An Outing

"F-Frank?"

"Yes, Shirley."

"F-Frank... Do... Do you think that p-p-priests m-miss out by... by not b-being allowed to m-marry?"

I glance at the rear-view mirror and see Shirley's face framed between Lizzie's and Mark's in the back seat. It's a serious face and she wants a serious answer - just like any inquisitive girl of 8 would. Shirley, though, is 54.

"It depends on what you mean by miss out, Shirley. You might say that what you never have you never miss."

"M-Might you?" she says, though to herself. She looks out of the window at the passing street. Her expression, with her wide eyes and deep wrinkles, is a wonderful contradiction of knowing innocence. When she first came to the home, a year ago, she didn't speak for a month. Now you can't stop her.

"And... And F-Frank?"

"Yes, Shirley."

"F-Frank... D-Do you think... Do you think that... that I've missed out by n-never getting m-married?"

I shake my head. "I really can't answer that, can I, Shirley."

"N-No," she says. Then she says "H-Have you... Have you ever been m-married, Frank?"

"No, Shirley."

We're approaching a pelican crossing, and the lights change from green to amber.

"W-Why?"

I glance up at the mirror again.

"That's a personal question, Shirley. You've been told about asking personal questions, haven't you."

"Y-Yes," she says. "S-S-Sorry."

"That's alright."

I pull up at the crossing and look around to check everyone. They've all been remarkably quiet, despite the excitement of the day. Shirley puts her hand over her mouth and begins to cackle in her own irresistibly mischievous way. Ralph peers at me over the top of his glasses, then pokes out his tongue. It curls down his chin like a plump pink fish. I wink at him.

"Watch it, sunshine!"

"Zunzhine," Mark echoes from the back, pointing out of the window and up at the sky.

I turn back as a young woman is crossing in front of us. I can't see her face, but something about her catches me off-guard. Annie, I think¦ though it isn't, of course. It's the hair that does it - that wavy bob, the coppery flicker of it in the sunlight. She has a similar way of walking, too - as if she knows precisely where she's going and intends to get there. She has a small child strapped to her back in a kind of papoose. The child looks at me and smiles, and I wag my finger in return. I feel a sudden kick against the bottom of my seat.

"What's your problem now, Ralph?"

"Mun finger, mun thumb,
mun arm, a leg,
mun nodda ma head..."

"Keep moo-ving!" I finish the line for him, and he cackles, too.

As if on cue, the lights change. The woman reaches the other side and turns away. The child, though, swings its head and continues to look at me. I pull forward.

"And... And F-Frank?"

"Yes, Shirley."

"F-Frank... Are there... Are there some p-people who... who never take any... anything s-seriously?"

"Yes, Shirley," I say.

"W-Why?"

I catch sight of the woman and child in the mirror as they reach a corner. Then they're gone.

"I don't know, Shirley. There just are."

I turn onto the beach road, and suddenly the whole thing is stretching out before us.

"I can see the sea!" I cry.

"Zea!" Mark repeats, rocking excitedly in his seat. A large gob of dribble runs into his beard. He's a big lad, and the bus shakes with his movement.

"Stop rocking, Mark."

"Rockingmark," he says. Then he stops.

I drive along the busy part of the beach, past the arcades and ice cream shacks, until we reach a quieter stretch. We pass a huddle of paint-peeling beach huts - one or two of them in use. Older folk slumped in deck chairs out front. Kids playing on the steps. Just like little houses, I think - numbers on the doors, tiny windows with pastel curtains. One even has a fake chimney. I glimpse a face at a window in passing: a woman reaching up to a shelf for a cup. Like people playing at houses. The smell of a barbecue wafts in the vents, and I switch on the air conditioner.

At the end of the Promenade, jutting out onto the shingle, is a cafe.

"Tea for me, please," Lizzie pipes up. "Two sugars. You buy it for me, please. Lunch we having. When?"

It's just after half-eleven - a bit earlier than they'd normally have it back at the home. But I pull up anyway. It's a special day, after all.

"How about now, Lizzie?"

Beaming, she grabs at her seat belt clip. She only has six teeth left in her head. "Now, yes please. Like sandwiches. Brown bread, please. You get it for me. Don't like white bread."

I switch off and turn to look at them again - four strange, wonderful faces, gaping at me expectantly. I sign to Mark that we are going to eat. He grins, ahhhh-ing his approval, and starts rocking again.

"What did I say, Mark?"

Ralph puts his face right up next to mine.

"Mun finger, mun thumb,
mun arm¦..."

"And who pulled your chain, mate?"

Ralph cackles. Shirley wide-eyes me, raising her hand.

"Are we... F-Frank¦ Are we... we just h-having... having a l-laugh, F-Frank?"

"Yes, Shirley. We're just having a laugh."

"W-Why?"

I open the door, then glance back at her as she covers her mouth with her hand.

"Because it's better than crying, love."

The cafe is busy, and there's only one large table free, near the window on the other side. As I lead them over to it, eyes move in our direction and the hubbub of conversation shifts to a lower register. There are the usual weak smiles and averted gazes, the usual gawking kids, the usual fidgets. The looks that say 'please, not next to me.' As always, I wonder if my lot ever notice these things. If they ever pick up the signals.

