by Kate Long
Kenzie wasn’t in the bathroom, so I came back through to the lounge thinking my suspicions were confirmed only to find everyone crowded round the armchair by the window.
‘Come out, love, you’re missing the party,’ Mrs Tipton was saying.
‘We saw the curtain moving,’ said Mrs Marshall. ‘I think you might have to pay a visit to the dry cleaner’s in the near future.’
I pushed through and knelt on the chair. Squashed up against the wall behind it, the material well scrunched in his chocolatey hands, was Kenzie. My lovely chenille curtains were smeared to beggary.
‘Oh dear,’ I said, trying not to sound pissed off. ‘Is someone feeling a bit poorly?’
He didn’t respond, so I bent over and tried to pull him out.
‘Let me,’ said Eric. I assumed he was going to lift his son up and give him a cuddle, but instead he barked, ‘Get out of there now, you wee maddy! Why do you have to keep letting me down?’
It did the trick. Kenzie moved immediately, slithering past the arm of the chair, and out. I took the opportunity to give him a quick wipe as he passed, and in return he stopped and wrapped his arms round me, his face against my skirt. ‘Have you got tummy ache?’ I asked.
He shook his head.
‘Come sit with me, anyway. We could have a look at Will’s jigsaw, yeah?’
As I settled us onto the sofa, I caught sight of Charlotte’s face. Say what you like, that kid’s well weird, her expression said. I looked down at his tender, buzz-cut scalp and it was true. You could feel the need coming off him in waves.
‘Some children can’t always cope when someone else is getting the attention,’ Mrs Marshall was saying in a poor imitation of a whisper. Then she went, ‘Were you playing hide and seek, Kenzie? You have to tell us so we can join in next time.’
Just because she owns a four-bed detached house with a cobbled drive and views of Anglezarke, she thinks she is somebody.
‘How’s your Lucy doing?’ Mrs Tipton asked her.
‘Oh, still at Bristol. Started her post-grad training.’
‘Did she get sponsorship in the end?’
‘She did, she heard at the start of the summer. Which means she’s been able to put down a deposit on the flat as well as set a date for the wedding. It’s all fallen into place for her.’
‘It always seems to, doesn’t it?’
‘It does.’
I said, ‘Watch Ryan doesn’t hurt himself on the grate.’ Really I meant, Never mind boasting about your daughter, take control of your bratty son and stop him picking fake coals out of my fireplace to lob at the cat.
Across the room Charlotte and Will had squashed themselves into the other armchair and were sharing a sausage roll. Will was laughing and she was jiggling her feet as if she was stamping out bugs on the carpet. Her hair draped over his chubby arm, his cheeks glowed with happiness. And I thought what a nice picture that would make if I’d happened to have a camera in my hands instead of a gloomy infant picking sugar blobs off Iced Gems.
As I stared, she raised her head and her eyes met mine.
‘Thanks, Mum,’ she mouthed.
In the middle of the party stress, it was such an unexpected moment that something kindled inside me and I came over all maternal, whoosh. Funny how that sometimes happens. I thought, Well, we don’t do so badly between us, do we? Will’s happy. Not like Kenzie, scared of his own shadow, or that mini-thug Ryan. My grandson’s growing up, looking more and more like his mother. It’s wonderful to watch, there’s something new from him every day. If Mum could see him now. Her lovely Nan. You know you gave her such joy, Charlotte, when you left Will here. You’ve no idea what he did for her in those last few months.
In my mind’s eye I could see Mum so clearly, as she had been when Charlotte was small: plump, capable, never fazed by a houseful. I remembered birthday parties then, the way she’d calmly set out each crimp-edged cardboard jelly dish, make chocolate-finger log cabins and funny-face toasties. She liked traditional, but she knew how to spin things to make them fun. It was her idea to turn ‘Pin the Tail on the Donkey’ into ‘Stick the Bandana on Axl Rose’, and hold dressing-up races using my old lipsticks, beads, hats and heels.
Kenzie wriggled, burped, then slid off my lap. Across the room Charlotte was still laughing, blowing at Will’s hair now to make it stick up, and the mums had decided to rearrange all my plates on the table. Behind the TV, Pringle retched quietly. Ryan and Drew were taking it in turns to jump on a mini-roll which had fallen off the table. And it struck me, for the first time since she died, that I’d been recalling Mum with simple love and pleasure, without that automatic flood of guilt I’d become so used to.
A warm hand on my shoulder. ‘OK, Karen?’
I glanced up and it was Eric, standing behind the sofa. I am OK, I thought. Thanks to you. Charlotte had been right, of course. The old wedding photo I’d found under the bathroom sink had only fallen out of the airing cupboard. No ghostly hand had planted it there. Yet it still had been a sign: a sign I needed to banish forever the idea that Mum was somewhere looking on, hurt. Why does pain sometimes feel the need to latch onto more pain? I imagined my guilt as being like a kind of smothering ivy, quick-germinating and rampant, a parasite, dragging me down. Then along had come Eric, an outsider, to tear it clear with his big strong arms. So what if he never offered to babysit? How did that matter, in the scheme of things? Friendship wasn’t an accounts sheet, two columns to be balanced. The peace of mind he’d brought me was worth a thousand hours of childcare.
