We used to live opposite Bute Park, a few doors down from a house with clouds painted on its façade. Baby pink or blue, I can’t remember. It looked out of place. Defiant, like it had a mind of its own. It had to be against the rules, it had to! You can’t paint a house like something out of a picture book. It made me smile, but it made me angry too. Who do you think you are, house? You think you’re so much better than all the other houses, you think you’re so special. Mum had to drag me away, I was endlessly fascinated by it. I wanted to get a closer look at the people who lived inside. I wanted to stare at them, even though it’s rude to stare. They had to be something special, something out of the ordinary. Maybe they were artists or painters or writers. The house stood out, it clashed with the other brick houses, it screamed here I am. It troubled me. Who made the rules? I never broke any. Who gets to decide what’s right and wrong? Mum and dad? Other mums and dads? I wanted to paint pictures.
It’s too messy, you’ll get paint all over your clothes.
But we can wash them, can’t we? It’ll come right off.
Why don’t you draw something, use your pencils.
I wanted to dig in the dirt like our dogs, roll around on the ground. A mess of mud and wet leaves. I wanted to lie there on the grass until the damp had seeped through every layer of clothing. Be bold and adventurous like my big sisters.
I hate those dogs, look at the stains on the carpet, Simon. Dog hair all over the settee. Look at the state of this place!
Get the au pair to clean it, she sits on her arse all day. Does fuck all, don’t know what we’re paying her for. Stupid woman.
They never stayed long. It always ended in tears and long phone calls home in a language I didn’t understand. Russian, Latvian, French. I wanted to move like my sister in her gymnastics class. Precise. Perfect clean lines. But her laughter always sounded mean, like she could read my mind. Mum in her armchair with a book in one hand and a glass of wine in the other. Dad in his. They never looked at each other.
Who lives in that house?
Students, babes. Students like the ones I teach.
Who painted it?
Whoever owns it, I don’t know. Why are you asking all these silly questions?
Can I do gymnastics?
Boys don’t do gymnastics, babes. Now shush.
He should be playing soccer. Why don’t you take him to practice?
Why don’t you take him? He’s your son!
I belonged to my dad and his quiet suppressed rage. Handsome and confident, never a crease in the wrong place. He was an architect, he spent all day in an office drawing things, making changes, correcting other people’s mistakes. I wanted him to teach me how to draw.
I’m not at work now, Charlie. This is my time to relax.
He’d make women giggle, even in front of mum. He’d go to the pub up the road with his friends and come home long after dark. The Halfway House. I’ll meet you halfway. Whispers in Welsh. Sometimes he’d tickle me and tell me to jump on my bed. His breath smelled different, then. Strong and minty.
I’m not allowed to jump on the bed, dad.
Yes, you are. Do it.
I wanted to make him laugh, that’s all. I wanted to make him happy. No didn’t exist in my vocabulary.
