The Owl
By S. Faith, © 2014
Words: 24,800 in 4 chapters
Rating: T / PG-13
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes: See Chapter 1.
Chapter 2
2012
In the wake of these revelations, Mark worked as best he could to remain in their present with them. He focused on Mabel beginning her nursery school, a school he had himself wanted his children to attend. She was Bridget in miniature, with a wild mop of blonde hair, a dolly called Saliva, and a little bit of a lisp that did not stop her from sharing her definite opinions of the world. Billy was becoming a fine boy, though not as confident in himself as he could have been; he could see himself in his son, and if he was able to see it, he knew Bridget could too. He only hoped the resemblance, both physical and behavioural, did not cause her any pain.
When the trees began to bud again with new life, when the days began to get longer, Mark was proud of the fact that he'd noticed. Bridget's friends continued to visit, and he tried to will them to drag her by the scruff to The Electric, then laughed to think he ever would have insisted on such a thing were he still—
Well, no matter, he thought. He noticed with dismay that she rarely went out except to do the school run or to pick up groceries. Despite repeated requests to return to the studio, she was not even going out to work, not that she needed to; he had seen to that. But she had always prided herself on her independence and identity, and even in her career, and that had not even mattered to her anymore. She needed to get out and socialise. She needed to be reminded that she still had a life to live.
Easter, with its coloured eggs, lamb and mint, hot cross buns, came and went, and the Christian celebration of rebirth was shortly followed by a visit by her friends, en masse. Tom. Jude. Magda. Talitha.
Fitting timing.
"We're not having it," said Talitha, stubbing her cigarette out in an empty ashtray. The children were in bed; it was a weeknight, a Thursday, and they had school the next day.
"Keep your voice down," said Bridget in a whispered hiss, "or I'll make you put Mabel back down. And what are you talking about?"
"While we are not unsympathetic," said Magda tactfully, interrupted by Talitha:
"You've got to start living again, Bridget. It's coming up on four years."
"We know how much you loved Mark," said Tom in a conciliatory tone. "But I think he'd be devastated to see you like this."
Bridget looked down. Tears welled in her eyes, then spilled down over her cheeks. Despite the pain this obviously caused her, Mark had never been fonder of Tom than in that moment. "I'll never not love him," she said quietly.
"We know that," said Jude. "Nothing in the world was more obvious than that. But he's… gone."
She hiccupped a sob, covered her face with her hands. "I know."
"And you're not. Yet except for the children, you might as well be," said Talitha. Bless her, he was growing fond of her, too; a frankness and brashness not unlike Shazzer, a shot of which Bridget needed desperately right now. "This must not be allowed to go on, Bridget. You're a woman with the rest of her life to live."
"But Mark—"
"I doubt Mark would be happy to see you like this."
Bridget looked up to them. "Yeah, fatter than I've ever been in my life," she said with a bit of her usual spirit, her reddened eyes sparkling. Was she? Mark hadn't noticed.
Magda made a dismissive sound. "You're fine, but if it bothers you that much… the point is, you have to want to do it, Bridget," said Magda.
Talitha shook her head. "No," she emphasised. "I'm afraid we're to the point that you're doing it whether you want to or not. We love you too much to let you languish any longer."
Bridget turned her gaze to each of her friends in turn. "Shazzer would—"
"She'd agree," Jude said. Tom nodded. "In fact, she would be doing a Facetime in on our little intervention right now if she wasn't in the middle of whatever she spends her days doing out there in California."
There was a long silence, during which she looked down again. "I don't know if I can do this."
"Bridget, you can do anything," said Talitha with an unprecedented softness in her voice. "I've watched you over the last four years. You are a strong woman, whether you care to acknowledge it or not."
Bridget's voice was quiet: "I don't feel very strong."
Jude went over and put her arms around Bridget. "You are, but you've just forgotten," she said gently. Tom embraced her too, as did Magda and Talitha. "We'll help you remember again."
