Elspeth looks at the web of roots around her feet; they are clambering over each other as if fighting for a fraction of space to call their own. If she looks up, she will see Joe. He will be clutching Millie’s hand and she will be half-walking, half-running, trying to keep up with his long strides. His face will have two short wrinkles above his nose as if he is concentrating very hard on something.
Until he sees her. Then, his face will open into a smile. And she definitely doesn’t want to see that.
‘The usual,’ she says, handing him a paper cup.
Millie’s blonde hair bops up and down as she runs towards the sandpit.
‘Thanks.’ He takes a sip and says, ‘Not that it isn’t lovely to see you, but what’s the emergency?’
She takes a lungful of autumnal air and forces herself to look at him. ‘Dave’s dad died last night.’
‘Oh,’ he says, eyebrows slightly raised. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. What happened?’
‘Heart attack. Was rushed to hospital. Dead on arrival.’ Elspeth glances over to check that both her daughters are still playing on the boat-shaped climbing frame. ‘The thing is…’ She turns her body towards him, hearing a twig snap under her boot. ‘The thing is…’
‘Don’t say it. Please don’t say you’ve changed your mind?’
She leans in and whispers, ‘I can’t leave him now. His dad’s just died.’
‘For goodness sake, Elspeth. We talked about this only yesterday. We decided.’
‘I know, I know.’ She runs a hand over her forehead. ‘Obviously I didn’t know this was going to happen.’
Two pigeons, fat and grey, land on the ground in front of them. Elspeth and Joe both look down as they start pecking in the grass for crumbs; their struggle for food becoming more and more fraught.
‘I’ve told Julia.’
‘Oh God. What did she say?’
‘What do you think? She was livid.’
Elspeth looks over to the climbing frame where the three girls are taking it in turns, creating a conveyor belt of pink wellies trudging up the steps and down the slide.
‘I’m sorry, Joe.’
‘Well, it would appear that it’s not your problem anymore.’
He throws his nearly full coffee cup into the bin and yells, ‘Millie, we’re going.’
‘But, Dad, we only just got here.’
‘No arguments.’
Millie takes her turn down the slide. He grabs her hand and walks her back in the direction they came from, her lone pair of pink wellies dragging over the damp grass.
Laura Besley writes in the precious moments that her children are sleeping. Her debut flash fiction collection, The Almost Mothers, was published in March 2020. Find her at @laurabesley