‘I suppose I’m a bit tired,’ I said.
‘You must be.’
He reached down and began massaging my shoulders lightly. The contact was so unexpected I blushed like mad and shifted forward in the hope my position might hide from the others what he was doing. I knew obviously what I should do was pull away, spring up and offer a round of coffees or attend to the various carpet disasters. But what the hell. It felt glorious. I deserved it. Eric might never be my boyfriend, there was no way that was going to happen now, but I’d take whatever came next down the list.
So I relaxed my muscles and let my eyes focus on the fireplace, tried not to think about the mums looking on, or Charlotte, or the voice inside my head going, What the hell is this? Hospitals, potties, shredded wrapping and pet vomit: the rest of my sorry life would be waiting for me when I came back down to earth.
Christ knows what was going on there, Weird-kid’s dad pawing at my mother while she pulled a face like a vicar in a trance. In my opinion the middle-aged ought to keep their hands to themselves. It’s not pretty and it’s not clever.
I did think about commenting on the incident later – what’s it mean for Dad, apart from anything? – but Eric was still hanging about and anyway, once the mums had cleared off and we’d binned all the half-eaten food, I suddenly realised I was pushed for time. I think it helps to leave in a hurry because that way you’re not tempted to cling or get tearful, you have to keep the goodbyes brisk. I was strung out enough as it was. I didn’t want Will picking up my gloom. I left him rolling a pickled onion back and forth across the chair arm while Pingu played in the background.
Once on the train I fished my phone out and stared at it. I burned to text Daniel, to have the last word. Shout, or cry, or beg, I wasn’t sure which. Make him come back, strike him down. Across the aisle from me was a woman with a baby in a sling, and for a moment I was distracted by its splayed fingers and kicking feet. Will once had some bootees like that, with bobbly pads on the soles. Had he ever been so small? Oh, that age of innocence. How had the time since he was born gone so bloody fast?
The next second, my phone was ringing. I snatched it up and held the speaker to my ear.
‘Daniel?’
‘Charlotte, yes.’
Instantly I was in a temper. ‘What? What do you want?’
‘I wondered if you were OK. When you left—’
‘I’m fine. Thank you.’
‘Right.’
‘Was there any other reason you called?’
‘Will. Did he have a nice party?’
‘For fuck’s sake, Dan. Yes, he did. Thank you for his star map. OK, are we through now?’
There was a pause.
‘Look,’ he said. ‘I’ve been thinking.’
‘What about?’ The blood was thudding in my ears.
‘The Jessie business. One of the things you’re worried about is the missing cash, isn’t it? The cash you took out of your savings, what your mum’ll say if she finds out.’
‘When she finds out.’
‘Yes, right. So tell me to get lost, Charlotte, but if you need it, I can lend you the money till you’re in a position to pay it back. That is something practical I can do. If you want.’
‘You’re offering me money?’
‘I know things are difficult right now. I thought that might be one less worry for you.’
My mind reeled with nasty retorts. How can I possibly take your money now? What do you think you’re playing at? Waving your wallet around, turning up with presents for a kid who isn’t even yours. You say we’re finished: well, if we’re finished, stop calling, let me go.
He said, ‘I just hate to see you so upset.’
And then I thought of the way he’d listened while I explained about Jessie, and his brilliant dissection of the problem and his check-list of damage limitation. When had I ever had such a friend?
‘Where are you, Dan?’
‘In the supermarket. Mum needed more aspirin.’
I took a chance. ‘Look, is there any way you could come over to York next weekend? Or I could come over to you. Just to get things straight between us. Give it another try. I want to. Please.’
His shallow breaths down the receiver.
‘No, Charlotte.’
‘Why?’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘But why?’
‘Because it’s not right.’
‘It’s Amelia.’
‘No.’
‘It is. Your mum said.’
A sigh. ‘That was my mother stirring. I apologise on her behalf.’
‘Truly?’
‘Truly.’
‘So, what?’
‘You don’t really want me back. You’re lonely and down, that’s all. And, Charlotte, if I let you break my heart again, I’m not sure it’ll ever function properly. I can’t take that risk.’
I pictured him standing in some supermarket aisle with his wild hair, his anxious frown, a wire basket over his arm. How could he not be mine any more?
He said again, ‘I’m really sorry.’
Sorry? Sorry? Disappointment made me a bitch. ‘OK, then listen up. You shut the door now and you shut it forever. If you’re so sure you want to finish, let me spell it out: I don’t want you in my life, or in Will’s. I have to protect us. So I never ever want to hear from you again. I might be having a tough time, yes, but I’ll manage on my own. I can do that, you know – I am capable, and there’s no need for you to worry about me or feel upset. Understand? This is it. No more contact. Ever. Got it?’
