by Jo Cotterill
He’s got one hand clamped to his forehead, as though he has a pain, and he doesn’t say anything else.
I sigh. The CD comes to an end and spins to a stop. I go over to switch off the machine, and then I see the pile of papers. My story – and the pages I saw this morning, sticking out from the bottom.
‘What’s this?’ I dare to ask.
He doesn’t answer.
It’s half mine, so I reason that I’m allowed to take it all. I go into the kitchen, the story clutched in my hand, fill the kettle and sit at the table to read.
My story was about a sad, lonely boy who had no friends and who met a girl who shone like the sun, and he realised that the world was a more amazing place because there was someone else to share it with.
Dad’s story takes up where mine left off. His handwriting begins hesitantly at first, but by the end of the first page it is flowing and strong.
And the boy said to the girl, We shall be together for ever. And she smiled and took his hand and said, But of course. Because that is how life should be, sharing and exclaiming and crying and laughing together. And they went out into the garden, shouting and playing and throwing snowballs in the winter, and lying in the sun in July. And the boy felt as though he were no longer just one person. That somehow, the girl had become part of him, in his soul, his heart. And he loved her so much that even one minute away from her was too long.
And they grew up together, and the girl helped the boy to enjoy being with people. She explained things to him and made him understand what other people felt and why they didn’t always say what they meant or mean what they said. And the boy felt more and more confident and didn’t mind going out to new places any more because the girl was by his side.
And then one day she said to him, Let’s get married. And then we can do this for the rest of our lives. And he thought that at that moment he could never be any happier – but he was, on the day he saw her at the altar. She wore a white dress that made her look quite different, and for one panicky moment he thought she wasn’t the same person. But then he saw the flowers in her hair and the crazy jewellery she wore that his mother always tutted about, and his heart turned over and he knew that despite the fancy dress and the nail polish and the make-up, she was still the girl he loved, underneath.
And his parents made faces like squeezed lemons and muttered that it would never last. And they were right – though not for the reasons they thought.
And the couple had a baby, and she was the light of both their lives, even though having a baby wasn’t as easy or as fun as they had thought it would be. It was hard work, and often unrewarding, but then the baby smiled and laughed and learned to walk and to talk, and the sun shone more brightly than before. And the girl loved her baby so much that the love burst from her eyes and her hands, and the baby loved her mother too, running and calling to her at every possible moment. And the boy watched with some envy, because he knew he could never be so free and spontaneous, but he didn’t need to be because the girl was.
And then they were parted. But not from lack of love, or from misunderstanding, or accident. From disease: a stealthy, creeping disease that had stalked the girl quietly for years. Biding its time, never showing its face, until it was too late and the doctors sighed and said they could do nothing.
And the baby didn’t know where her mother had gone. She asked and asked until the boy couldn’t bear to answer her, so he told her not to ask any more. And he took the pieces of his broken heart and locked them away, because he knew they could never be mended.
And then he began to turn himself into a monster. Because not only did he lock away his own heart, he taught the baby to lock away her heart too. He taught her that ideas and books were more important than people and feelings, and he watched with pride as she adapted herself to this solitary life, never realising that she was also lonely … and by then it was too late to say, I was wrong. I am sorry.
The words blur in front of me, but I have come to the end anyway. This is where Dad’s writing stops. The end of his story.
I sit for a few minutes, letting the tears run down my face. And then I take up a pen and add:
But the baby discovered love and companionship all by herself, because the world isn’t made for us to live in isolation. And then she taught her father to love again, because she knew that deep down, deep inside, he was still the boy who fell in love with the girl, all those years ago. And together they could bring the sunshine back and make him part of the world again.
And when I have finished, I wipe my eyes and pick up the extra page, and take it through to the front room to give to my father.
Antonia has left a message on the answerphone, telling me to call her if I need to. But by the time I pick up the message, it’s past six o’clock and she wouldn’t be in the office anyway.
