And A Squishy Giraffe

Marcus pulled the Focus into the last space between a Range Rover and something German with cream leather seats. The gift bag from Wilko sat on his passenger seat like evidence.

The front garden was pristine—edges cut with geometric precision. A handwritten sign tied to the gate read "Mia's Magical Midsummer Party" in calligraphy that probably cost more than his weekly food shop.

"Marcus!" Claire appeared at the front door wearing a yellow sundress and a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "I'm so glad you could make it. Mia's been asking about Uncle Marcus all week."

Uncle Marcus. The title felt like a small knife. He wasn't Mia's uncle—he'd been Sarah's boyfriend for three years, and Claire had never called him Uncle Marcus when Sarah was alive. But now it was useful to her, this fiction of family obligation.

"Wouldn't miss it," he said, holding up the gift bag.

"Just pop it on the table with the others. We're doing gifts after the treasure hunt." She gestured toward presents arranged with department store precision. "Mia's got it all planned out like a little general."

The house had been renovated since he'd last been here eighteen months ago. Granite countertops, integrated appliances, a coffee machine that probably cost more than most people's rent.

"Drink?" Claire opened a purpose-built drinks fridge. "James picked up some lovely craft beer from that new place in Chorlton."

Marcus accepted a bottle with hops sourced from specific fields mentioned by name.

A man appeared in the French doorway—tall, Black, wearing a Next polo shirt rather than the boutique brands the other fathers favored.

"Excuse me," the man said in crisp BBC English. "I wonder if you might want to relocate the chocolate fountains? Several smaller children have been eyeing your white sofas with predatory interest."

Claire's face cycled through confusion, horror, panic. "Chocolate fountains? Children? White sofas?" She spun toward the living room.

"Also," the man continued casually, "young Marlon appears to have commandeered one of your crystal wine glasses for archaeological experiments. Using it as a magnifying glass for beetles."

"Crystal glasses? Beetles?" Claire rushed inside, heels clicking frantically.

The man watched her go with the expression of someone who'd executed a satisfying chess move. His accent shifted, relaxing into something warmer. "Name's Wynton, by the way. Like the trumpeter, only the only horn I'm blowing these days is my own, if you catch my drift."

Marcus stared. "Did you just...?"

"Send her into damage control about imaginary disasters? Yeah, man. Figured you looked like you needed breathing space before her inquisition." Wynton grinned. "Wanted to see if she'd prioritize furniture or children's safety."

"And?"

"Furniture won by miles. Didn't even ask if the kids were okay."

"The crystal glasses?"

"Oh, that's true. My boy Marlon's using proper crystal for bug examination. Kid's got expensive taste in scientific equipment."

Claire's voice carried from the living room, pitched at that frequency parents used when internally screaming.

"You're evil," Marcus said.

"Nah, just practical. Woman was gearing up to interrogate you—could see it in her eyes. Figured you'd rather deal with her distracted than when she's got full attention focused on making you uncomfortable."

"How did you know she was going to—"

"Because I've been getting the same treatment. Very concerned inquiries about whether I need help with homework expectations. Whether I'm managing the single parenting thing." Wynton's voice carried an edge. "Amazing how helpful people become when they think you need charity."

Claire reappeared, frazzled but trying to maintain composure. "Crisis averted. Just a misunderstanding about party equipment."

She turned to Marcus with renewed focus. "So, how are you settling back in? Must be quite an adjustment."

There it was. The surgical precision of someone who knew exactly where to apply pressure.

"Fine. Taking things one day at a time."

"Of course. Very sensible. And job hunting? I imagine that's challenging, given the circumstances."

Marcus felt Wynton watching this predator behavior with documentary interest.

"Early days still."

"Absolutely. These things take time. Especially when..." She let it hang, inviting him to fill the blank with his own humiliation.

"When what?" Wynton asked with innocent curiosity.

"Oh, well. Marcus has been through a difficult period. We're all supportive of people getting back on their feet."

"Back on their feet from what?"

Claire struggled. She wanted to share the delicious details but couldn't quite say it directly.

"Just... life changes. You know how it is."

"Not really. We've all got life changes. What makes Marcus's particularly noteworthy?"

Uncomfortable silence. Claire's smile strained.

"Perhaps we should check on the children."

She escaped toward the garden.

"Prison?" Wynton asked.

"How did you—"

"The way she said 'circumstances.' Plus you've got that awareness thing. Looking for exits, checking who's watching." Wynton shrugged. "My cousin did two years. Recognize the patterns."

"Fourteen months. Benefits fraud."

"Creative accounting when desperate?"

"Something like that."

"And she knows everything?"

"Part of why I'm here. Bit of entertainment for her."

"Yeah, I can see that. She's running a petting zoo for damaged people."

They walked toward a garden that looked magazine-perfect. Mia had positioned herself near a municipal-quality sandpit, directing operations with natural authority.

"That your daughter?"

"Not technically. Sarah's—my girlfriend's—it's complicated."

"Everything's complicated when someone dies. Let me guess—Claire appointed herself guardian of bereaved child development?"

"How do you—"

"Because that's what people like her do. Find a project so they can feel important and generous."

A chocolate-stained boy approached carrying a crystal wine glass filled with garden specimens.

"Dad," he said to Wynton, "Mia says I can't use this because it's expensive. But she's using good spoons for treasure digging. Not fair."

"This is Marlon. Marlon, meet Marcus. He's also navigating party politics."

Marlon studied Marcus seriously. "Are you the one who's been in jail?"

Marcus felt the world tilt. "Who told you that?"