Talitha cracked open a bottle of wine she'd brought, poured them each a small glass and they had a toast to living again; Tom laughed and said how this might have been one of the only interventions at which there was celebratory wine.
But then they were gone, and Bridget sat alone at the table for a bit before putting the rest of the bottle into the refrigerator, then trudging upstairs and into the bedroom. Mark was already there when she arrived—slowly but surely he was mastering the ability to move himself in anticipation of her destination—and with a great sigh, she went to a box in her closet, pulled it out, then drew out an article of clothing.
Mark knew it well, a nightie she had gotten for their second or third wedding anniversary. He had seen her in it many times—had divested her of it many times—and she smiled in a melancholy way. "I'll never get my arse into this thing," she said, though he knew it was an exaggeration, and she did too, because she took off her clothing. It felt strange to watch her undress, like he was some kind of peeping tom, but he felt that way every time he'd done it and yet he still couldn't pull his eyes away, revelling in memories of touching her, holding her, kissing her…
The nightie was snugger than it had been, but she still looked gorgeous in it. She sighed and pulled at the taut fabric between her breasts, then let go, yet smiled a little. He suspected she was thinking of when, during her pregnancies, he had complimented the way her breasts had blossomed, and had done so in a way that left no doubt to his sincerity.
"Oh, Mark," she said with a little sob, then pulled her lips tight as if holding back more tears. But then she froze, and Mark realised why because he heard it too.
"Mummeeeeeeee…"
In a flash she was in the children's bedroom; Mark beat her there. Mabel, now old enough to occupy the lower bunk, was in clear distress and sat straight up, opening her mouth, then letting loose a stream of vomit he could hardly believe could come from a four-year old.
"Oh no, oh no," said Bridget, "my poor Mabel." She scooped the child up and—it was only then he saw the sheets were soiled with more than vomit—brought her to the bathroom and set her down before stripping her of her soiled pyjamas. She then lifted Mabel into the bathtub, turned on the tap, and quickly washed her down. As she turned off the tap, she lifted Mabel onto the rug, wrapped her in a big fluffy towel. "Sit here on the rug. Mummy will be right back."
She scooped up the soiled pyjamas with two fingers as if following hazmat protocol, looking for all the world like she was going to throw up, too. She then left, returning to the room to strip the sheets from Mabel's bed, pull out some new sheets and new pyjamas for Mabel. She was in the hallway with an armful of dirty fabric when crying commenced from the children's bedroom. Billy.
She backtracked to the bedroom when the crying began from the bathroom again. "Oh no, oh no," said Bridget.
Mark jumped to the bath, saw Mabel had been unable to control herself on the carpet, then jumped back to Billy to see him clambering down from the top bunk, looking utterly miserable and a bit green, before he vomited as well. Mark wished in an instant that he could help, even in some small way, especially when he saw Bridget's expression of panic.
Wrangling sick children, soiled and stinking clothing and bedding was a difficult enough task to handle, but that she did so with the love for their children evident in every moment… he wished dearly that he could reach down and wrap his arms around where they sat and hugged one another.
She came to a decision to arrange a little sleeping area on the floor of the bathroom. The children, though hazy and unfocused in their sick state, clearly thought it a grand idea and curled up in the blankets and towels she brought to them.
"Mummy will be right back," she said again, picking the laundry basket up with a look of triumph on her features.
She brought the basket down to the laundry area, she plopped the pile down, went to the fridge, and a had a fortifying glug of wine. Instead of getting the laundry going, she muttered something about the laundry not going anywhere at the moment, and headed back upstairs to where the children were.
"Right. Everyone okay?"
Mabel and Billy both nodded.
"Good, wonderful. Ugh."
This last word was addressed not to the children, but was uttered as she put her hand to her stomach.
"Mummy?" asked Billy. "Are you okay?"
"Mummy'th gonna be thick," said Mabel, her hair sticking up in multiple directions in a manner that Bridget had always referred to as 'peaks and horns'.
"I am not—Oh."
