Claire S. Duffy - The Stranger - Season 1

A hot flash of something Fergus didn’t care to identify shot through him. ‘That’s your thing with him,’ he said quietly. ‘I sing with him.’

‘I think he misses it.’

‘Then maybe you should get home in time to kiss him goodnight.’

Tess pushed his arm away, shuffled over to her side. ‘I don’t think I remember you getting home for bed time last year,’ she sighed.

***

‘Aha, so it seems that you know absolutely no Swedish,’ the woman said with a smile, looking at Fergus’s test results.

‘That’s about the face of it.’

Fergus was certain that Alfie was due to kick off at any moment, and resisted the urge to beg the woman to get on with it. Alfie had been mercifully patient for the entire morning they had spent at the Swedish for Immigrants Centre. They had traipsed from queue to queue, to multiple choice test, one more queue, an oral exam with an older man who had rapid fired questions in Swedish as Fergus stared like a deer in headlights, to a final queue and now this interview. Fergus was exhausted, but Alfie had contently sat in his lap, people watching.

The centre was packed, buzzing with chatter in dozens of different languages as scores of people queued up to begin the process of entering their new life in Sweden. A grandmother in a brightly patterned skirt and shawl introduced Alfie to the toddler on her lap in a language Fergus couldn’t even identify. She managed to mime asking if it was okay to give Alfie a biscuit. A Spanish woman in a sharp business suit made faces at Alfie when he started to cry in the second or third queue, and informed Fergus she was considering going down the sperm bank route in the next year or two. A couple of burly American college-age guys randomly clicked their way through the multiple choice comprehension test as they loudly and solemnly discussed how they were terrified of Swedish women and suspected they might be looking at a semester of celibacy. Alfie started to squirm in Fergus’s lap and Fergus’s heart sank at the thought of having to cut the interview short and restart the whole interminable process some other day.

The woman interviewing him was in her forties or so, with the sort of crinkly eyed smile that made Fergus think she had spent a lifetime laughing into the sun on a speedboat, her light brown hair tied back in a sensible clip. ‘That is okay,’ she said with another smile. ‘We all must start somewhere. That is what we are here for. Does your child go to dagis or would you need an evening class?’

‘Does he do what?’

‘Dagis - like —’ She searched the air for the right word. ‘Day care? Preschool?’

‘No, I look after him.’

‘Okay, well I could sign you up for this class, which takes place on a Monday, Tuesday and Thursday.’

‘Ahh, I’m not sure whether or not my wife would be able to make it home in time so many nights a week.’

‘The best way to learn is many times a week, that way you don’t forget everything in between. We really recommend doing a class every day if you can.’

‘I see,’ said Fergus. What she said made sense, but it just wasn’t feasible to commit to three nights a week away from Alfie, never mind more. He thought of all the families out there in the waiting room. How would they be able to devote full time to learning Swedish? ‘Well, I’ll talk to my wife,’ he said, knowing there was zero chance. What a waste of time, he thought. At least they had escaped the flat for a morning.

The woman gave him an appraising look. ‘Why don’t I give you the timetable and you can telephone or email to join a class when you are ready?’

‘Thank you.’

On the way home, Fergus and Alfie passed a large play park, with a rope climbing frame in the shape of a ship. Alfie immediately started shouting to get out of the buggy. It was nearly lunchtime and the snacks Fergus had packed for the morning were long gone; he judged that hunger crankiness would set in within the next fifteen minutes soon to be followed by late-nap crankiness. A group of children swarmed over the climbing frame, shouting and squealing, and Alfie kicked the buggy and roared ‘ ooouuuuuutttttt ’. Fergus decided to accept the inevitable and live dangerously.

‘There you go, pal,’ he said, freeing Alfie who immediately scampered over to the tallest tower of the climbing frame and launched himself at it.

‘Of course you go for that bit,’ grinned Fergus, running to help him up.

There was a group of children next to the climbing frame. They each wore luminous vests, like a collection of miniature construction workers. Four adults in giant ski parkas sat with them leading them in a song, two or three toddlers squished onto each of their laps.

‘Daddy look at me,’ shouted Alfie, clinging onto the rope.

‘Looking great, pal.’

As Fergus gripped Alfie’s snowsuit tightly, as he scrabbled up the mast of the ‘ship’, Fergus listened to the children’s song. He turned slowly to look at them. The song; Fergus had heard it before: last night when he’d been woken and as he had lain in the darkness listening to Tess stumbling in the hallway and whispering into her phone. There had been singing. So softly that he hadn’t consciously registered it at the time, but now, listening to the children, deja vu prickled through him.

That was why the baby hadn’t been crying in the night for once. Its mother had been singing to it. That was good, he thought, maybe she was getting on top of things, but as Alfie leapt off the platform into his arms, the children launched into another verse.

‘Lunchtime, pal,’ he said and wrestled Alfie back into his buggy.

***

‘Thank you.’

‘Namaste.’

‘Have a beautiful day.’

Alex’s lunchtime Flow and Meditation class filed out and Alex took a moment to enjoy the warm energy lingering in the space as she straightened mats and set out lavender eye pillows ready for her gentle relaxation class that afternoon.

She sensed the woman standing in the doorway long before she cleared her throat to catch Alex’s attention. It had been her first class with Alex, but she had ably kept up and flipped nimbly into a headstand; she clearly wasn’t new to yoga. A tiny warning signal flickered in Alex as the woman stepped fully into the studio, and asked if she could have a moment of Alex’s time.

‘Of course,’ said Alex with an impassive smile. ‘Were you interested in taking more classes, or —?’

‘You are an excellent teacher,’ the woman replied. ‘There was a beautiful energy to the practice. I feel extremely restored.’

‘I’m pleased to hear it. You are welcome any time.’

There was a pause. Alex poured herself a glass of water from the jug she always kept in the studio. She didn’t offer the woman any.

‘I wondered if I could talk to you, perhaps somewhere else? Over coffee, maybe?’

‘Do you want to know more about yoga?’ Alex was being deliberately obtuse. She moved slowly around the studio, perfecting mats and refolding blankets, but every one of her senses was on red alert.

‘I would love to hear more of what you have to say about yoga,’ the woman said, but Alex heard the catch in her voice. She was a good liar, she thought, but Alex was better. ‘But also —’

‘Also?’ Alex turned quickly to face the woman for the first time. Alex saw she had startled her and was satisfied.

‘I can’t begin to imagine what it was like —’ she began.

Alex’s eyes narrowed, but she didn’t move.

‘No, you can’t,’ she said softly.

‘You’ve done an incredible job at putting it all behind you and creating a new life. I bet you never even think about him.’

Alex said nothing. The woman shifted her weight from one foot to the other, avoided Alex’s gaze. She was nervous, Alex saw, but determined.