Love, Almost

by Hayley Doyle

  ‘Huh? Erm, no – not at all—’

  ‘Whoa, I was completely joking. And I wasn’t judging. Teachers are allowed to drink, I didn’t—’

  ‘It’s fine. I drink all the time. Just not this afternoon. Yet.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ he says, still holding onto my satchel. Like me, he’s wearing a denim jacket – although it’s smarter than mine, obviously more expensive, a grey hoodie sitting comfortably beneath it. I reach out to take what’s rightfully mine and get the impression he doesn’t realise what he’s doing. He mumbles a further apology and hands over the satchel, then the loose pens, one of them pink and fluffy, like a camp flamingo.

  ‘A gift,’ I say, defending my choice of stationery.

  ‘Again, not judging.’

  I wonder if he works at the school. He called me Miss Roscoe. I haven’t been the most sociable member of staff; I’m not on first name terms with that many teachers … wait. Oh God. How could I be so stupid? He must be a parent.

  ‘Congratulations on the lovely performance before half term,’ he says, and now he’s holding his hand out to shake mine. I accept.

  ‘Thanks! I really can’t take the praise, though. It was all Si – Mr Sullivan. Yeah, Mr Sullivan. He’s boss. I mean, professional. A true pro.’

  ‘Are you from Liverpool?’

  ‘Yeah. How’d you guess?’

  ‘My mum’s from Southport.’ He leans back into his door frame.

  ‘Oh. Wow … erm … that’s spooky. Well, not really.’

  ‘A coincidence, maybe?’

  ‘A mature spin on spooky. I’ll go with that. Anyway, I’m glad you enjoyed the show.’

  ‘I did. It was a very special night.’

  ‘Well, like I said. You should tell Mr Sullivan, he’ll be thrilled.’

  ‘No, it was you I wanted to tell, actually. You’re wrong when you say you didn’t do much, Miss Roscoe. You did everything.’

  I stuff the pens into my satchel and blow a raspberry to dismiss his comments. I’ve honestly no idea why. In a panic, I blow another raspberry, just to highlight how ridiculous I am.

  ‘You helped my daughter,’ the man says, unaware of my silliness. ‘I’m Layla Birch’s dad.’

  ‘Oh my! Layla Birch’s dad,’ I squeal, and I shake his hand. Again.

  ‘Oliver,’ he says. ‘Ollie.’

  ‘It’s so nice to meet you, Oliver … Ollie.’

  ‘The pleasure’s all mine.’

  ‘You have an amazing kid.’

  ‘You’re an amazing teacher. Layla tells me you have a lovely singing voice.’

  ‘Mediocre at best. But your daughter, well, she’s gonna go far.’

  ‘Thanks to you, Miss Roscoe.’

  ‘Chloe! Call me Chloe. Or Chlo?’

  ‘Okay. Chlo.’

  ‘Unless we’re in school and then you’d have to call me Miss Roscoe.’

  ‘I’m a bit old for school, don’t you think?’

  And I laugh. Well, that was funny. He’s funny. Oliver. Ollie. God, I’m just so made up that I helped Layla Birch; and I mean, really, really helped her, because I’m standing here with her dad, and he’s genuinely grateful. And funny. He’s been through hell and yet he’s being funny.

  ‘I was here to—’ I feel the need to explain.

  ‘So now you know—’ Ollie says at the same time, then, ‘Sorry. You first, Chlo.’

  ‘Oh, I was just gonna say that I came here to view this flat, Number three.’

  ‘And I was going to say – now you know where I live. I mean, where Layla lives. Should I tell her that her teacher is about to become her neighbour?’

  ‘God no!’

  ‘You didn’t like it?’

  ‘No, I loved it. I do. It’s – erm – not the right time.’

  ‘Well, if you have second thoughts and want to see how the place can look – you know, lived in, slight leak in the bathroom, clothes hanging on the radiator ’cause I never get a chance to fix the tumble dryer – honestly, drop by.’

  ‘I will. Your flat has the better view, too. So I hear.’

  ‘It was the deal-breaker. We needed something extra special, Layla and me.’

  I nod, and desperately want to reach out, squeeze his hand.

  ‘Well,’ he says, ‘shame I won’t have a private tutor across the hall.’

  ‘I don’t think there’s anything I could teach you—’

  ‘I meant, for Layla. Obviously.’

  ‘Obviously!’

