their house and knocked on their door, walked in and talked to them…'

We are quiet again for a moment; happily tripping, skipping, leap frogging, tigging, tagging and British Bull Dogging down memory lane.

‘Memories eh,' I say as the words to the song with the same title run adjacent to my childhood chronicles, iridescent across my psyche like grainy old movie footage. Simon mumbles something but I fail to catch it. ‘What?' I say turning to see him grinning at me.

‘Don't give up the day job babe,' he says.

I'm horrified. ‘Oh god, was I singing out loud?' Simon openly laughs at me, attempting to duck out of the way of the pillow I manage to hit him with. ‘Yes, but we had so much more freedom than our kids do didn't we?' I ask. ‘Freedom, failure, success and responsibility, and we learned how to deal with it.
We
survived without mobile phones and computers and tablets, without CCTV and Sunday opening and the bloody government or any other PC body of some sort regulating our lives “for our own good”.'

‘Yeah, the good old days eh?' Simon continues. ‘Everyone always ran to answer the house phone too didn't they? Our house was filled with cries of, “I'll get it, I'll get it”. Now, everyone just looks at one another if the bloody landline rings.'