Her Last Tomorrow

Chapter 4

4 Nick

I jolt awake with a start as Ellie giggles at the TV screen. I’m dazed for a moment, clearly having woken up at the wrong place in my sleep cycle. I blink and look at the clock on the wall. s**t.

What I really don’t need right now is another ear bashing from Tasha or the school about how I have a responsibility to get Ellie to school on time. I already know that, but it doesn’t help. I’m just not good with responsibilities. Never have been.

I rush to try and get Ellie into her uniform. She hates it, and I’m not keen either. The drab grey fabric looks more like something from a Russian Gulag than a state primary school. Having seen the inside of Hillgrove Primary, the two aren’t so different. I remember my days at primary school being full of colour and laughter. Whenever I go inside Ellie’s school, it just depresses me.

She squirms as I try to pull the jumper over her head, the same as she does every single weekday. We always have to go through this stupid routine, which makes it ten times harder for me.

‘No, I’m too hot,’ she yells.

‘Well, if you stop wriggling you won’t be so warm, will you? Now pack it in and put your jumper on.’

It might as well be Groundhog Day, this tedious and energy-sapping routine reminding me that it’s only Monday and there are another four consecutive days of this to come.

I hunt around her room for the various bits she needs for her day at school: PE kit, reading log, her bag of sticks for show-and-tell. The amount of things a five-year-old is asked to take to and from school every day is ridiculous. I’m pretty sure we just used to play in sandpits.

I’m almost buried under the chest of drawers, trying to fish out the missing gym sock, when I hear the doorbell go. I ignore it. Whoever it is can wait. It’ll only be Jehovah’s Witnesses or someone trying to sell me double glazing.

Five minutes later, bag assembled, I slide Ellie’s feet into her school shoes, wiggling and pushing them as I do so. I pick her up and carry her down the stairs to save precious seconds. The post has arrived and is on the mat. Only two bills with red FINAL REMINDER warnings this time, which is an improvement on Saturday. I put them on the hall table and make a mental note to pick them up later and pay them.

I usher Ellie through the door and out onto the driveway. There’s a light mist in the air, but nothing that won’t have cleared within an hour or so. It should be a nice day after that. I might even be able to take my laptop into the garden and get some work done out there. Peace, quiet and some sunshine. Can’t ask for much more.

The car bleeps to let me know it’s unlocked, and I open the rear door, sit Ellie in the child seat and fasten her seat belt. These child seats are ridiculous. They might be safe, but she looks more like an astronaut getting ready to blast off into space than a five-year-old about to do a ten-mile-an-hour car ride to school. The schoolbag’s plonked on the passenger seat and we’re ready to go. Just as I’m about to start up the engine, Ellie starts yelling again.

‘My picture!’

I sigh. I really, really don’t need this. ‘What picture, sweetheart?’ I say, trying to sound as calm and unflustered as possible. I don’t want my frustrations to rub off on her. That usually only gets her even more worked up and things tend to escalate from there.

‘I did a picture of Miss Williams,’ she says, glowering at me in that way she does, knowing she’ll get her own way.

‘Can’t you take it in another day?’ I ask, fingering the key in the ignition barrel, knowing we’re losing precious seconds here and that Miss Williams would far rather Ellie were at school on time than accompanied by a crayon drawing of her.

‘No! I need it!’ she says, clearly agitated. I close my eyes, feeling them sting momentarily. I decide to cut my losses.

‘Right. Stay there. I’ll go and get it,’ I say, taking the key out of the ignition barrel and pocketing it. ‘Where is it?’

‘In the kitchen. Near the toaster.’ The look on her face has changed completely now that she knows she’s got her own way. She knows exactly which buttons to push. I’ve no doubt she’s going to turn out like her mother – absolutely determined to get her own way in every walk of life, no matter what it takes.

I jog up the driveway to the front door, unlock it and skip into the kitchen. Next to the toaster, propped up against the wooden chopping boards, is a piece of A4 paper with a picture of what might possibly be a human being on it. I don’t know. It could also be a dinosaur or a goat. All I know is that my responsible fatherly duty is to say ‘Oooh, that’s a lovely picture!’ whenever she shows me one. Tasha always does a much better job of sounding genuinely impressed than I do. I shake my head, pick the picture up and head back out of the house.

I get back into the car and put the key back in the ignition barrel, holding the picture aloft over my left shoulder as I ask Ellie, ‘Is this the one you meant?’

I get no response.

I turn around in my seat.

The car’s empty.