I get them all seated and go over to join the queue at the counter. While I'm waiting I keep my eye on the table. They're all sitting quietly, and I'm suddenly struck by how vulnerable they seem. More so than children, really. Mark is staring fixedly at the table top, rocking again. Lizzie is fiddling with her handbag, picking it up and looking inside and putting it down and picking it up again. Shirley eyes me and lifts her hand, giving the sign - universally acknowledged - for a drink. I nod and she grins. Ralph sees me too. He puts up a finger, then a thumb, then an arm, then he sticks out his leg. I smirk at him. They're well-behaved, but anyone coming in off the street would still notice them before noticing anything else. It's what makes me feel, in some ways, that these efforts to treat them as 'normal' are somehow misguided - like we're doing it to make ourselves feel better. Whichever way you look at it, they're different. It's their difference that makes them special. It's their difference that I like about them. It's the reason I chose the job in the first place.

Annie was amazed when I told her. The irony of it. Me, who never wanted the responsibility of children.

"F-Frank?"

"Yes, Shirley."

"F-Frank. Do some... Frank... Do some people b-behave... behave according to the w-wrong motives?"

I sip my coffee. Through the kitchen serving hatch, I can see a young guy preparing our sandwiches. He glances at me, then away again quickly. Even so, I catch something in his expression. A recognition, possibly. A knowingness.

"Some people do, Shirley."

"W-Why?"

I put my cup down again. I honestly don't know where she gets some of this stuff. Perhaps it's from the church she goes to.

"Because... I don't know, Shirley. Because they do. Perhaps they just get confused."

Lizzie picks up the menu.

"Where sandwiches?"

I glance at the kitchen hatch again. The young guy is handing the plates through to a waitress. He looks at me again and gives me a thumbs-up. At least, I think he gives it to me. But Ralph, who's also seen, returns it.

"They're coming, Lizzie."

Shirley coughs. "And F-Frank... Frank, is there... is there a l-lot... lot of i-ignorance in the world, Frank?"

"Quite a bit, Shirley."

"W-Why?"

I look her squarely in the eyes.

"Because some people are afraid to ask questions. Unlike you."

I help the waitress to dish out the sandwiches. Cheese and tomato for everyone except Ralph, who'll only eat ham. As usual, he inspects inside each sandwich first to make sure. Lizzie eats hers a layer at a time: top slice, filling, bottom slice. Shirley takes genteel little nibbles, mumbling to herself the whole time, mentally framing her next set of questions. Mark just eats. Food is food to him, and he takes it in without the least indication of interest or satisfaction. His approach to eating is purely functional ' like going to the toilet. Lizzie belches, says 'Pardon' and carries on unabashed. They eat without any sense of self-consciousness or inhibition ' as with just about everything else they do. In some ways, I envy them.

While they're occupied, I stare out of the window. Although summer's almost over, there are still quite a few people out there, perched behind wind-breaks, catching those last rays. There're even a few hardy souls in swimming - their heads bobbing like buoys above the waves. Seagulls wheel and scream overhead like bits of cloud blown apart by the wind. It's my favourite kind of day, with the worst of the heat over and a freshness in the air that isn't quite autumnal.

Annie loved days like this, too. When we first met, when we were both stuck in different lives, it was at this time of year. I took her to Devon for a week, where we spent our days just wandering together. Somewhere remote and wild, usually ' the moors, or an empty stretch of coast. We had no need for anyone else. We found something in one another that had always been there, but which needed the nurturing of a kindred soul. She used to say we'd saved one another: alone, we couldn't have made it - together, we found the strength. It was right that it happened - I'm certain of that. It was what was needed at the time.

She talked about the two of us moving away - somewhere new, where no one else knew us, to start again. And almost before we'd expected it, while I was still trying to let it sink in, the chance came. She was offered a teaching post in Cornwall. A peaceful area, with space and air. A different environment. Somewhere to grow - to bring up a family. She said it was everything we wanted. And I was so swept up by it all that I thought I believed her. So we informed our employers, filled in papers, gave notice on our flats.

And then, at the last, I couldn't do it. At the time, I couldn't explain why ' even though I knew. So I made excuses. After that, it was excuses all the way until the end.

"F-Frank?"

A man is standing on the tide-line, waving out to sea. Someone out there, shoulder deep, waves back. Not drowning, I think. You can't wave if you're drowning.

"Yes, Shirley."

"F-Frank... Are there... Are there t-things that are... that are b-best left unsaid?"

It's uncanny how she can do that. Ask a question that gets right to the marrow. It's like she's developed a special insight to compensate for what's been lost.

"Probably, Shirley. Sometimes." And then, to pre-empt her usual rejoinder: "Sometimes it can be a way of avoiding hurting someone's feelings."

Do I really believe that?

She widens her eyes.

"You mean... You mean like kee... k-keeping a secret?"

"Yes, Shirley. You could call it that."

Mark stands up suddenly and points at his crotch.

"Go on then, mate."

He wanders over to the toilets, immediately going for the door to the Ladies. The doors don't have the symbols he usually recognises.

"Not that one, Mark," I call out, and he turns to the other one as automatically as if I'd aimed a remote control at him and pressed a button. I notice movement at the serving hatch and see the face of the guy in the kitchen framed there again. Our eyes meet for the briefest of moments. Then he's gone.

"And F-Frank... Do you... Do you have any... any s-secrets, Frank?"

I look at her. There are things I should say. But what's the point? She wouldn't understand, anyway.

"No, Shirley, I don't," I say. "It's all me that you see."

And she cackles.