Bridget lunged for the toilet and made it just in time to expunge the contents of her stomach; Mark thought it might have more to do with the wine than with the children's malady. Bridget paused to rinse her mouth out with water at the sink.
"Mummy?" Billy asked with concern. Mabel was giggling. "Mabel, it's not funny."
"Yeth it ith," Mabel said.
"It's not," said Billy.
"Children," said Bridget, affecting a tone of authority. "Come, let's try to get some sleep."
"But Mummy," Billy said as Mabel curled up on the floor. "It's not nice for her to laugh when you're being sick."
She pulled him close, kissed his cheek, then said to Billy, "I don't mind if she laughs, if it means she feels better."
At this, Billy smiled.
"And you're acting like…" Your father, he practically heard her say it in that hesitation. "…you're feeling a bit better too, aren't you?" she said. "Sleep."
Billy nodded, then yawned and snuggled up to his sister; within moments they were both asleep, and Bridget pulled the blankets up, leaned to kiss their foreheads before standing and sighing.
Silently, without complaint, she carefully gathered up the dirty linens and clothes from Billy's bed and the smattering of towels she'd previously missed, and brought them downstairs. After a moment's contemplation—surely considering how bad the smell would be if left until the morning—she dumped it all into the washer on the hottest setting possible, then poured in a more than adequate amount of washing powder.
She watched the agitator for a few moments to make sure everything was going all right, then brought the lid down and went back upstairs to see that Billy and Mabel were still fast asleep. She smiled tenderly, looking down over them, before coming to another decision: to join the children there on the floor. It was not until she got settled on the floor that she looked closely at herself and realised, almost with a start, that she was still wearing the nightie—and that it was now in a less than pristine condition. With a weary, resigned sigh, she simply snuggled up next to Mabel on the surprisingly cushy padding of towels, blankets, and bathroom mat, pulled the blanket over herself, and settled down to sleep.
Mark had seen her go through the day to day routine. He had seen how strong and independent she was, and he had seen to her financial independence, but the events of the evening had left him in deep despair. How scared she was, how exhausting the situation had been—though not once had her love wavered, not for a moment. She shouldn't have to have done this alone. Not any of it.
Nor should she have to do it alone for the rest of her life.
…
Sunday 2 Sept
Even in the absence of feeling the effects of physical desire, Mark could remember all too well the response elicited in him at seeing Bridget in certain articles of clothing. Right now, in front of the mirror, she was examining herself, all dressed to go out for the first time since he'd gone. All he could see was that she was wearing a pair of boots he'd never seen before.
Those boots. How he loved the look of them. How they conformed and accentuated the shape of her legs. Come to think of it, it was the first time in a long time he'd seen her out of baggy clothes and in something a little more formfitting. To see her in a miniskirt—rather, a short dress—after all this time… it was gorgeous.
She looked gorgeous. He had always found her beautiful, but never so beautiful as when she was confident. And she seemed a bit more confident, more alive, with the returned slimness to her face and a slight concavity to her silhouette at the waist. Seeing her tonight done up to go out for drinks was the first true inkling he had that she had shed what she had referred to as 'the baby weight'.
He realised then he wasn't in her home at all. That he'd made the journey with her to another abode—Talitha's—and it was her outfit, not Bridget's, which was why he didn't recognise it. But how had he managed to travel with her? Who had the children?
Now they were travelling in a minicab, Bridget looked surprisingly sad, but was brought from her thoughts by a sharp admonition.
"Stop it," said Tom, then added, to Mark's surprise: "He would want you to have a life."
Bridget looked to where her hands were folded in her lap, didn't say anything for many moments until she looked up and said, her voice slightly panicked, "The children. What if they're… setting the house on fire? What if they're running all the taps at once?"
"Surely Daniel wouldn't allow that," drawled Talitha, "but hold on, I'll send him a text." Ah, of course, thought Mark; Daniel's watching them. With a cigarette hanging out of her mouth, unlit and waiting for the nanosecond they left the cab to light it, she thumb-typed out a message on her mobile. "You see, there we go." She held up the phone for Bridget to see.
