by Maria Goodin
“I do. Generally.”
“I know it’s not easy. I know boys especially don’t always think they can talk about things like feelings and emotions.”
“I talk about that stuff with my friends quite a lot,” he corrects me. “Like, if we’re feeling depressed or anxious or whatever, or have, like, low self-esteem days or dark thoughts. It’s better for your mental health, isn’t it? To talk, I mean.”
I’m taken aback by his use of language. I think back to Tom’s dad, how this puzzling “depression” thing he had was something none of us liked to mention, as if it was some shameful family secret that shouldn’t be discussed. If one of us was feeling low, we’d accuse them of being “arsey” and tell them to snap out of it. If one of us showed signs of anxiety, we’d tell them to grow some balls. “Mental” was just a word used to insult one another.
“So, do you talk about your problems with your friends?” I ask him. “Like, I don’t know, all this stuff with your mum, or how annoying I am…”
“Yeah, I talk a lot about how annoying you are,” he says with blunt humour, “and, yeah, about Mum, about the stress of school, about girls and sexuality and all kinds of sh—stuff.”
“Sexuality?”
“Yeah,” he mumbles, like he’s growing bored of this conversation now, “like, I’ve got friends who identify as bi or asexual or who don’t see themselves as cisgender or whatever, so yeah, we talk about it.”
I raise an eyebrow, wondering which friends these are, and try to remember what cisgender even is. God, how teenage life has changed in the space of a few short years. I’m pleased – and perhaps a little envious – to hear about their conversations. What would it have changed if my friends and I had been able to talk like that? To say how confused or depressed or anxious we felt? I just don’t think we had the words, and if we did we weren’t comfortable expressing them. The stiff-upper-lip attitude of St John’s had only compounded that. It was only once we’d grown up – only really after Michael had ended up in therapy – that he introduced me to the language of feelings and the two of us had started to establish some kind of genuine emotional dialogue. From that point on, we said, we’d be more open and honest about what was really going on inside us. But it shouldn’t have taken one of us being pushed to the brink to reach that point.
“I’m glad you’ve got friends you can talk to, Josh,” I tell him. “Whether it’s them, me, whoever… just make sure you don’t hold everything in.”
“Okay,” he says, stuffing the final marshmallow in his mouth. “And don’t worry about what I haven’t had. You’ve done okay, Dad.”
I smile, feeling a bit emotional.
“Thanks, mate.”
That night, when Josh has gone to bed, I head into the cottage garden seeking a decent phone signal and call Michael. I know he’ll be awake, even though it’s nearly midnight. I’ve been thinking about that promise we made years ago that we’d be more open and honest with each other. And we have been. Much more so. But we both know it’s been a little one-sided, that I’ve always been holding back, and I realise there are things I haven’t told him, things I’d like to say.
“It doesn’t matter,” he scoffs when I tell him.
“Of course it matters. I was a shit to you.”
“I don’t remember that.”
“How can you not remember?”
“I mean, I remember being vaguely aware of this new boy arriving at school and joining their little gang, and I guess I thought Oh crap, now there are four of them, but I don’t remember you ever really doing anything to me. I don’t even think you spoke to me until that day when you stood up for me.”
“We hadn’t spoken before that day. But I did join in with them. I remember hiding your bag, taking pieces of your PE kit… I mean, your dad must have given you a bollocking every time you went home with something else missing. And I hate the fact that I was part of that, even for a while.”
“Jay, Addison started all his crap when I was, like, eleven. By the time you came along, I’d been putting up with it for three years. Your contribution was pretty insignificant in the grand scheme of things. Plus, you’ve more than made up for anything you did back then. I’m not even sure if I’d still be standing today if it wasn’t for you. You were the one who made me get help, who got me to stop drinking, you’re the person I’ve always been able to turn to if I’ve needed to talk.”
“Yeah, but that’s not even true is it.”
I’ve been remembering little things lately, things I’d long ago forgotten or pushed out of my mind.
“When you said that you’d tried to talk to me about what happened that night—”
“You mean the night that Max died,” he corrects me.
I swallow hard. Both of us have recently noticed that that’s how we’ve always referred to it – that night, the night of the fairground, that thing that happened. We’ve agreed we need to call it what it is.
“Yes,” I concede, “the night Max died. When you said I wouldn’t talk about it, you were right. I remember that now. You tried to talk to me about it several times—”
“And you couldn’t. And that’s fine.”
“It’s not fine, because you had no one else to turn to—”
“But that’s not your fault. You can’t fix everything for everyone.”
He sighs.
“Look, you haven’t got it right all the time, Jay, and God knows I haven’t either, but you’ve been the greatest friend I could ever wish for. When I’ve been a complete mess, you’ve picked me up, over and over again. When I’ve got myself in sticky situations, you’ve come to my rescue and bailed me out. When I finally found the balls to confess about my sexuality, you said just the rights things… I don’t think I would have ever opened up about that without you to talk to. I have never, ever doubted that you have my back.”
