The boys eased the tension in the air in a strange way that neither of them wanted to contemplate too deeply. She made no further move to introduce him so he presumed she wanted to avoid a scene in the train station and happily followed her lead.
In the car Francis concluded that it was not so much that the mood had eased but that the children seemed in a strange way to make him immune to it. Her mother was glaring at him from the rear seat, making her hatred known. England was happy, relaxed, but still refusing to talk to him and focusing her attention on the boys. The boys seemed vary of him, but Matty had given him a small smile and said hello at the train station and that was enough for him to hold to for now.
The car was filled with their chatter as they recounted what had happened while England was away, Al telling the stories with an excited voice and wild gestures and Al pitching in much more quietly to offer minor corrections and clarifications, though his brother ignored him. Francis could have listened all day. It was a moment of serenity where he could enjoy them as a stranger before he must face them as a father and he was all too aware of the need to cherish it.
Her house was exactly the kind of house he would have expected her to have. A small mid-terrace, nothing remarkable, it screamed England Working Class to him. Al seemed during the ride to have dismissed him entirely and as soon as the car came to a stop he flung himself free and ran for the house, his mother screaming after him. Matthew, however, seemed less sure. As his mother and grandmother moved away to deal with his brother he hung back, studying Francis intently.
“Hello,” Francis said, trying not to wither under his son’s gaze, “I am Francis. I take it that you are Matthew?”
The child nodded, focusing his gaze around Francis' shoes.
"It is nice to meet you, Matthew," he said, extending his hand. Matthew looked at it in shock. Then, much to Francis' surprise reached out and gently took it.
"Hello," his son mumbled. "You can call me Matty if you like."
"Indeed, I would consider it an honour to do so."
Matthew smiled at him then released his hand as gently as he’d taken it and ran to the door where his Grandmother stood watching them with a disapproving glare. Francis leisurely followed his son’s path, meeting the woman’s eyes, but before he could reach her she turned and stalked inside the house.
The inside of the house confirmed the impression he had made looking at the outside. The living room was small, dominated by two oversized leather couches shoved in at odd angles to allow both to face a TV, a battered looking coffee table between them and the entire area sprinkled liberally with toys. Though the walls were cream the furnishings were all of a dark brown that pub Francis in mind of how he believed a traditional English pub should look. There next room was a strange hybrid between an office space, a kitchen and a dining room. What had presumably been two separate rooms, a dining room and a galley kitchen, had been opened to a single room, so the sounds and smells of the cramped kitchen invaded the dining space. The room contained only a battered pine table and four fragile-seeming pine chairs. Half of the table was spread with homework and stacks of paper crowded the walls.
All in all it was not a very good impression. Francis’ own home was spacious and clear of clutter. Still, this was his children’s home.
The thump of footsteps on the stairs told him Al’s location. He shouted and his mother answered, also from up the stairs. The grandmother stood in the cramped kitchen next to the kettle and glared at him so he retreated quickly to the living room. Matty was still in the living room when he entered, curled on the edge of the couch clutching a large plush polar bear to his chest.
"Life can be difficult" 2.3/?
In the car Francis concluded that it was not so much that the mood had eased but that the children seemed in a strange way to make him immune to it. Her mother was glaring at him from the rear seat, making her hatred known. England was happy, relaxed, but still refusing to talk to him and focusing her attention on the boys. The boys seemed vary of him, but Matty had given him a small smile and said hello at the train station and that was enough for him to hold to for now.
The car was filled with their chatter as they recounted what had happened while England was away, Al telling the stories with an excited voice and wild gestures and Al pitching in much more quietly to offer minor corrections and clarifications, though his brother ignored him. Francis could have listened all day. It was a moment of serenity where he could enjoy them as a stranger before he must face them as a father and he was all too aware of the need to cherish it.
Her house was exactly the kind of house he would have expected her to have. A small mid-terrace, nothing remarkable, it screamed England Working Class to him. Al seemed during the ride to have dismissed him entirely and as soon as the car came to a stop he flung himself free and ran for the house, his mother screaming after him. Matthew, however, seemed less sure. As his mother and grandmother moved away to deal with his brother he hung back, studying Francis intently.
“Hello,” Francis said, trying not to wither under his son’s gaze, “I am Francis. I take it that you are Matthew?”
The child nodded, focusing his gaze around Francis' shoes.
"It is nice to meet you, Matthew," he said, extending his hand. Matthew looked at it in shock. Then, much to Francis' surprise reached out and gently took it.
"Hello," his son mumbled. "You can call me Matty if you like."
"Indeed, I would consider it an honour to do so."
Matthew smiled at him then released his hand as gently as he’d taken it and ran to the door where his Grandmother stood watching them with a disapproving glare. Francis leisurely followed his son’s path, meeting the woman’s eyes, but before he could reach her she turned and stalked inside the house.
The inside of the house confirmed the impression he had made looking at the outside. The living room was small, dominated by two oversized leather couches shoved in at odd angles to allow both to face a TV, a battered looking coffee table between them and the entire area sprinkled liberally with toys. Though the walls were cream the furnishings were all of a dark brown that pub Francis in mind of how he believed a traditional English pub should look. There next room was a strange hybrid between an office space, a kitchen and a dining room. What had presumably been two separate rooms, a dining room and a galley kitchen, had been opened to a single room, so the sounds and smells of the cramped kitchen invaded the dining space. The room contained only a battered pine table and four fragile-seeming pine chairs. Half of the table was spread with homework and stacks of paper crowded the walls.
All in all it was not a very good impression. Francis’ own home was spacious and clear of clutter. Still, this was his children’s home.
The thump of footsteps on the stairs told him Al’s location. He shouted and his mother answered, also from up the stairs. The grandmother stood in the cramped kitchen next to the kettle and glared at him so he retreated quickly to the living room. Matty was still in the living room when he entered, curled on the edge of the couch clutching a large plush polar bear to his chest.