  ‘Look, I have to dash,’ Ollie says and taps the NHS badge hanging on a blue cord around his neck. ‘I’m on my way to work. Night shift.’

  ‘Oh, rubbish.’

  ‘Nah. It’s fine. And anyway, I’m one proud dad. Always counting my blessings.’

  Ollie Birch goes away as quickly as he showed up. I look for the shadow hanging over him, try to spot the hunch in his shoulders, the weight he must carry. But I don’t see anything: just a man jogging down the stairs, on his way to work. A dad feeling proud of his little girl.

  And I’m proud, too. Of myself. I did good. As a teacher. I actually did good, didn’t I?

  Cold air from the vacant flat tickles my neck.

  It will be warmer inside Ollie and Layla’s place. Lived in.

  How I’d love a place to call my own, to paint with my colours.

  Outside, I bid Lorraine farewell, tap my satchel and tell her that I’ll keep her card, it’s safe in there. She knows I won’t call. As I watch her go, the stick of the umbrella leading her way, my own phone vibrates. Somebody is calling me.

  ‘Chloe!’ It’s Trish. She’s so in control of her words, so rich with authority as she speaks, that I listen to her as if it were a recorded message. ‘Accept my apologies for not contacting you sooner. It’s been a difficult patch. Can you bring Jack’s things over tomorrow? I know it’s short notice but I’m sure you’re as eager to get rid of them as I am to see them. Yes, dear?’

  All I can manage to say is ‘Yeah.’

  ‘And let’s get that contract signed. Cheerio.’

  When I get back to the flat, I remove Jack’s magnets from the fridge. For all I know, they might hold meaning to Trish and John. Maybe they went to Pisa together. I take each one down and wrap them collectively in kitchen foil. Then I message Beth, asking if I can borrow her car tomorrow. I’ll get Neil’s spare key from Giles and Ingrid in the morning.

  The fridge looks bare: an empty white space.

  Or a blank canvas.

  ‘I’m not ready,’ I say, my breathing shallow. ‘I’m not … I’m not ready.’

  40

  The Carmichael house is a short drive on from a quaint town in rural Berkshire.

  It was like driving through a film set: thatched cottages; shops called ‘Ye Olde’ something; a far cry from the identical three-bed semis and shopping precincts I was used to growing up. I spotted a theatre currently home to a touring production of Blithe Spirit. A lot of charity shops.

  I park on the road – there’s ample space, this being a quiet road with just a few houses, all differing in design and era – and decide to leave Jack’s things in the car for now. I can’t carry everything in one go.

  I’m about to release the latch on the front gate when my phone rings, the piercing tone spoiling the idyllic surroundings. Fiddling with the car key, I unlock the car and sit back behind the steering wheel. It’s my mum.

  ‘Happy birthday!’ she shouts, my dad echoing the words closely behind.

  ‘Thank you – but remember, I’m putting me birthday on hold this year,’ I remind them.

  ‘Did your cards arrive?’

  ‘Mum, I just said—’

  ‘I know what you said but I can’t not send me daughter a card on her birthday, can I?’

  ‘I’ll check when I get back. Just out at the moment.’

  ‘Oh my God! Chloe! You’re there, aren’t you? Bernie? She’s there!’ And my mum lowers her voice to a stage whisper. ‘Patricia Carmichael’s house.’

&nb
sp; ‘Just got here, so I should go—’

  ‘Oh I can’t believe it, love. I just can’t believe you’re there. In the countryside. Patricia Carmichael’s house. What’s it like? Is it double-fronted? Bet it’s double-fronted. And is there an annexe, you know, as if they built a pool and sauna once she got famous and the money started rolling in? Bet they never use the sauna. Who even enjoys a sauna? I’m sweating cobs just thinking about one.’

  ‘There’s no annexe, Mum. Not that I can see. It’s quite modern—’

  ‘Modern?! You mean like something on Grand Designs?’

  ‘No, more like our Kit and Gareth’s house but about five times bigger.’

  ‘You mean it’s got orange bricks?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Oh love, I wasn’t expecting that. And what a shame; no pool and sauna.’

  ‘Well, I’m not here for a spa weekend, Mum.’

  ‘Hold on, Chloe. Shush a sec. Your dad wants to say hiya …’

  There’s a scuffle, muffled exchanges down my earpiece, a mild sort of tug-of-war; then I hear my dad’s singsong phone voice, as if he’s answering a call for Bernie Roscoe Taxis.

