The Mistake I Made Read Free

dear,’ she said vaguely, as if she’d just woken up. She was often like this, acting as if she were mildly drugged, not quite with it. ‘He’s at work, I think,’ she said. ‘Let me find a pen and paper and I’ll write the message down, because I’m terrible at—’
    ‘Dylis,’ I interrupted, ‘Winston doesn’t have a job. He’s out of work, remember? That’s why I don’t get any child-support payments. Are you saying that he’s working at a job right now ?’
    ‘Oh – no,’ she stammered, ‘I’m not saying that. No, that’s not it. I’m not exactly sure where he is. Perhaps he’s out helping someone, you know, for free?’
    ‘For free,’ I mirrored flatly. ‘That sounds just like Winston. Look, Dylis, if he gets back in the next five minutes, can you get him to run and pick up George for me? I’m late.’
    ‘But it’s not our turn to have him,’ she said, confused, and I could hear her flicking through pages; must have been the pages of her diary.
    ‘It’s not your weekend to have him,’ I explained, ‘but I’m very late. And it would really help if you could locate Winston and—’
    ‘Ticket, Roz,’ came a voice from behind.
    With the phone lodged against my ear, I turned, withdrawing a note from my wallet and handing it over. ‘I need a new book, Terry,’ I whispered to the aged attendant. ‘I used my last ticket this morning.’
    We made the exchange, Terry being a man of few words, and I went back to explaining the situation to Dylis. She couldn’t drive, so I didn’t suggest she should get George herself. She lived in Outgate, a hamlet a mile and half or so from Hawkshead. But Winston Toovey, my ex, who was obviously doing work cash-in-hand – had been since Christmas, if my suspicions were correct – was probably breezing about nearby, passing the time of day with folk, no real hurry to be anywhere whatsoever now that he was living with his mother and had absolved himself nicely of all major responsibilities. And since he didn’t always carry a mobile phone, we couldn’t locate him.
    I ended the call with Dylis, not for the first time filled with the urge to slam my phone against something solid. She got me like that. It was like trying to get information out of a child. Often, she’d slip up, make some comment about Winston she wasn’t supposed to – to me, in particular – and when I pressed her about it, she’d go mute and stare at her feet.
    Pressed really hard, Dylis would lift her head and look at me, woefully, as though she knew she was in deep, deep trouble. She would look at me as if to say, Please don’t tell Winston .
    I wanted to shake the woman. I wanted to scream: How can you let your son walk out and leave me with this mountain of debt? But I didn’t, because I was aware on some deeper level that Dylis’s dreamy, scatterbrained manner was the best she could do.
    By the time I reached the school it was 6.28.
    Twenty-eight minutes late.
    I pushed open the front door and was greeted by a silent corridor, naked coat hooks, the odd PE bag dangling.
    I took a breath and went into the classroom. The after-school club used the Year 1 classroom and, whilst waiting as George gathered up his belongings, I liked to look around at their first attempts at writing, at portraits of parents – which were often surprisingly true in their likeness, highlighting qualities perhaps parents wished they’d not (jug ears, shuffled teeth).
    Now George was seated on the floor, his legs stretched out in front of him, his eyes cast downwards as he played on a Nintendo DS. He didn’t raise his head when I entered, even though he was aware of my presence. Instead he gave one quick flick of his head to shift his hair out of his eyes.
    Iona, the young woman in command of after-school club, glanced up from her desk and offered a wan smile. One to suggest that this really was going to be the last time.
    It was Friday. The sun was out. She was ready for a bikini top, shorts,