What became of us

They had done something with their lives, she thought, as she walked up the path to the door.
    It opened before she had a chance to pull her keys out of her bag.
    ‘Welcome back!’ Barry said.
    ‘You haven’t shaved!’
    ‘Haven’t I?’ Barry put his hand to his chin, ‘so I haven’t!’
    The grey stubble on his chin made him look so vulnerable she wanted to hug him. Barry always shaved. He must have been very preoccupied to forget.
    ‘You look a bit rough yourself,’ he said.
    ‘Not half as rough as I feel. I didn’t have time to shower. How’s George?’
    ‘He’s watching Thomas the Tank Engine on video. I’m afraid we’re having a bit of a Thomas fest today.’ He opened the door to the living room where the entire box of Brio train set had been tipped onto the floor.
    ‘And we’re a bit self-conscious about our spots,’ he whispered.
    George was wearing his Thomas the Tank Engine T-shirt and shorts, and the familiar theme tune was um pom pomming the beginning of another episode.
    She picked her way across the bits of wooden track and stooped to kiss him.
    ‘Can I have some Thomas crips?’ he asked her.
    ‘If we’ve got some of course you can.’
    ‘Trouble is, we haven’t, and Daddy won’t go to the shop to get me any. He says that ordinary crips are the same.’
    ‘Oh, I see. Well, they are.’
    ‘No, Thomas ones taste really yummy!’
    ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ she said.
    ‘Can I have a Thomas cake?’
    ‘I don’t think it’s your birthday, is it?’
    ‘Mummy, chickenpox is not really ill, is it?’
    ‘Not really, no,’ she agreed, thinking that a white lie would do more to build his confidence than a discussion about what constituted illness. Clowns are not really clowns, she thought.
    ‘I’ve got quite a lot of pots, haven’t I?’ George said. His language was well developed but he still could not pronounce an s before a consonant.
    She looked at his little blistered face contorted into the strange expression he made when he was trying hard not to cry. It was difficult to believe when they were like this that they would ever regain the smooth child’s skin.
    ‘Yes. I think you’ve got even more than Luke had when he had chickenpox.’
    ‘ I’ve got even more than Luke!’ George shouted triumphantly.
    ‘Now, why didn’t I think of saying that?’ Barry asked her as she came out into the kitchen.
    ‘He seems fine,’ she said.
    ‘I told you we were OK.’
    ‘I know. I’m sorry.’
    ‘Don’t be sorry. It’s nice to have you back.’
    ‘It’s lovely to be back,’ she said, sinking down onto a kitchen chair and looking fondly at the detritus of lunch left on the table.
    There was an individual portion of frozen lasagne microwaved and half eaten, and one of cannelloni that had barely been touched; a triangular heel of a loaf of bread that some inexpert hand had hacked sloping slices from; a half-pound of butter still partly in its wrapping and covered with crumbs. She liked the mess. It was tangible evidence that she had been missed. Automatically, she began to collect up the plates.
    ‘Don’t you do it. I just haven’t had a chance to clear this lot up yet,’ Barry apologized.
    ‘No, it’s fine,’ she said, smiling.
    The look of surprise on his face made her feel ashamed of how cross she must normally be. Well, someone in the household had to be organized, she told herself, or they would live in complete chaos.
    ‘Why don’t you go and have your shower, and I’ll make you a cup of tea?’ Barry said.
    ‘Where are the others?’
    ‘They’re upstairs.’
    She climbed the stairs and opened the boys’ door.
    ‘Hello, Mum,’ they both said, neither of them looking up from the computer.
    ‘Are you all right?’
    ‘Fine.’
    In the bathroom, she turned on the taps and cleaned her teeth while the bath was filling, staring at herself in the mirror. Then the steam misted the mirror over, and she spat out the toothpaste.
    Barry brought her tea and sat on the edge of the bath.
    Should she tell him?
    If he had been away for a weekend and come back smelling of sex, would she want to know?
    ‘I got very drunk last night,’ she said.
    ‘Yes, your eyes are a bit bloodshot.’
    ‘I slept in my contact lenses.’
    ‘I see.’
    She thought he knew that she was trying to tell him something. She half expected him to say, like Celia Johnson’s husband in Brief Encounter , ‘You’ve been far away...’
    But he did not. Instead he asked, ‘Did you