However, when there was no immediate response, the nervous tension in the cab built palpably until Bridget reminded them that Daniel didn't text. "He's too old," she added with a giggle.
Mark was so pleased to see her smile, to hear her giggle. "Yes, darling," he said aloud. "I do want you to have a life."
Talitha rang up Daniel's mobile, put it on the speakerphone, and when Daniel answered the call flirtatiously, Mark chuckled to himself even as Bridget looked annoyed. But he reported back that all was well, that the children were asleep. This didn't surprise Mark in the least. After all, the children were all Daniel had left of his friend; Mark doubted he would allow anything untoward to happen to them.
Their destination was called The Stronghold, and the place seemed a bit odd to Mark, more like a Prohibition speakeasy than a proper nightclub. It was dark and a bit murky inside, brick and metal with only hay bales to sit upon, but to him, Bridget shone like a beacon.
"Come on girl," said Tom, the only part of the conversation he heard with any clarity. "Get back on that horse."
After Bridget glugged a cocktail way too quickly, after a false start, a leather-jacket-clad man with an almost feral glint in his eye took a seat beside her, asked her to dance… and it was with a certain melancholy that Mark watched her accept, watched this unworthy stranger lead her to the dance floor, take her into his arms, the heat of his attraction evident to anyone looking at them.
Who wouldn't be attracted to her? If he could, he'd be pulling the man off of her to dance with her himself, but it was enough to see that maybe she wasn't so broken that she couldn't be restored.
Mark then watched as this man kissed her, and his melancholy deepened as he watched Bridget kiss him back. This is what you wanted, he told himself. And this is what she needs.
Still. He thought fondly of her kiss, remembered how desperate his want for her had been nearly from the moment he'd met her—
"I've got to go! Now!" she said, pushing away from the stranger, who was understandably confused. She had been clearly enjoying herself—but her cheeks were now wet. Mascara smudged. Eyes red. Panic? Guilt? A little of both? Was she unaware she'd been crying?
"What?"
"Awfully sorry!" she said, attempting braveness, brightness. "Must be going. Jolly good! Thanks!"
"Go?" the man asked. Then the stranger saw what Mark had seen. Her teary eyes. "Oh God. That face."
She retreated quickly out of the place, nearly stumbling down the steep stairs in those incredibly high heels; she was followed quickly by her friends, who soon landed a minicab for them.
Mark was grateful for two things: that they got her laughing again as they wound their way towards her house, and that she had at least had a momentary reminder that she was alive and desirable, and he hoped it was enough to wake her from her slumber and bring her back to the world. Even if the man who'd done it was less than worthy; approached like a predator, not even ask her for her name? Was she no more to him than easy pickings? It was just as well that Bridget had fled.
And then, to Mark's horror, Talitha announced that she had gotten his number for Bridget. No, no, no, he thought. Bridget, the Dating War Command failed you miserably in the past. Don't take it. Don't call him. He's not the one I'd want to see you with.
Maybe, just maybe, Mark himself could take on the challenge of finding that someone. Take on the challenge of steering her towards him. Steer them towards each other.
Once back in the sanctity of her home, she had to then deal with the disaster-area left by the now-sleeping children and a naked Daniel in her bed; Daniel, who had apparently temporarily lost his mind. She fended him off successfully—to his credit he had the sense not to press the matter, else Mark might have tried to knock him out, body or not—but once she was alone again, once she was in bed looking up at the ceiling, Mark could tell that the night had left her unsettled as well as unsatisfied.
At least, though, Bridget had a sense now that she was missing out on something.
…
Sometimes opening one door heralded others opening, too. As the leaves faded and withered again with another autumn well underway, Bridget was blooming in other ways.