I’m supposed to be going to the last young carers’ group meeting before Christmas, but I don’t want to remind Dad to take me. Things feel fragile, like we’re on the edge of something, as though one wrong move could send us toppling over the cliff, but if I just say or do the right thing at the right moment, I might be able to drag us back to safety.
Dad reads the page I’ve written. And then he cries. It’s so unexpected that for a moment I’m not sure what to do. But I go over and put my arms around him and say, ‘It’s okay, Dad. It’s going to be okay.’
He cries stiffly, like he’s rusty at it. And it isn’t long before he pushes me away (not in a mean way, though) and says, ‘That’s enough of that.’
It doesn’t magically change anything. He goes back to bed and only eats a piece of toast for tea. But I feel like it’s a small step.
A journey is made up of small steps, isn’t it? And sometimes you need to sit down, or go back a bit because moving forwards is too scary, or there’s something else you need to do first. But you can’t go on a journey without small steps.
I know now that taking steps is a lot nicer and easier when there’s someone to hold your hand. So I ring Mae and tell her how important she is to me. That she’s made everything brighter and richer, and she’s shown me shared wonder and happiness. And she cries, because Mae cries at everything – and that’s okay, because it’s happy crying.
And then I tell her we’re coming for Christmas.
Mae practically squeals the place down when she opens the door on Christmas morning.
‘Happy Christmas!’ She brandishes a large red pillowcase at me. ‘I’ve waited for you and it’s been agony!’
‘That’s not a stocking!’ I exclaim. ‘That’s a pillowcase!’
I feel ashamed of my own stocking – one of Dad’s old knee-length socks, with tinsel sewn round the top. It’s stuffed to bursting, but I can see presents peeping out of Mae’s pillowcase that would never in a million years fit into my sock.
Mae takes my hand. ‘Hey,’ she says, ‘I told you I’d share them, didn’t I? Come on, we’ll open them together. Oh! Is that the top you made?’
‘Yes,’ I admit. ‘It’s not very good. The seams are coming apart and –’
‘I love it!’ she exclaims. ‘Turn around, let me see.’
I do so, self-consciously. It’s made out of the four tops that I took apart. Mae’s mum gave me a few tips, but I did all the sewing myself, which is why I’d rather no one looked at it too closely.
Mae says with admiration, ‘That’s really clever, Calypso. Can you make something for me?’
I laugh. ‘Not until I’ve had some lessons from your mum!’
‘You’ve done a wonderful job,’ says Mae’s mum. Then she smiles over my head at my dad. ‘Happy Christmas.’
‘Happy Christmas,’ Dad says, handing over a bottle of wine. He still looks very tired, but he does try to smile back. ‘Thanks for inviting us.’
‘Come on into the warm,’ she says. ‘Today is about being comfortable. So don’t feel you have to make small talk if you don’t want to.’
‘Oh,’ says Dad. ‘Oh – well, thank you.�
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Mae’s dad passes him a glass of spiced punch and asks him if he knows anything about Greece, since they’re planning a holiday next year. As it happens, Dad does know quite a lot about Greece, so he immediately starts on a list of its best historical sites.
‘Stockings!’ says Mae, almost hysterical.
I rush to the sitting room with her. Christopher is already there, lying on the floor and playing with a new computer tablet. One finger is stuck up his nose as usual.
‘Happy Christmas,’ I say to him.
He says, ‘Yeah,’ and doesn’t take his eyes off the screen. It makes me laugh.
Mae’s house smells of cinnamon and oranges. There are candles on the mantelpiece and ivy over the mirror. A huge Christmas tree stands in the corner of the room. It’s not a real one, but it’s decorated with beautiful silver and blue baubles and lights, and tiny sparkling snowflakes.
We have a tree at home too, a real one, and Dad brought out our string of ancient lights, which are shaped like candles. We don’t have many decorations, but getting them out year after year is like seeing old friends. We have a big box of paper streamers. They must be about forty years old and they’re not very bright colours any more, but we still like them. You have to unroll them very carefully from the middle, so that they come out with twists in them. Rolling them up again after the New Year takes hours.
