I’m in the office, printing off letters and appointment slips for parents’ evening, which is the week after next. The staff are up to their eyes writing reports on each child, charting their progress in their key stage and the core subjects. Sheaves of paperwork, much of it to be done at home in their own time.
I break off and check Lori’s blog hasn’t been updated: it’s still the post about the weather. Nine days since she put it up. A week since I sent my last message. Perhaps she’s hard at work, keeps meaning to reply and hasn’t had time. Or she’s been away. Or ill. Perhaps she’s just being Lori, letting it slide, too caught up in her exciting new life. There could be problems with the Internet – the service is a bit patchy at times. I dither over whether to send a new message, and in the end I do. OK, maybe she’ll resent me nagging but I can live with that. She might just need a nudge.
It’s raining as we walk home from school. Isaac stops every so often, his attention drawn to a pile of litter or something in the hedge. I hurry him along. Finn walks through the puddles. ‘You’ve not got your wellies on,’ I say.
‘I don’t mind.’
‘So your trainers’ll be wet.’
‘Soon dry,’ he says.
The rain is heavier, cold by the time we reach home. ‘I’m soaking,’ Isaac says on the doorstep. ‘Can I stay here?’ Walking Benji is not usually something they can opt out of.
‘We won’t be long,’ I say.
‘But if Daddy’s here…’ Isaac goes on.
‘Daddy’s busy.’
We get inside. I call, ‘Hello.’
Nick answers from the dining room.
‘Daddy, I want to stay here,’ Isaac says. I motion him to stay in the hall – he’s dripping all over the floor. He shudders.
I put my head round the door. Nick’s on the computer. ‘Is that OK?’ I say. ‘He looks a bit peaky.’
‘Sure.’
Finn has Benji’s lead and the dog is jumping up at him, ecstatic.
‘Go and get changed,’ I tell Isaac, ‘put your wet things in the basket and don’t bother Daddy.’
‘I know,’ he says. He gets one bug after another at the moment and most of them make him throw up.
Finn and I walk partway around the park, then retrace our steps. The rain never lets up. My knees are damp, my trousers sticking to them. Blossom on the cherry trees is battered; half of it lies on the ground, a soggy mess already turning brown.
‘My nose is wet,’ Finn says. There’s a drip of water hanging off the end. He sticks his tongue out, shakes his head and catches it.
‘Come on,’ I say. ‘I’m wet inside out – even my knickers are wet.’