  ‘Alright Tilly Mint! How’s the birthday girl?’

  ‘I’m okay, Dad. But I should go—’

  ‘Say no more, say no more, my love. We know today’s not gonna be easy for you and we just wanted to tell you that we love you. Pick a date, any date, and we’ll take you for a meal, pretend it’s your birthday. Or we could get a Chinese banquet …’

  There’s another scuffle; more muffled voices. I pull the phone away from my ear.

  ‘Chloe? You still there?’ It’s my mum again. ‘Now what car have they got?’

  ‘Mum, I’ve really got to go—’

  ‘Why? Is she there? Trish? Is she … Hiya Trish!’

  ‘She’s not here, Mum! I’m sat in Beth’s car.’

  ‘Well get out then, soft girl! What you doing sat in Beth’s car?’

  God, how I wish I could hang up.

  ‘You know, we’ve been thinking about Trish a lot lately, haven’t we, Bernie?’ my mum says. ‘She hasn’t been on the telly since … you know.’

  ‘I know.’ Although in truth, I only realise now. I look through the driver seat window towards the house. So much sadness will have taken place in there: the loss of a son. A child. It doesn’t matter that Jack was thirty-eight when he died. He was Trish and John’s child. No wonder she hasn’t been on the bloody telly since. I’m surprised she’s left her bed.

  ‘Anyway, give her all our love,’ my mum says, and my dad reiterates it in the background.

  ‘She’ll be thrilled,’ I say. ‘Bye Mum, bye Dad. Love you millions.’

  ‘Love you more,’ they say in unison.

  I walk up the front garden path and don’t need to ring the doorbell. John Carmichael is sitting in an armchair by the front window and gives me a cheery wave. He stands and calls out, but I can’t hear what he says. He’s in a warm woollen jumper, a small zip pulled up beneath his chin. He waves again and as I return the gesture, the door opens.

  ‘Freddie – hiya!’ I say. I’d presumed I’d never see this fella again.

  ‘Hey. Come in. I can’t tell you to make yourself at home, though. This isn’t my house. I don’t live here. Not any more,’ he says, not making eye contact. He’s lost weight and looks very much like he does live here. He’s wearing a dressing gown and slippers. ‘I’m just here for a few days. Got my own place, river view.’

  ‘That sounds lovely, Freddie.’

  John has walked into the hallway, which is vast and minimalist. It’s not the cluttered interior of the country manor I envisaged at all. It’s more like a show home, as if photos have been taken down from the walls, flowers taken out of vases. John is holding a mug with both hands, so he nods his head and smiles; no words. I follow suit: nod and smile. As neat as I recall him being in those few sad times last summer, he has a serene glow about him today, his hair longer and a little fuzzy around the edges, as if he’s decided to boycott the barbers. He throws another smile my way before slowly returning to his armchair by the window. Freddie has sat himself upon the stairs, his elbows resting on his knees, his head hanging low.

  Trish appears from the opposite side of the house: the kitchen, I presume. Her trademark earrings dangle from each ear: peacock feathers. Her glasses are hanging on the gold chain around her neck. The spikes are still in her hair, but the colour is less vibrant, the grey more prominent. Like Freddie, she has lost weight, her beige trousers hanging off her like jogging bottoms, a knitted waistcoat cuddling her like a blanket.

  ‘Ignore the state of the place,’ she tells me straight off. ‘It’s got no atmosphere, I know, I know. We’re leaving. Not for good. Just for a while. I refuse to spend Christmas in this damned house. This damned country.’

  Freddie emits a growl and heaves himself up by pulling on the banister. He begins to flop his feet up the stairs when Trish plants her hands on her hips.

  ‘And where do you think you’re going?’ she asks her son.

  Trish takes my elbow and walks me forward, like a debutante being presented at a ball. Freddie’s eyes burn into his mother’s and I’ve no clue what the dynamic is between them; it doesn’t feel good. I should get the bags out of the car and go.

  ‘Freddie, put some proper shoes on and help Chloe bring Jack’s things in,’ Trish says, softening her tone. ‘Then I’ll make you some eggy bread.’

  Freddie’s whole body slumps and he jerks his head back, groaning, ‘Fine.’