Decorating the house this year felt strange. Dad wasn’t sure he wanted to, but I made him. And he agreed afterwards that the house did look better with the streamers up, even though they made him cry a bit. He seems to cry a bit at all kinds of things now. It freaked me out to start with, but I don’t worry now. In a way, it’s quite reassuring.
He’s had four rejections now for his History, and each one hurts, but I’ve told him that I’ll help him to put it online so that people can still read and enjoy it, and that way all his hard work won’t have been for nothing.
Antonia came round the day after her phone message. I told her about the crash, and she said she was sorry no one had got back to me on the Friday. One of her children was ill, and she’d had to stay at home to look after him. I was surprised; I hadn’t even imagined that she had children. She told Dad he was making really good progress and she told me she was proud of me for handling everything so well. ‘Though next time,’ she added, ‘don’t go through it on your own, okay?’
I nodded and promised. Though I’m hoping there won’t be a next time. It was nice to see her, and she gave me a big hug before leaving to deal with a crisis somewhere else.
‘You first,’ says Mae.
Mae’s presents are much more exciting than mine, but she’s very kind. She lets me have a beautiful notebook and a shiny gold pen from her hoard, as well as a chocolate snowman because there are two.
‘I think Father Christmas knew I was going to share with you,’ says Mae with a twinkle.
‘Not Father Christmas,’ I say. ‘Your –’
‘Shh!’ she says. ‘Don’t spoil the magic!’
Christopher, still glued to his tablet, gives a loud snort. ‘How old ARE you?’ he says sarcastically.
Mae ignores him. ‘I can’t believe you’re actually here today,’ she says. ‘I hoped and hoped so much, but I don’t think I ever believed you would actually come.’
I smile at her. ‘I can’t believe it either. It feels like a dream. The best dream ever.’
Mae’s mum comes in with warm, spicy drinks for us and we show her our stocking presents.
‘You look beautiful,’ I say, a bit shyly. She’s wearing the skirt she made, and it shines in the fairy lights. Her hair is all swept up on top of her head and held in place with a big diamond-style clip. She looks like a film star.
Mae’s mum looks surprised – and then she gives me a warm smile. ‘Thank you, Calypso, that’s a very kind thing to say. Why don’t I start teaching you how to use the sewing machine in the New Year? You’ve got a good eye – I could teach you some simple techniques and you could make all kinds of things.’
I blush. ‘I’d love that.’
‘I like what you’ve done with your hair,’ Mae says to me.
I touch the plaits that I’ve carefully pinned to my head. It took me half an hour to wrestle my springy red curls into plaits. ‘I wanted to wear it like this because it was how you had your hair on the day we first met.’
‘Was it? Wow, I don’t remember that.’ Mae grins. ‘Feels like a long time ago now.’
‘Yes, it does. Like years.’
We smile at each other.
Mae’s mum glances at Christopher. ‘We’ve set a timer on that tablet, you know. No more than two hours a day.’
‘What?’ he says, horrified. ‘That’s so unfair!’
‘Screens are bad for you,’ says Mae’s mum smoothly. ‘Your father set the time.’
‘Two hours is no way enough!’ complains Christopher.
Mae and I exchange glances. It may be Christmas Day, but families are still the same, aren’t they?
We go to church at ten and sing carols loudly. Then we come back to Mae’s house and have the most enormous lunch I’ve ever seen. There’s turkey and cranberry sauce and Brussels sprouts and roast parsnips and roast potatoes and peas followed by Christmas pudding and custard. Mae’s dad switches all the lights off and then sets light to the pudding. We all gasp at the blue flame that floats around the dome before disappearing.
After lunch there are presents. I wasn’t expecting much, but Mae’s parents have bought me a brand-new pair of boots – knee-high brown leather with fur at the top. They are exactly the right size. I don’t know what to say. I’ve never had boots like these, and I know instantly that I’ll never want to take them off.
