Cath Staincliffe - Half the World Away

The park is open from six in the morning till nine at night, when lanterns and lights glow among the bamboo plants and trees. And it feels safe. Another difference from the one at home where there’s an edginess, the peace shattered by some prat on a mini motorbike churning up the field, or a group of drunk kids getting physical.

Perhaps the biggest difference is that at home we’re out in public but we keep ourselves to ourselves – all that British reserve, we stay in our own little cliques. A nod as you pass someone is the height of interaction – apart from the dog-walkers, who like to mingle with their canine friends. In China, everyone is into everyone else’s business – there doesn’t seem to be any notion of privacy. People stare and interrupt and join in and interfere all the time. A crowd forms at the drop of a hat. It’s like a big party where everyone knows everyone else, except they don’t, they just act like they do. Lxxx

Emailing with Lori is sporadic. She usually replies a few days after receiving a message but rarely unprompted. We keep abreast of what she’s up to by following her blog. She posted a new one today, about parks. I showed it to the boys and we talked about the pictures.

Isaac kicks off at the tea table. ‘I hate macaroni cheese. It looks like sick.’

‘Yeuch! Gross!’ says Finn.

‘It’s that or toast,’ I say, my voice calm, not wanting a battle.

‘Don’t want toast.’

‘You’ll be hungry,’ Nick says.

Isaac sets his jaw, scowls, pushes at the pasta with his spoon, moving it to the very edge of his plate. A quick look at me to see if I’ll stop him. Another jab and the first of his food spills onto the table. I reach over and remove his plate.

‘Isaac,’ Nick shouts, ‘stop messing.’

Isaac jumps down, runs out and upstairs. I’m disappointed in Nick. If he hadn’t risen to the bait…

Nick shoves back his chair, the scrape on the laminate floor shredding my nerves. ‘Leave him,’ I say.

He hesitates.

‘We’ll finish tea. No point in him disrupting it for all of us.’

‘What’s for pudding?’ Finn says.

‘Apple pie,’ I say.

‘Yum. Is Isaac getting any?’

‘Don’t know.’ I jump in before Nick lays down any laws. ‘We’ll see. Are you going to feed Benji?’

Finn nods and starts to move, but I tell him to have his apple pie first.

Nick smiles at Finn but I can still feel the tension in him, almost hear the hum of impatience and irritation just below the surface. I’m getting so tired of his bad mood and resent the fact that I have to mediate between him and Isaac. We’ve always been good at parenting, well, good enough, presenting a united front. I’ll have to tackle him about it. Of course it’s the stress of redundancy that’s behind this but his refusal to talk to me about it makes it worse. Like he’s wallowing in it, savouring it. A martyr.

After another tantrum about toast tasting funny and a crying jag, Isaac is asleep at last. Finn is in bed with his book. He’ll drift off soon enough, and when one of us prises the book from his hands, he won’t wake.

Downstairs Nick is doing a shopping list, checking the fridge and the cupboards.

‘Can we talk?’ I say to him.

He makes a noise, noncommittal.

I sit down and pour myself a glass of wine, emptying the bottle. Nick opens another and refills his glass.

Sitting down, I say, ‘I’m worried about you.’

‘He needs clear boundaries,’ Nick says.

‘I’m not talking about Isaac,’ I say. ‘I’m talking about you. You’re shutting me out.’

‘I’m doing my best,’ he says.

‘Maybe you should talk to someone.’

‘Jo,’ he shakes his head, ‘come on.’

‘I think you’re depressed,’ I say.

‘This is my problem, I’ll deal with it how-’

‘But you’re not,’ I say, more loudly than I mean to. ‘You’re getting worse. Everything’s a problem. You shout at the kids, you freeze me out.’

He glares at me but I don’t look away.

‘Maybe we need a break, a weekend away. Or you have a get-together with the lads, go cycling, have a laugh. Go to that cottage in Cork.’

‘What – just spend the redundancy?’ he says.

‘Well, a couple of hundred quid isn’t going to make much difference.’

He snorts, like I said something stupid.

‘You suggest something, then.’

‘I suggest you just-’ He breaks off. I’m relieved: whatever he was about to say wasn’t going to be pleasant.

‘Nick?’

He turns away. ‘I just need some time.’

‘It’s been six weeks,’ I say. ‘It’s not your fault but you’re punishing yourself and the rest of us.’

‘Don’t talk crap,’ he says.

‘Everything is so miserable. The atmosphere-’

‘Yes,’ he says hotly, ‘it’s called real life. And having you on my back really isn’t helping.’

Stung and defeated, I pick up my wine and leave him to it. But I won’t give up because we can’t go on like this, not indefinitely. It’s bloody horrible.

Lori in the Ori-ent

Weather

Posted on 2 April 2014 by Lori

I’m used to rain, coming from Manchester (rainy city). Sometimes we get several seasons in a day. England has a north-south and east-west split in climate. For the north-west we have the weather coming in from the Atlantic rising up over the Pennines. It’s wet and cloudy while the other side of the hills to the east is drier and sunnier. The south is warmer than the north almost always, and that means Manchester (NW) and London (SE) never share the same forecast. So rain I can do. Changeability I can deal with.

But endless, interminable cloud. Chengdu is known as the city where the sun never shines . Great bumper sticker. Mugs, anyone? Tea towels? It’s in the Sichuan basin surrounded by mountains. This traps the cloud. Swampy best describes the summer I am told. Today it is just sticky. Sticky and airless. The cloud seals in the heat and the pollution. Imagine using a wallpaper steamer on a very old doormat in a confined space. That smell. What’s not to like? The humidity is about a million per cent. Perfect for mosquitoes. So I am sticky and itchy and STILL having an amazing time. Lxxx

I’m in the office, printing off letters and appointment slips for parents’ evening, which is the week after next. The staff are up to their eyes writing reports on each child, charting their progress in their key stage and the core subjects. Sheaves of paperwork, much of it to be done at home in their own time.

I break off and check Lori’s blog hasn’t been updated: it’s still the post about the weather. Nine days since she put it up. A week since I sent my last message. Perhaps she’s hard at work, keeps meaning to reply and hasn’t had time. Or she’s been away. Or ill. Perhaps she’s just being Lori, letting it slide, too caught up in her exciting new life. There could be problems with the Internet – the service is a bit patchy at times. I dither over whether to send a new message, and in the end I do. OK, maybe she’ll resent me nagging but I can live with that. She might just need a nudge.

It’s raining as we walk home from school. Isaac stops every so often, his attention drawn to a pile of litter or something in the hedge. I hurry him along. Finn walks through the puddles. ‘You’ve not got your wellies on,’ I say.

‘I don’t mind.’

‘So your trainers’ll be wet.’

‘Soon dry,’ he says.

The rain is heavier, cold by the time we reach home. ‘I’m soaking,’ Isaac says on the doorstep. ‘Can I stay here?’ Walking Benji is not usually something they can opt out of.