Tony Parsons - The Complete Man and Boy Trilogy - Man and Boy, Man and Wife, Men From the Boys

‘You miss your wife,’ she said. ‘You really miss her.’

‘That’s true,’ I conceded. ‘But it’s also true that you blow me away.’

‘Boy,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘But you still don’t know me.’

She didn’t say it the way she had said it before. Now she said it gently, kindly, as if it weren’t my fault that I didn’t know her.

And she moved towards me as she said it, looking at me with those eyes for a moment before they closed as she placed her mouth upon mine.

I kissed her back. ‘I know you a little bit,’ I said.

‘Yes,’ she said, giving me that. ‘You know me a little bit.’

Pat started school.

The uniform he had to wear should have made him look grown up. The grey V-necked sweater, the white shirt and yellow tie should have made him look like a little man. But they didn’t.

The formality of his school clothes only underlined the shocking newness of him. Approaching his fifth birthday, he wasn’t even young yet. He was still brand new. Even though he was dressed more grown-up than me.

As I helped him get ready for his first day at school, I was startled to realise just how much I loved his face. When he was a baby I couldn’t tell if he was really beautiful, or if that was just my parental software kicking in. But now I could see the truth.

With those light blue eyes, his long yellow hair and the way his slow, shy smile could spread right across his impossibly smooth face, he really was a beautiful boy.

And now I had to let my beautiful boy go out into the world. At least until 3.30. For both of us, it felt like a lifetime.

He wasn’t smiling now. At breakfast he was pale and silent in his pastiche of adult’s clothing, struggling to stop his chin trembling and his bottom lip sticking out, while over the Coco Pops I kept up a running commentary about the best days of your life.

The Coco Pops were interrupted by a call from Gina. I knew it must have been difficult for her to phone – the working day was still going strong where she was – but I also knew that she wouldn’t miss Pat’s big day. I watched him talking to his mother, uncomfortable in his shirt and tie, a baby suddenly forced to impersonate a man.

Then it was time to go.

As we drove closer to the school I was seized by a moment of panic. There were children everywhere, swarms of them all in exactly the same clothes as Pat, all heading in the same direction as us. I could lose him in here. I could lose him forever.

We pulled up some way from the school gates. There were cars double-parked and treble-parked everywhere. Tiny girls with Leonardo DiCaprio lunch boxes scrambled out of off-road vehicles the size of Panzer tanks. Bigger boys with Arsenal and Manchester United kitbags climbed out of old bangers. The noise from this three-foot-high tribe was unbelievable.

I took Pat’s clammy hand and we joined the throng. I could see a collection of small, bewildered new kids and their nervous parents milling about in the playground. We were just going through the gates to join them when I noticed the lace on one of Pat’s brand new black leather shoes was undone.

‘Let me get your lace for you, Pat,’ I said, kneeling down to tie it, realising that this was the first day in his life he had ever been out of trainers.

Two bigger boys rolled past, arm in arm. They leered at us. Pat smiled at them shyly.

‘He can’t even do his shoes up,’ one of them snorted.

‘No,’ Pat said, ‘but I can tell the time.’

They collapsed in guffaws of laughter, holding each other up for support, and reeled away repeating what Pat had said with disbelief.

‘But I can tell the time, can’t I?’ Pat said, thinking they doubted his word, his eyes blinking furiously as he seriously considered bursting into tears.

‘You can tell the time brilliantly,’ I said, unable to really believe that I was actually going to turn my son loose among all the cynicism and spite of the lousy modern world. We went into the playground.

A lot of the children starting school had both parents with them. But I wasn’t the only lone parent. I wasn’t even the only man.

There was another solo father, maybe ten years older than me, a shagged out business type accompanying a composed little girl with a rucksack bearing the grinning mugs of some boy band I had never heard of. We exchanged a quick look and then he avoided my eyes, as if what I had might be catching. I suppose his wife could have been at work. I suppose she could have been anywhere.

The kindly headmistress came and led us into the assembly hall. She gave us a brief, breezy pep talk and then the children were all assigned to their individual classrooms.

Pat got Miss Waterhouse, and with a handful of other parents and new kids we were marched off to her class by one of the trusted older children who were acting as guides. Our guide was a boy of around eight years old. Pat stared up at him, dumbstruck with admiration.

In Miss Waterhouse’s class a flock of five-year-olds were sitting cross-legged on the floor, patiently waiting for a story from their teacher, a young woman with the hysterical good humour of a game-show host.

‘Welcome, everyone!’ Miss Waterhouse said. ‘You’re just in time for our morning story. But first it’s time for everyone to say goodbye to their mummy.’ She beamed at me. ‘And daddy.’

It was time to leave him. Although there had been a few emotional goodbyes before he dropped out of nursery school, this time felt a bit different. This time it felt as though I were being left.

He was starting school, and by the time he left school he would be a man and I would be middle-aged. Those long days of watching Star Wars videos at home while life went on somewhere else were over. Those days had seemed empty and frustrating at the time, but I missed them already. My baby was joining the world.

Miss Waterhouse asked for volunteers to look after the new boys and girls. A forest of hands shot up, and the teacher chose the chaperones. Suddenly a solemn, exceptionally pretty little girl was standing next to us.

‘I’m Peggy,’ she told Pat. ‘And I’m going to take care of you.’

The little girl took his hand and led him into the classroom.

He didn’t even notice me leaving.

I can remember sleeping on the back seat of my father’s car. We were driving away from the city, coming back from nights out – the yearly visit to the London Palladium to see a pantomime, the weekly visits to see my grandmother – and I would watch the yellow lamps of East End streets and Essex A-roads blurring high above my dreaming head.

I would stretch out on the back seat of my dad’s car – ‘You don’t have to sleep, just rest your eyes,’ my mother would tell me – and soon I would be rocked off to sleep by the motion of the car and the murmur of my parents’ voices.

The next thing I knew I would be in my father’s arms, the car up our drive, the engine still running as he lifted me from the back seat, swaddled in the tartan blanket that he kept in the car for our trips to the seaside and relatives and the London Palladium.

These days it takes next to nothing to wake me. A drunk staggering home, a car door slammed, a false alarm miles away – they are all enough to snap me out of sleep and leave me staring at the ceiling for hours. But when I was a child sleeping on the back seat of my dad’s car, nothing could wake me up. I hardly stirred from my dreams when we arrived home and I was carried up the stairs to bed wrapped up in that tartan blanket and my father’s arms.

I wanted Pat to have memories like that. I wanted Pat to feel as secure as that. But with Gina gone and our old VW estate sold to pay the mortgage, these days Pat was by my side in the passenger seat of the MGF, struggling and fighting against sleep even when we were coming back from my parents and there was an hour’s worth of empty motorway ahead of us.