6
The alarm goes off , and I get up and take a look out of the window. There’s been another heavy storm in the night and the moisture is being held in the air like a curtain, layering an orange clay colour on to the bare arms and face of the yardman 5 stories below, and a misty verdant green onto the birch leaves steaming condensation by the bedroom window.

I go into the kids’ room to wake them up. Usually, I poke my head round the door, give them a shout, and then go and boil the water and heat the milk, but this morning I stand and watch them sleeping. They each have a mattress on the floor. My eldest daughter is lying lengthwise by the wall, her feet pointing to the door. My son is sleeping perpendicular to her, along the far wall. It’s not a large room, so their heads are quite close to each other. My daughter is on her side, still hugging her bear; and my son is lying on his back, arms by his side. I crouch down and look at them. I remember the night I thought I had decided to leave. It was at winter’s end two years ago. I hadn’t been paid properly for three months, and the fund (we have the orange one – you know, the one with the catchphrase “We understand”) wanted paying for the bondgrip, so… well, you know the story – I’m sure it’s a pretty common one. My brother-in-law had some work in construction over the river. The wife and I had talked it over, and the decision was as good as made. Then I went to kiss them goodnight, and….

And… how can you explain something like that to a guy like Paulius? How could he understand? He would just hear the words ‘the kids’, and he would make a few connections with some experiences, a few figments of his imagination – all in a tired, passionless, lazily fumbling manner, and then if he’s particularly shameless, he’d give himself the impression he understood. Fuck it, how can you explain it to anyone? I hadn’t even understood myself.

“Good morning, Kids!”

“Uh huh” says my daughter, holding her bear tighter and keeping her eyes tight shut.

“Five minutes, yeah?”

I go into the kitchen and kickstart the mechanics of the day: the water in the kettle, the kettle on the hob, the milk from the fridge, the milk in the pan, the search for the oatmeal, and then the whole operation stalls with a banging on the front door.

I kick the shoes scattered in the corridor to one side, walk to the door and ask who’s there.

“The Electric Company”

I open the door, but stand so as not to let anyone in. There’s a thick-set guy in his forties with a clipboard in his hands and sweat under his armpits.

“What do you want?”
“Read your meter. You haven’t answered any of the messages we left, and you didn’t say when would be a convenient time to call, so …”
“Okay”

The box is on the wall in the corridor, so I let him in and open it up. He fishes around in his trouser pocket for his pencil torch, and then darting it around in amongst the fuses he starts writing the numbers down.

“When was the last time you paid?”
“You don’t have a record of that yourself?”
“Well,” he says following the line on the table on the clipboard he’s holding, “That’s over 500 units you haven’t paid for.”
“I’ll pay when I’m paid.”
“You can’t do it like that.”

Both kids have got up and are standing behind me, so I tell them to go to the kitchen.

“You will be cut off.”
“Fine, you will give us notice though.”
“Yes, but you will be cut off.”

I make a move towards him to show him the door.

“Well, you just write and let us know, won’t you?”

He puts his pen in his pocket, and, to his credit, just about manages to avoid shaking his head as he exits.

About 15 minutes later, the three of us are sat at the kitchen table quietly eating porridge when my wife comes in with the youngest.

“Any left?” she asks, the sleep still on her.
“A little.”
“Who was that?”
“The electricity.”
“Read the meter, did they?’
“Mmhmm”

“Beautiful.” She laughs a little, and puts her hand briefly on my shoulder as she reaches for a bowl on the table, and I almost feel the tears coming.

“Listen, I need some money before you go.” she says.
“What for?”
“Oh, I thought a new dress.”
“Just asking.”
“Why are you just asking?” She takes the pan from the stove and whacks the sides of it as she whips the remnants of porridge out of it.

“Take a look around you,” she says. “We’ve nothing here, have we? And how am I supposed to feed the kids with nothing.”
“Okay, well don’t exaggerate. There is some food here, there’s potatoes and…”
“Plotniks, this is so humiliating!”
“Well, don’t let the situation get you down…”
“The situation!? I’m talking about us! Why should I be begging you for some money?”
“How can I give something I don’t have? Are you sure you can’t use what we’ve got? We’ve got the electricity, and the bondgrip is at the end of the month.”

We’re both starting to shout, and my son puts his hands over his ears and runs out of the room. My eldest daughter’s face is red and she seems on the verge of tears. My wife is standing by the table, looking away and shaking.

“Look if you need it, take 40 kapostas. It’s pretty much all I can give you.”

She‘s still not looking at me, but she’s controlling the rage in her voice.

“Baiba has the doctor’s, both Martha and Andris need their after-school activities paid for. You should know that. What am I supposed to do – pay for all of that with a couple of bottles of bleach?”

It is true. I had forgotten.

“Okay – sorry, take 60.”
“Now you can spare 60, can you?”
“Not really, but, …”
“Not enough spending money for your little trip, is it?”
“Look I just asked what you needed it for. I ask myself the same question – you know that.”
“What you need it for?”

She’s shaking and pretending to pretend not to laugh. She breathes in hard and looks at the ceiling, clenching her knuckles white.

“Did you ask yourself that about her, eh? What you need it for?”

I look at Martha, my eldest, and she walks sadly out of the room, stroking her mother as she does so, and I whisper, “not in front of the kids, and if this is what it is all about, I told you, we…”

She turns around. Her face is awash with tears.

There is no point saying anything.