Page 36 of Secrets of Starshine
They both remain silent, but nod vigorously. Wow, I am so being the boss of this.
I take my scissors out of their pouch, and Lilly makes anooohnoise.
“They’re so small!” she says excitedly. “Not like the ones Dad uses!”
“Right,” I say, combing Meg’s hair down, “I bet he uses garden shears, doesn’t he?”
They giggle, and Archie pipes up defensively: “That was only once, when I couldn’t find the kitchen scissors…I’m going outside to sweep the leaves. I feel ganged-up on.”
We all laugh at that, and the girls chatter on to me as I work, telling me what they’ve put on their Christmas list and what kind of Happy Meal they’re going to order and all about their new Christmas pyjamas that have reindeers on them and how they’re both going to sleep in Lilly’s room tonight. It is a relentless tide of information, delivered in one breathless flow, but no worse than I deal with on the average day at work. I nod and reply in all the right places, finishing off Meg’s trim and moving on to Lilly.
Their hair really is gorgeous – thick and shiny red, with all the health and lustre of hair before it’s exposed to straighteners and dryers and chemicals.
I do fishtail braids for Meg, and Dutch for Lilly, so they can be basically the same but with enough variation to give them some individuality. I use some pins to build them up into a basic crown style on top of their heads, and then stand back to inspect my handiwork. They both look adorable – and they’re pipping with anticipation at the thought of seeing their new look.
Archie comes back inside, takes it all in, and snaps a couple of pictures of them for posterity. I tell them it’s okay to go upstairs and to the bathroom and check themselves out, which is immediately followed by the delicate thundering of feet on the steps, and then the hammering of small fists on the bathroom door. If it’s Sam in there getting ready, they might be waiting a while.
Obviously coming to the same conclusion, I hear more footsteps – this time right overhead, telling me that they’ve burst into his bedroom to use the mirror there instead. Archie and I pause, both looking upwards, until we hear giggles and squeals. Job done.
I start to pack up my gear, and look for something I can use to clean away the few strands of hair on the kitchen floor.
“Thank you,” says Archie, suddenly appearing beside me with a dustpan and brush. He’s wearing a rugby shirt and Levi’s, along with his trademark battered old Timberland boots. Viking raider goes casual. Even holding domestic tools, he looks rugged.
“That’s made their day,” he continues. “I’ve only recently mastered a basic plait, after many hours spent watching YouTube videos with titles likeBraids for Dummies.”
I smile, and reply: “You’re very welcome. I’ll give you a tutorial before I leave. By the time you’ve cracked it they’ll have decided that plaits are for babies.”
I sweep up, and straighten the chairs, then sit on one of them. Almost immediately, I am plunged into the gloom of my own thoughts – it’s like they are lurking there in the background, waiting to ambush me as soon as I’m not busy with something else.
That final photo keeps popping back into my now un-distracted mind. The one of my parents, sitting at the same table but clearly worlds apart. Me caught between them, my nerves frayed. I won’t have understood what was happening, I was too little, but I would have felt its effects. Kids are sensitive to conflict, no matter how hard adults try and hide it from them – and it didn’t look like mine had tried very hard.
I remember the last few months of my marriage to Steve, when things were falling apart. I knew something was wrong, knew he was working late too often, hiding his phone, acting weirdly. Realised that he was being surly and unpleasant because he was unhappy, and looking for a way to blame me for that unhappiness. He knew he was in the wrong, and he punished me for his own guilt.
I was hurting, and confused, and felt like my world was crumbling, but I tried my very best to keep it from Sam – to keep my voice low, to maintain a front of normality even if I felt anything but normal inside. It was one of the toughest times of my life, and even though these days, I look back on it with a lot less bitterness, I still recall that one of my biggest fears was scarring Sam in any way. I never wanted him to be caught in the middle of a battle-zone that was in no way his fault. I was determined to hide my pain, to never cry in front of him, to protect him.
Maybe, I think, there are reasons for that – reasons I never quite understood until now. Maybe I carry my own scars, hidden even from myself.
I feel a hand on my shoulder, a gentle squeeze of pressure, and look up in surprise at Archie. I’d almost forgotten he was there.
“Are you all right?” he says quietly, in a tone that implies it’s not the first time he’s asked the question.
“Oh! Gosh, I’m sorry…I was miles away. Yeah. I’m all right. Just a bit…what’s the word…? Discombobulated?”
“Well, that’s definitely a word. Anything I can help with?”
I can tell from the look on his face that he means it – that this is a genuine kindness, not an empty offer. I’m just not at all sure that there is anything he can do for me.
“Thank you, Archie, but I don’t think so. I’ve just got a lot of stuff churning around in my mind.”
“I hate it when that happens. Look, I’m going to drop the kids over at the café, and go for a stroll on the beach before I embark on Operation Christmas. If you’ve got the energy, why don’t you join me? Nothing clears your head quite like it, I guarantee.”
It is the very last thing I feel like doing, in all honesty. But my options are limited – I could stay in, alone, and feel sorry for myself. I could try and call my mum – again. Or I could do as he suggests, and go for a walk. I can only imagine how many times he’s felt the need to clear his head in his circumstances.
I am about to reply when Sam pops into the room. I see his eyes flicker to Archie’s hand on my shoulder, and spot the slight quirk of his eyebrow, so subtle that nobody else would even notice it. I stand up quickly, walk over, and give him a big hug. One of those that involves the potential crushing of ribs.
“You okay?” he asks, frowning. “Want to come to McDonald’s with us? Big night out…”
“No thanks, love. Bit knackered is all. You go, enjoy yourself.”