  Off he goes, ducking beneath the staircase to sift through a small mountain of shoes: various types and sizes from wellies to trainers. Trish is watching his every move, analysing how he stoops, how he ties his laces, her eyes narrowed and her lips pursed. Then she opens the front door and herds both Freddie and me out like cattle. We trudge the bags into the house and leave them – as directed by Trish – by the shoe pile.

  ‘Now go and sit with your father,’ Trish tells Freddie.

  He obliges, oozing reluctance. He lies flat down on the sheepskin rug beside John’s chair and starts to scroll through his phone. John, who’s been staring out of the window, turns his head towards us and gives a sleepy, closed-mouth smile to his wife. Trish returns it with a thumbs up.

  ‘Follow me, Chloe,’ she says. ‘Coffee?’

  41

  I’d rather not stay. I don’t see the point. I feel in the way, like I’ve brought back one bag too many. Trish is aware of my hesitation.

  ‘Don’t tell me you only drink tea.’

  ‘Coffee’s great.’

  The kitchen is dreamy. Right out of a magazine. It’s not lifeless like the hall or the sitting room. A few used mugs sit beside a half-full cafetière, the rich aroma of coffee shaking the room awake. A fresh baguette lies on a chopping board, half eaten, and crumbs are speckled onto the gleaming white island. Loose papers in a haphazard pile lie beside an open MacBook Air.

  ‘Oh, this is beautiful,’ I say, pointing at the wildflowers arranged in a basket on the table. Cornflower blues and sunny oranges poke out from the richest ruby reds; a gift, no doubt, as I can’t imagine anybody would buy this for themselves. They remind me of the bouquet Giles and Ingrid bought for me all those months ago: a flash of a memory. Did I put them on display? I seem to recall hiding them in a cupboard.

  ‘Take it when you leave,’ Trish says, her glasses now on the end of her nose as she closes down tabs on the MacBook and folds it shut. ‘I can’t bear flowers of any sort. Not indoors, anyway.’

  ‘Oh, me too.’

  Trish dips her chin and stares at me from over the rim of her specs.

  ‘It comes from me mum. And me nan,’ I say, shaking my head at how abstractly I’m behaving. ‘Sorry – I mean, I think flowers are beautiful, to look at. Especially outside, like you mentioned. But I don’t like them in me own house, or flat. You see, me mum lost her dad when she was a little girl. When he died, neighbours kept buying me nan flowers. She
’d leave them in the paper wrapping, slinging them on the kitchen table or by the phone in the hall, sometimes on the floor. Me nan’s a proper tough cookie but she couldn’t deal with the flowers, sort of like if she acknowledged them it’d cause her to wobble. She had no time for that. Tough as she was, though, she didn’t have the heart to tell people to stop, they were only doing their best, being kind. Anyway, it was me mum who’d pick the flowers up, put them in a vase. They didn’t have many vases – I mean, their house was dead small. So sometimes she cut the stems and put them in a tall glass or left them soaking in the sink. To this day, me mum won’t go near a florist. She hates the smell and what it reminds her of. Sad, dark days. I guess it rubbed off on me.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Trish goes to the sink, rinses a couple of mugs and pours us both a coffee. She removes her glasses and chain from around her neck. ‘Sounds like your mum and I have a lot in common after all.’

  She lights a hob on the island cooker and takes a clean pan out of the dishwasher, heating it up with a generous splatter of oil.

  ‘Does your mum make eggy bread?’

  ‘No. She’s always on a diet.’

  In the middle of beating two eggs with a fork, she suddenly stops what she’s doing to look through the open doorway. I follow her gaze. John has moved from his armchair and crossed the hall. There’s a distinct lack of background noise in this house: no telly blaring, no radio muttering, no buses hurtling past. I hear a door open, close and lock, and a minute later, a toilet flush. Trish is watching Freddie scroll through his phone. John unlocks the door and goes back to where he came from. Trish’s shoulders soften. She returns to beating the eggs.

  ‘Pills work for Johnny,’ she tells me, slowly, each word clipped. ‘But they don’t work for Freddie.’

  She adds milk to the beaten eggs and goes a bit crazy with the salt and pepper.

  ‘I take them to sleep,’ Trish continues, ‘but Johnny takes them both day and night now. Doctor’s orders. He’s doing well. Unlike my baby. I’ll never trust him on his own again. Pass me that bread knife, will you, dear?’

  I oblige and Trish slices the baguette up with terrific speed before dipping each piece into the eggy mixture and tossing it into the hot pan.