"Nobody. I worked it out. Mia said you lived with her mum but went away and couldn't come to parties for ages. When grown-ups can't come to things, it's hospital, jail, or another country. You don't look sick or foreign, so..." Elementary logic shrug.

"Kid's got a point. But return that glass before Claire strokes out."

They found a plastic magnifying glass from an educational toy collection worth more than most cars. Marlon accepted the substitution gracefully.

"Smart kid," Marcus observed.

"Too smart. Yesterday he asked why I pretend to go to work when I don't have a job. Kid notices everything."

"What did you tell him?"

"Truth. Sometimes adults pretend things are normal until they figure out how to make them actually normal."

"You lost your job?"

"Budget cuts. Housing benefits for the council—helping people navigate the system. Ironic, really."

Mia successfully negotiated complex trades involving equipment access and resource allocation. She operated with diplomatic efficiency.

"She's quite something."

"Marlon says she runs the playground like a corporation. Whole system for trading access, resolving disputes." Wynton grinned. "Kid's going to run Goldman Sachs or the UN."

Claire's voice commanded attention. "Everyone! Treasure hunt in five minutes. Children, gather by the tree house."

"Winston!" she called, gesturing toward Wynton. "Help round up the children?"

Marcus watched Wynton's face remain neutral processing this casual renaming.

"It's Wynton, actually. Like the trumpeter. Happy to help."

"Oh, yes. Sorry. Wynton. Of course."

But Marcus could see she'd already forgotten, the correction sliding off like water.

"Happens constantly," Wynton said quietly. "Winston, Delroy, Marcus—all the same to people like her. Close enough, innit?"

"That's infuriating."

"Nah, that's useful. Shows exactly how much attention they're paying. And when people aren't paying attention, they miss important things."

The treasure hunt began with Claire reading rules from professionally printed instructions. Children listened with the patience of people who understood adult procedures had to be endured.

One of the mothers approached Claire holding up a yellow crayon. "These are lovely crayons in the party bags."

"Oh, those aren't just crayons," Claire said with obvious pleasure. "Those are Faber-Castell Polychromos. The Squishy Giraffe is from their premium animal collection. Completely different pigment quality than regular crayons."

The mother nodded politely, clearly having no idea why this mattered.

"Seventeen ninety-nine for the Faber-Castell Squishy Giraffe," Wynton said suddenly.

"Sorry?"

"That's what Marlon called it when we were shopping. Kid's got better economic sense than most politicians."

Marcus felt something click. "He knew it wasn't about art supplies."

"Course. Knew it was about me not wanting to look cheap. Six years old, not stupid." Wynton gestured toward his pound shop gift bag. "So I explained smart financial choices and environmental responsibility. Kid said that was bollocks but agreed if I bought proper chips after."

"Negotiated down by a six-year-old."

"Story of my life, bruv."

As the treasure hunt progressed, Marcus relaxed for the first time since arriving. Wynton made everything feel like shared jokes rather than personal humiliation.

Claire approached with two other mothers. "How are you getting on? Winston, I was telling Hannah and Susie about your situation. They're involved with the job club at St. Mark's."

"It's Wynton. That's thoughtful. I'll look into it."

"And Marcus, there's a program through probation services. Reintegration support. I could get details."

Marcus felt Wynton's subtle attention shift.

"That's kind."

"We all need support sometimes. Especially when starting over."

"Starting over from what, exactly?" Wynton asked with innocent curiosity.

"Well, you know. Life changes. Everyone's circumstances are different."

"True. Though some circumstances generate more concern than others. You've been very solicitous about Marcus and myself. Makes me wonder what we have in common."

Uncomfortable silence. Hannah and Susie exchanged glances.

"I just think supporting each other's important."

"Absolutely. Though I notice you haven't offered job club referrals to James over there." Wynton gestured toward a man photographing his daughter with professional equipment. "Or rehabilitation services to anyone else. Just Marcus and me. Curious selection criteria."

Claire's composure cracked. "I think you're reading too much—"

"Am I? Looks like very exclusive charity operation. Two beneficiaries who happen to be dealing with situations that make interesting dinner conversation. Quite a coincidence."

The treasure hunt concluded with elaborate prize distribution ensuring equal value regardless of contribution.

"Cake time!" Claire announced, composure restored in organizational mode.

"You staying?" Wynton asked.

Marcus calculated. More charity demonstrations versus disappointing Mia.

"Probably should."

"Come on then. Let's survive the Faber-Castell Squishy Giraffe without more charitable interventions."

Marlon appeared carrying comprehensive garden specimens.

"Dad, I figured out party economics."

"Yeah?"

"Everyone's pretending they can afford things they can't, to impress people also pretending they can afford things they can't. Like a big circle of expensive lying."

Wynton stopped walking. "Come again?"

"Like your Faber-Castell Squishy Giraffe. You're worried about looking cheap, but probably half these parents bought the cheapest thing and put it in fancy bags. Everyone's playing the same game but pretending they're not."

Marcus stared at the six-year-old who'd deconstructed middle-class parenting in two sentences.

"Kid's running the IMF by twenty," he said.

"Or starting a revolution," Wynton replied proudly. "Either way, he's not spending seventeen ninety-nine for any bloody Faber-Castell Squishy Giraffes."

The sun beat down on Claire's perfect garden as three generations of outsiders discovered that sometimes the most honest conversations happened in artificial circumstances, and that six-year-olds were the only people brave enough to say what everyone thought about the price of maintaining dignity in a world designed to strip it away one Faber-Castell Squishy Giraffe at a time.