They’ve bought a present for Dad too – a new cookery book and oven gloves.
His expression softens. ‘Duck with plums!’ he says, turning the pages. ‘Beef stew with stout and prunes! There’s a nice recipe here for chicken with lemons …’ And then his eyes widen as he realises what he’s said.
Lemons.
The breath stops in my throat for a moment. I can feel everyone around me holding their breath too. How could he say it out loud? I still dream about that day. Mae lets out a tiny gasp and stares at me.
I feel as though everyone is waiting for my reaction. And for that time-frozen moment, I know I have a choice.
They’re just lemons. Yellow fruit. We can’t go around avoiding them for ever, can we?
I let out my breath very carefully. Then I take a new one, and straighten, and stretch my mouth into a smile. ‘That sounds nice,’ I say, and look Dad full in the face.
His gaze is uncertain, but he nods, and he tries to smile too, and then everyone around us relaxes, and Christopher starts another argument with his dad about the tablet.
The danger has passed. Or is it me who has passed a test?
Mae has made me a beautiful pencil case with a zip and everything.
‘Mum did that bit,’ she says, ‘but I decorated it myself.’
The fabric is decorated with hundreds of tiny swirls and patterns, just like the ones on her wall. I give her a big hug.
I have made her a canvas collage, using copies of the front covers of all her favourite books. I got the idea from the activity we did at the young carers’ group. Miss Spotlin helped me print out the covers on the computer one day after school and I cut them all out and stuck them onto a big canvas. Then I brushed varnish over the whole thing to make it shiny.
Mae bursts into tears when she sees it. It makes me laugh because I know it means she loves it.
‘Do you hate it?’ I tease.
‘No, no, I love it!’ she sobs. ‘This is the best present anyone’s ever given me!’
She’s so funny.
‘I have one more for you, Calypso,’ says Mae’s mum.
It’s a bag made out of the leftover fabric from her skirt. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever owned. I love it so much that I am left speechless.
; ‘Calypso,’ says my father, ‘don’t be rude. Say thank you.’
‘Ah, don’t worry,’ says Mae’s mum, putting a hand on Dad’s shoulder. ‘She is saying thank you – look, with her eyes.’
After presents, there is a film on the TV and then food again – Christmas cake and chocolate yule log and tea and hot milk.
It’s been the best day of my life, and although I don’t want it to end, I don’t mind going home again. In fact, part of me is longing for the peace and quiet of my own house. It’s just me and Dad there, and although that’s not easy now, it’s familiar. Familiar family. I think maybe you can be a family with just two people.
One step at a time on our journey. But hopefully we’re going the same way now. And soon, smiles won’t be an effort, and maybe there’ll be hugs. There’s already more sharing. That’s a good start.
When we’re all stuffed and sleepy, I catch Dad’s eye. He knows, because despite what he did to protect me, despite the difficulties we’ve had, he knows me better than anyone.
‘Shall we go home, Calypso?’ he says.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Yes please. I think it’s time.’
Epilogue
There’s a scent of roses in the air, and as I sit with my pen flying across the paper a tendril of breeze creeps in through the open window of the writing den and tickles my neck. I barely notice because I am deep inside a story – a new one, a shiny bright idea that came to me only last night, just begging to be written.
I told Mae about it as soon as Dad and I got to her house, and she completely understood, so we went immediately to the den and that’s where we’ve been for the past hour, her in one corner, me in another, both writing busily in our notebooks. At some point someone passed me a lemonade, and I think I must have drunk it, because the glass is empty, but I don’t remember doing so.
It’s a Saturday afternoon in the summer holidays, and Dad is in the garden with Mae’s parents. They’re designing a new rock garden, but it mainly seems to involve sitting on sun loungers and looking at garden catalogues. Christopher is digging a fire pit. I don’t know why and no one has asked him.