Mark watched as she befriended a neighbour, one that would have been quite at home in her old neighbourhood rife with 'Free South Africa' posters; she had crazed hair, an endless supply of unusual hats, and an otherwise unique fashion sense and was called Rebecca; frankly, it was nice to have a new face to put to that name. What he especially liked was that Rebecca had two children; less so that they were called Finn and Oleander. Even if their names did spark a nostalgic recollection of their own discussions of naming their children.
He also watched her find her professional motivation again, at which he was beyond thrilled; in June, she began to work on a screenplay she called The Leaves in His Hair, which was based on Ibsen's Hedda Gabler, though he did have to laugh at her misapprehension that it was a.) Hedda Gabbler and b.) Chekhov's work.
Bridget had also gone out with the leather-clad man from the club a few times. The attempt at a relationship didn't go anywhere, but Mark gave her credit for trying. He was also pleased that the failure hadn't put her off of the idea permanently.
The appearance of coats, hats and mufflers told Mark the weather was turning bitterly cold; the smattering of holiday decorations that had begun to appear told him that another Christmas was on its way. Though she had made forward progress in many ways, in others she had not.
Like this particular evening. She was actually looking a dating site, had been excited about getting a response, then let out a strangled gasp when she saw the photo attached (and a gasp that was well-justified, as the man was shades of Wild Boy from her dating years, something they had laughed about together long after the fact).
She dropped her face down into her hands. "Mark. Please help me, Mark."
He didn't think she even was aware she said it aloud.
Call someone, he thought. Talk to someone. Don't try to brazen this out alone. After a moment, imagining he was stroking her hair soothingly, he said, "Call Tom."
She sat upright—for a dazzling moment it seemed as if she had actually heard him—sniffed, wiped her eyes then reached for the phone.
"Tom," she said. "Tom, I can't do this dating thing, but I can't carry on like this either. I feel lost."
He could hear Tom speaking to her through the receiver as if Tom was there in the room. Telling her to grieve. Telling her to wallow in her grief—and not feel guilty for grieving. Telling her to put down on paper all the things she hadn't gotten a chance to say, the things she'd say if she could. That all of this was necessary for closure. For her to be able to move on.
There was a protracted period of silence before she spoke. "I know," she said.
"Then do it," said Tom. "Tonight."
She took in a breath—long, shaky, measured—before she agreed.
"Go on, then," Tom encouraged. "You'll feel better for it."
They said goodnight; Bridget put the phone down, stood from the seat, closed the laptop, and glanced in the direction of where the children were. In a flash Mark was with them; Mabel had crawled up to cuddle in the top bunk with her brother. His beautiful children, already so much older than when he'd left for Sudan, deep in slumber and taking comfort in one another. As he expected, Bridget appeared and climbed up to lie down beside them. Mark drew back to take in the scene.
His beautiful family.
"Mummy?" It was Billy, rousing partly from sleep.
"Yes."
"Where is Dada?" he asked.
Bridget looked a bit stunned; why were they all in this trough tonight, of all nights? "I don't know," she said. "But…" Bridget drifted off when she realised Billy was asleep again.
"Right here," Mark said; not as if they could hear, but he spoke anyway. "Always with you."
He left the room to paradoxically find her in the bedroom; a shoebox worth of clippings was fanned around her. Clippings, he realised, that were all about his death, the details of which he'd yet had no information. He was not sure he wanted to know, even as he drew nearer to them.
A landmine. It was a landmine that had ended his life, along with that of his travelling companion, Anton. There was some consolation to him in that the British aid workers had been freed, but… landmine. Explosion. No wonder Bridget was still grieving, still needed closure. There was probably not much of a body for her to have grieved over.
There were photos, too, of him, of them, of all of them in happier days. It seemed a bit weird to him to have nearly forgotten what he'd looked like, and it underscored the fact that his son looked more and more like him every day.
Poor Bridget. Now she was sobbing, prostrate on the floor amongst the clippings, clinging to a pale blue object that he recognised as one of his own dress shirts. Then she sat up, sniffed, and grabbed her diary and a pen.
