When Freddie awoke that Monday morning he could tell immediately that something was different. He’d heard the phone ringing late last night, heard cupboards being opened and closed, voices when there weren’t normally voices.
‘Daddy had to go to Spain,’ said his mum, running water into the spout of the kettle. ‘School trip. The Spanish teacher’s wife went into early labour last night. She’s only thirty weeks along – very scary.’
‘Why him?’ he said. ‘Surely he’s too important to go on school trips.’
‘Daddy was the only other teacher at the school who can speak Spanish.’
‘Dad can’t speak Spanish,’ he muttered incredulously.
‘Well, he can speak enough to get by.’
Freddie grunted. This was exactly the sort of thing his dad loved. Spending quality time with his students. Getting to know them. He thrived on the intimacy. He would have jumped at this opportunity.
‘When’s he coming back?’
‘Friday.’
He nodded but felt quietly anxious. Freddie didn’t like changes in routine; he didn’t like it when unscheduled things happened. He didn’t like the way little holes opened up in the weft of his existence and let other, unexpected things in.
He walked the slow way to school so that he could pass by Whackadoo just as it opened its doors. He bought himself a bottle of mineral water and sat on a bench across the street to watch for Red Boots. Or Joey. Or Josephine. Or whatever the hell she was really called. He sat his phone on his lap, the video button just under his thumb and he waited. At eight fifty-five the 218 bus pulled up and the doors hissed open. There she was. He pressed the record button and filmed her as she half ran towards the play centre. Her blond hair was pulled back into a ponytail and she was frowning into her phone. She forced it into her rucksack as she approached the doors, pressed the bell and then stood with her hand in her pockets until a large woman with very short hair and lots of keys hanging from her belt came to let her in.
Freddie replayed the video and zoomed in on to Joey’s face. She looked puffy and blotchy. She looked like she’d been crying. He wondered if it had something to do with Friday night, if it had something to do with his father.