I feel a slight lump in my throat. After years of feeling like I couldn’t quite reach my emotions, lately they’ve been constantly on the verge of eruption.
“And you’ve always had mine,” I tell him.
He laughs quietly. “Well then, we’re all good, aren’t we?”
He falls silent, and in the darkness of the overgrown cottage garden, I gaze at the stars and listen to the sound of his breathing in these eerily silent surroundings.
“I fell in love with Libby again,” I admit to him.
“I know, mate,” he says, sounding sympathetic.
“You didn’t say anything.”
“I know better than to try and push you to talk. I figured you’d fess up when you wanted to.”
I sigh deeply. I don’t even know why I bothered saying anything. She’s gone now anyway, I don’t even know where to, and it’s not like I’m going to do anything about it.
“Irena said Libby has feelings for me,” I tell him, hunching my shoulders up against the cold evening air.
“You don’t say,” he replies sarcastically.
I wonder if I really have been blind.
“We want such different things,” I say, thinking it through out loud.
“Are you sure about that?”
“She wants kids and I don’t…”
“Based on what? A decision you made a long time ago following an incredibly stressful event?”
“My life’s just so chaotic, with Josh and my dad and…I dunno, there’s hardly any time and she deserves better. She deserves someone who can make her the centre of their world, someone who can give her stability and financial security and…” I trail off, staring up at the night sky. For the first time I’m not even convincing myself.
“And what about what you deserve?” asks Michael.
I look at the stars and wonder, for the first time in years, whether I’m deserving of happiness after all.
On a fresh Sunday morning, following our return from the Peak District, I pull up at the Canal House. I’ve said I’ll take some stuff to the tip for Stu in the van, seeing as I’m going anyway to dispose of a ruine
d carpet. It’s early, quiet, a chill in the bright air.
I go round the back and let myself in through the gate, nearly jumping out of my skin when a cat suddenly races past me. Crumble charges down the side passage and out into the car park like he’s running for his life.
And there, on the terrace in front of me, stands Libby, a cat brush in her hand.
We stare at each other, both caught off guard.
“Hi,” she says first, looking flustered, “I was just—”
“Hi. I didn’t know—”
“…I was trying to brush him—”
“…you’re… back. I didn’t…”
“Irena’s not able to work right now, so Stu asked if I—”
“Oh, right, I see.”
“Yeah, sorry. I know you were hoping you’d seen the last of me!” She laughs, but her joke falls flat and we both look away, embarrassed. “I wasn’t sure whether to come back, but Stu and Irena were pretty desperate and they’ve been so good to me…” She waves the cat brush in the air as she talks and sounds genuinely apologetic. “It’s just until the baby comes. I’ll be gone—”
“No, it’s fine. I mean, of course it’s fine, it’s none of my business, it’s nothing to do with me—”
“I’ll be working in the kitchen mainly, so we probably won’t even—”
“No, seriously, please,” I beg her, feeling terrible. This was her hometown too, once. I can’t believe I’ve made her feel so uncomfortable about being here, and not even for a genuine reason. “I’ve been so busy lately I’ve barely been around here anyway—”
“Okay, good. I mean, not good, but—”
“Ah, morning!” calls Stu, appearing from the back of the pub carrying a pile of cardboard. He stops abruptly when he reaches us, looking from me to Libby to me again, weighing up what he’s just walked into.
“I’m going to find your cat, who I’ve just scared half to death,” Libby tells him, holding up the brush and forcing a smile.
“I told you, you’re fighting a losing battle,” says Stu. “Oh, can you put these by the bins?”
He piles the cardboard into Libby’s arms, and we watch as she disappears down the side passage, struggling to see over the top of the rubbish.
Stu turns his attention to me. “So, Libby’s returned,” he declares.
“I can see that.”
He looks at me long and hard, as if he’s waiting for more.
“What?” I ask.
He shakes his head, a hint of sympathy in his eyes.
“Come on,” he sighs, as if I’ve somehow disappointed him. “Let’s get some coffee.”
“I never thanked you properly,” says Stu, his hands wrapped around his mug, squinting against the sunshine. We’re sitting at the back of the terrace under a clear, blue sky. Light bounces off his shiny bald head.
“What for?”
“For what you did when Irena… you know…”
He stares sadly into his mug.
“I didn’t do anything,” I tell him.
“Of course you did. You called the ambulance, you stayed with her. She said you were great, that you stayed calm and collected.”
Christ, I think, how could I possibly have given that impression?
“But you must have been freaking out,” continues Stu, not knowing how much of an understatement that is. “It was a really stressful situation, but she was so pleased you were there. And I know you were about to get in the ambulance with her just as I arrived.”
“What else would I have done?”
“Nothing, I guess. I just wanted to say how grateful I am.”
“Shut the hell up.”
“Okay.”
We sit in silence for a moment and I study the mural in front of us. It’s so busy that I keep finding details that I’ve never noticed before. The lady in a towel peeping out from behind the net curtain of her houseboat, the dog cocking his leg against a tree, the exhausted-looking jogger who clearly hasn’t done exercise in several years. These comical little scenes are so typical of Libby that I can almost imagine her grinning to herself as she painted them. I can’t believe that when we first met here all those weeks ago I thought she’d lost her humour, her softness.