Dear Mark, it began. And once she began to write, the words flowed as quickly as the tears; partly she talked about how much she missed and loved him still—I so fucking miss you and miss fucking you—but it surprised him that so much of her letter to him was about how she felt incapable of doing any of this on her own. How she felt incapable of being a good mother or of raising them. Please forgive me. Knowing he'd taken every precaution he could think of to be safe, never thinking he wouldn't return. Wishing they could have done this all together. Dying as he had—
Suddenly, he was surrounded by darkness and a silvery, moonlit landscape; it was disorientating for a moment until he realised he was outside. No, no, I want to be there—
That thump again, that bodily impact, and suddenly he was soaring in the air, rising up into the sky then coasting down again until he found a perch on the garden wall. Opposite the children's room. Mabel at the window, standing there, staring up at the moon, her blonde hair wild around her head and glowing in the moonlight.
Staring at the owl on the garden wall.
They looked at each other for many moments. Then Mabel turned, and beyond her, entering the room, he saw Bridget. Mabel pointed towards the outside, towards where he sat. Bridget followed the direction in which Mabel pointed, followed the direction of Mabel's gaze.
Their eyes met. There was so much he wished he could say to her:
I love you. I miss you. You are doing wonderfully by the children—you clearly love them, you're always there for them; they're happy and secure, and adore and love you in return. There is nothing at all for which you need forgiveness.
Forgive me for leaving you.
But then Mabel started tugging at the curtains, breaking their connection; Bridget looked away, took her hand, started to speak as the curtains fully closed. Instinctively he knew she was reciting the comforting bedtime verse he'd written.
All the thoughts are going away, just like the little birds in their nests…
The curtains parted again, and there was Bridget, her eyes fixed on him again, on the owl, for many bittersweet moments. Know that it's me, darling. Know that I'm proud of you, and that I love you. I always will. And I'm sorry.
Then the curtains drew closed, and she was gone.
…
2013
It was amazing to Mark how quickly children could move.
He had joined the three of them, as he often did, on an outing, this time to Hampstead Heath; after a spooky silence during the car ride, the children had snapped back to the present and were playing on and around the tree. He noticed that Bridget took the opportunity to check her phone, which she had been doing a lot since the night of her letter to him. He thought it was a good sign, but he wasn't entirely sure, to be at the very least interested in online socialisation more than she used to be. Something called Twitter, on which she went by JonesyBJ; he supposed it was part of her process for closure to embrace her maiden name again. Mark was part amused and part terrified that Bridget might broadcast to the world every thought that passed through her head—
"Mummeee! Mabel's stuck in the tree!"
Bridget's head snapped up and in that same instant Mark went to Mabel. It had been a matter of a seconds since she—they—had looked away. Poor Mabel looked terrified as Bridget (suddenly without her parka) came to her, climbed a short distance up into the tree, and put a hand up under her small backside. Then Billy announced he could not get down either from his limb, so in lieu of helping them down one at a time, she leaned against the tree, stepped onto a low branch, reached over and placed her free hand under Billy.
Now what? Mark thought with some amusement, thinking surely she would employ logic, but as she remained, as the low waistband of her jeans dropped slightly lower, he realised she was perhaps genuinely panicking.
"Is everything all right up there?"
This query—a concerned, deep male voice—came from behind Bridget, from a man dressed in track bottoms and a tee-shirt. Mabel said helpfully, "Is Mr Wolkda."
Bridget turned to glance at him over her shoulder. The look of—he wasn't sure, was it slight disgust? No, more like mortification—told Mark she did know the man, at least. An odd name, Mr Wolkda. From where did they know him? Mabel's school? The use of "mister" seemed to indicate as much.
Mark scrutinised him just as he realised this man was scrutinising Bridget's posterior (much as he had just been, with a similar appreciative interest that was all too plain on his features) as he approached. "Is everything all right up there?" he asked again.
