The Switch - Beth O'Leary Page 0,68
flimsy everything looks, from the little plastic chairs to the brightly coloured bookshelf half full of tatty paperbacks.
‘Jackson,’ I say. ‘I’m so sorry about Ethan being …’
Jackson’s setting up, steadily laying out everything he needs; his hands pause for a moment. His eyes look very blue in the late morning sunshine streaming through the classroom window, and he’s clean shaven today, the usual sandy grains of stubble gone from his jawline.
‘He was trying to be funny,’ I say. ‘He’s normally not like that.’
Jackson uses a paint-splattered screwdriver to lever up the lid of the tin.
‘I’m sorry too,’ he says. ‘I could have been a bit more, you know. Welcoming.’
I tilt my head – that’s a fair point. I relax a little, reaching for a brush. We start on the back wall, painting side by side. Jackson’s forearm is lightly dusted with pale freckles, and when he moves past me to turn on the light I can smell the outdoors on him, cool air and a hint of earthiness, like the scent of rain.
‘I never said thanks for helping out with Samantha when she was here for Easter,’ he says eventually. ‘She wouldn’t stop going on about you afterwards.’
I smile. ‘She’s such a lovely kid.’
‘She’s already getting too clever for me,’ Jackson says, pulling a face. ‘She asks more questions than my class put together. And she’s always thinking – bit like you, really.’
I pause, surprised. He glances over.
‘Not a bad thing. Just the impression I get.’
‘No, that’s fair. Except I’d call it worrying rather than thinking, most of the time, so I hope Samantha’s not like me, for her sake. My brain doesn’t know when to shut up. I bet you I can think up twenty worst-case scenarios before you could even think of one.’
‘Never been one for worst-case scenarios,’ Jackson says. He crouches to dip his roller in the tray; his wrists are flecked with paint now, new, brighter freckles. ‘When they happen, you cope. And it’s usually one you’ve not thought of that gets you, so why worry?’
God, what I would give to think like that. The sheer simplicity of it.
‘I just want to be sure I’m doing the right thing,’ I say. ‘I’m worried about – I don’t know, you know those books you read as a kid, that let you choose what happened next, and you turned to a different page depending on what you picked?’
Jackson nods. ‘I know the ones.’
‘Right, well, I’m always trying to skip ahead so I can work out the best one.’
‘Best one for what?’
I pause. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Best for you?’
‘No, no, I mean just … best. The right thing to do.’
‘Huh,’ Jackson says. ‘Interesting.’
I reach for a new subject, something more comfortable.
‘Can I ask who was May Queen and May King last year? I’ve got to find someone to do it, and I’m thinking that’ll be the best place to start.’
There is a very long pause.
‘It was me and Marigold,’ Jackson says eventually.
I drop my brush.
‘Shit!’ I reach for the wet cloth and dab at the vinyl floor – I’ve got there just in time to avert disaster.
‘All right?’ Jackson asks, gaze back on the wall again.
‘Yes, fine. Sorry … you and Marigold? Your ex?’ I realise belatedly I probably ought not to know about Marigold – it wasn’t Jackson who told me. But he seems unsurprised. I suppose he does live in Hamleigh: he must be used to gossip doing the rounds.
‘She always liked doing it when we were together.’ His hand is steady and careful as he paints, but there’s a muscle ticking in his jaw. ‘She came back for it.’
‘With Samantha?’
The roller pauses briefly.
‘Aye.’
‘Will they be coming this year?’
‘I hope so. I’m lucky – Marigold’s filming in London for a spell so she’s in the UK for a few weeks.’
‘That’s great. I’m glad.’ I chew the inside of my cheek. ‘When I said about my flatmate Martha, the other day,’ I say tentatively, ‘I never meant – I know there are lots of ways to be a parent. Obviously. I’m sorry for upsetting you.’
He sluices more paint into the roller tray, and I wait, watching him carefully tilt the tin back without dripping any paint down the side.
‘Marigold keeps saying they’ll move back and set up in London,’ he says, clearing his throat. ‘But it’s been over a year. And the visits are getting less and less often.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say again.
‘S’all right. You didn’t mean any harm. You’re just a bit – you know – direct