“I feel like I’m just counting the days until this baby arrives safely,” Stu says.
I nod, knowing so many of us feel the same way. Everyone who frequents the Canal House is rooting for this unborn child.
“You know what the worst thing is?” Stu muses. “I wasn’t even sure I wanted this baby. How bad is that? It was all Irena. She was the one who wanted to get pregnant. I was having fun just the two of us. I thought we had all the time in the world. I had to really force myself into it, you know? Force myself to face the fact that I’m forty-three years old, that I need to grow up. And that we don’t have all the time in the world. No one does. When she was rushed into hospital, I really thought…”
He trails off with a deep sigh, and I shudder at the memory of Stu’s text coming through from the hospital. For a while there it wasn’t just the baby who was at risk. There was a point where it looked like neither of them might make it.
I’m about to tell him that I understand. Not only about the guilt of not wanting your unborn child, but about the fear of losing someone you love more than life itself. I want to tell him that I completely get it if he doesn’t want to ever risk a similar experience again, that I’m right there with him. Why would you ever want to make yourself vulnerable to that kind of fear and pain? But it turns out that’s not what he’s saying.
“It made me realise you have to grab life by both hands. Now, I want everything. I want to marry Irena, have more children, buy this bar in Spain that she’s always talking about.”
He looks up at the sky.
“I nearly lost her, mate. I nearly lost both of them. All the things we’re gonna do, all the experiences that – God willing – we’re gonna have. They almost didn’t happen. They were almost over before they’d even started.”
He shakes his head as if he can’t fathom it. His eyes suddenly look watery. He sniffs.
“Anyway,” he says, standing up and draining his mug, “I can’t sit here and talk shit with you all morning. I’ll go get the stuff for the tip.”
I make a move to stand, but he waves his hand dismissively.
“You finish your coffee,” he says, “I’ll bring it downstairs. There’s nothing too heavy and her majesty’s probably still in her dressing gown. She hates to be seen without her face on. Makes people think she’s human.”
When he’s gone, I think about Stu’s words.
All the experiences that we’re gonna have. They almost didn’t happen…
If Josh had died that night in hospital, what would never have happened? What wonderful experiences would have never been?
The incredible history that Josh and I have shared sometimes feels like a story that belongs to someone else. Occasionally I catch glimpses of the good times – those magical, happy memories – but they’re vague and fleeting, like a TV set with terrible reception. I have a sense I could tune that TV – relive the beautiful, meaningful moments – but somehow it’s felt easier, safer, not to.
And yet I remember the horror of that night in hospital like it was yesterday. Everything from the smell of the corridors to the squeak of my trainers on the floor and the colour of the plastic seats. I also remember the stress of those early years, constantly struggling, rushing between work and school, always late, always stressed, always broke. I remember being exhausted, frustrated, impatient, feeling like I was never good enough.
But that’s not the whole story. And if I can take a moment, just a couple of minutes, to fiddle with the dial on that TV set, I know there’s so much more to see.
I close my eyes, feeling the sun’s gentle warmth against my skin, and I remember…
I remember arms around my neck at bedtime, excited chatter because the tooth fairy might be coming for the first time. I remember him running down
the football pitch to give me a high five when he scored his first club goal. I remember the manic sound of his laughter when I used to tickle him, cuddling up together inside a den made of sheets and pillows, hours spent building Lego together, the first time we went cycling in the Peak District and my amazement that my little boy was now big enough and strong enough to keep up with me.
Despite the tears, the demands, the fear and the exhaustion, it’s all been so precious. And I wouldn’t give away one single minute of it.
As the memories flood through me, one after another, like a packed closet that’s suddenly had its doors flung open, I realise that every day has been worth both the risk of having him and the risk of losing him.
For so long I’ve dwelled on what I’ve done wrong, all the mistakes I’ve made and the ways I haven’t been good enough. But look at my son. Look at how he’s turned out, how I’ve helped him grow.
You’ve done okay, Dad.
And my closest friendship, sustained over so many years despite all the challenges…
You’ve been the greatest friend I could ever wish for.
When did I stop believing in myself? When did I stop feeling good enough?
Because it’s not true.
I might not have it all together. I might flounder sometimes, I might struggle at others, but I can love and I can be loyal. I can have someone’s back for as long as it takes. I can be brave and I can step up to the mark.
I remember Libby’s words that evening in her attic room.
It’s not a house I want, it’s a home.
Maybe, just maybe, I can be everything she needs.
Maybe I already am.
Chapter 26
Running
Ever since meeting with Max’s parents I’ve been feeling things shifting, easing, reframing. It’s like a plug’s been pulled and the negativity I’ve been carrying for all these years – all the guilt and fear and self-doubt – is slowly draining away. I sleep better. The headaches are gone. I feel less angry and stressed and overwhelmed. I feel freer.