Bridget had the temerity to tell him that everything was all right; Mark found himself amused that this Wolkda fellow was about to call her bluff and walk away.
"Um…" said Bridget. "Mr Wallaker?" Wallaker. Mark should have known Mabel was mispronouncing.
"Yeees?" Wallaker asked, in a tone rather similar to one Mark had himself taken many times.
"Could you just…?" she began, trailing off, still straining to reach a hand under each child's bottom.
To Mark's surprise—and sudden admiration—Wallaker snapped to action and took charge of the situation, successfully getting Billy down from the tree with a jump and a roll that caused Bridget to nearly scream. Then he went to help Mabel down; to hear the man call her Mrs Darcy sent a jolt through Mark. Of course she was. But she wasn't, not for years now.
The sight of Wallaker reaching up around Bridget flared a pang of protectiveness, perhaps jealousy, within Mark, for which he immediately chastised himself. You want her to move on, he thought.
Bridget then jumped down from the side of the tree while Wallaker took Mabel firmly in hand, leaned her on his shoulder, then set her down to the grass.
Mabel stared up at Wallaker with giant blue eyes, an expression that reminded Mark very much of her mother. "I thaid Fuckoon," she said solemnly; Mark instantly recognised her mispronunciation of 'racoon'.
With equal solemnity, Wallaker said, his expression kind, "I nearly said that too. But we're all all right now, aren't we?"
Billy spoke up. "Will you play football with me?"
The question pained Mark to hear. Billy had just asked Bridget that morning to play football, and Bridget had always done so happily, but his son was missing out by not being able to play football with his father.
"Got to get home to, er, the family," Wallaker said. Family. Married? Why did this disappoint Mark so? "Now, try to avoid the upper branches."
Without further preamble, the man began his jog again. No goodbye, no 'see you later'… he just headed off.
"Mr Wallaker?"
Wallaker turned.
"Thank you," Bridget said, then, after a beat, added, "Will you follow me on Twitter?"
Wallaker blinked. "Absolutely not."
After the man had left again, Bridget sighed, looked to Billy, then smiled. "We could play some football."
Billy smiled. "Okay."
The whole interaction left Mark puzzled—a married man, one who apparently knew the children well enough that he knew their names and they trusted him, unabashedly gazing at Bridget's backside—until he realised just because Wallaker was married didn't mean he couldn't appreciate it.
Curious. Mark was decidedly curious. He liked what he saw of this Wallaker fellow so far. He was good with the children and was clearly attracted to Bridget; too bad he wasn't available.
…
Since Bridget's mornings were increasingly spent writing her screenplay once the children were off to school, Mark decided to accompany the children to see what their days were like. He hadn't done it so far, much to his chagrin; he also had to admit a curiosity to see if his hunch was correct about the man from Hampstead Heath.
He alternated between Billy's day and Mabel's; he had been incorrect in thinking Wallaker was Mabel's teacher, when he was actually Billy's sports teacher. And it was Billy's day that Mark found ultimately more compelling. Billy displayed obvious respect for Wallaker during the sports sessions; Wallaker was demanding but fair, and made the boys work hard for what they wanted. He gave them appropriate amounts of praise and attention when they succeeded, and constructive feedback and corrective guidance when they failed.
He was pleased that Billy had Wallaker as a positive influence at the same time he felt terribly guilty he could not offer such influence himself. Mark was also proud of Billy for more than just his reported marks; he was a well-behaved, responsible child who seemed particularly attuned to others. He wanted to please others, but by the same token did not allow others to take advantage of him.
Yes, Mark was very proud indeed.
As young as she was, Mabel's day in Infants was far less structured; he found great pleasure in watching her run around during activities, or drawing in art class, even if the charming results looked nothing like what she claimed they were. She reminded him of Bridget so much it overjoyed and overwhelmed him. How he ever could have envisioned a strict, overly structured life for his children was a mystery to him. He was grateful he had compromised with Bridget in this way, and was also grateful to bear witness to the fruits borne of seeds planted long ago.
