Frances M Thompson
Our plane leaves in five hours and he hasn’t packed yet. Instead, he sits in his shed and tinkers with his toys. “They’re not toys. They’re models. Works of bloody art,” We booked the tickets a few months ago. Cheap flights from one website, a last minute hotel from another. Martin clicked the mouse, taking us from one page to the next. I read out our credit card details. It all happened so quickly. “It’s only bloody money. You can’t spend money when you’re dead,” The last time we went abroad was fifteen years ago. Ten days in Disney World, one final family holiday. Steven was spotty and grumpy, bored by us all. Stacie was the opposite, hyperactive and clingy. Martin was relentless, reminding me that this was his “very idea of hell” each time we joined a queue. And yet there was a moment of magic. On our last hot evening in Florida as the four of us hugged Mickey Mouse, a photographer captured a happy moment that didn’t exist. I always smile to myself when I move that photo frame to dust the mantlepiece. This time it will be just the two of us; the children don’t even know. “You mustn’t tell them. It’s our bloody holiday, not theirs,” I was instructed. “Promise?” I nodded. I didn’t say yes and I didn’t say no. “What time is our flight?” He walks through the patio doors, heading on a familiar path to the kitchen sink. There’s sawdust on his cheek and he smells of glue. It’s a smell I both love and hate. I place a hot cup of tea into his hand and tell him we need to leave in just under two hours. “Bloody hell! I haven’t packed yet!” I nod and follow him upstairs.
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