I waited for an answer that never came. Eventually I ended the call and snapped my phone shut. The woman across the aisle with the baby was busy pretending she hadn’t heard.
My nose was running and I was shivering, as if I had a cold coming on. Who did he think he was, finishing with me and then turning up out of the blue, saying it was over and then ringing me? Bloody game-player. He could bloody well keep away in future, from me and from Will. Leave him to his snotty girlfriend and snottier mother.
I switched my phone right off and dropped it in my bag, then groped around for the packet of tissues I knew Mum had stuck in there. Even that was bloody mucking me about, bastard. I managed to stab my finger on a pointy nail-file; something tacky stuck itself to my palm. Eventually I just tipped the bag up on the table, not caring about the incriminating crap that might fall out. What slid onto the table in front of me, along with my scarf, essay notes, a copy of Washington Square, diary, lolly stick, voucher for Superdrug, packet of mints, tampons and lip balm was the Twenty-First Century Rocks leaflet I’d sneaked from the car. It was lying back-cover-up and there was a photo of the events team near the bottom. I should just have screwed it up, but some masochistic streak made me take a closer look. The photo was captioned and there was Amelia’s name.
She stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Daniel, a healthy, glossy girl with strong but well-groomed eyebrows and a peachy skin. Straightforward, smiling. God. No wonder he didn’t want to come back to me when there were girls like that circling. There was a confidence about her too: Dan might not be mine yet, but he will be soon. Once again I heard Mum going, ‘You don’t appreciate that lad. One day someone else’ll snap him up, you’ll see.’
And I’d laughed at the idea. Now it looked as if the joke was on me.
After they’d all gone home Will really crashed, and I only just got him into bed before he was sparko. I, on the other hand, was buzzing, couldn’t settle at all. I wondered whether a Horlicks might help – that was always Nan’s drug of choice – so I took myself to the kitchen.
It was dark outside already. I’d have quite liked to do some therapeutic tidying but Eric had cleared every surface and there was nothing left to put away. So while the kettle boiled I stood by the window and looked out at the garden. The moon was full and bright; you could pick out the groove in the lawn caused by Will’s trike wheel, and the row of clothes pegs he’d stolen and planted in the side border. Come tomorrow I’d have to go out and dig those up. And drag the wheeliebin round the side, and scrape up the cat poo by the gate. Now the cover of leaves was coming away I could see that the back fence had sagged more than ever; it was so low you could have stepped over it. Which meant that would need sorting at some point. Not now, though. There were more important things to fix than a larch lap panel. Once upon a time I might have taken the broken-down fence as a sign about me and Eric, the state of our relationship. But that dream was past. Across the other side of Bolton my ex-husband lay on a metal bed and waited for visiting time to crawl round.
I made my Horlicks and drew down the blind. I still had Will’s cards to Sellotape round the mirror.
As the train pulled into York I tried Walshy, but the phone just rang out. Obviously he’d have switched off his mobile because of the funeral, maybe forgotten to switch it back on again. I reconsidered. Roz was off-limits for a moan till I’d seen her face to face. Gemma sounded as if she was in bits already; I wasn’t going to bother her. Who else could I talk to? Not Mum – all I’d get there was a guaranteed bollocking which I didn’t need on top of everything else. Not Dad, obviously. Not Daniel. Who was there left to save me from the wretchedness of my own thoughts?
The carriage door swished open and an old woman came through. She must have let a draught in with her because the things on the table began to stir; my essay notes lifted and the voucher flipped over and the paperback slid off the heap of scarf and fell on the floor. I bent to pick it up before she trod on it, and something fluttered out. It was a postcard of a Dalmatian dog wearing a bowler hat. I recognised it at once. Martin had sent it at the start of the summer, I suppose to cheer me up. He’d written simply,
Between the optimist and the pessimist, the difference is droll.
The optimist sees the doughnut, the pessimist the hole.
It had made me laugh, it had worked. Martin always knew what to say. I always felt better for speaking to him.
Suddenly I realised where I needed to be this dark and lonely night.
KAREN: I found this under the kitchen cupboard yesterday. Is it your ladle, Mum? Mum?
CHARLOTTE: It’s not. She said it had a shell bowl and brass round the handle. This is plain nickel.
KAREN: Is it, Mum? Put it in her lap, Charlotte.
CHARLOTTE: There you go, Nan. What do you think? Do you recognise it?
NAN: You’re a bonny girl.
CHARLOTTE: (laughs) Thanks.
(Sound of spoon dropping to the floor.)
CHARLOTTE: Stay where you are, I’ll get it.
NAN: My granddaughter’s in York.
CHARLOTTE: Is she?
NAN: She’s very clever. They’re all very pleased with her.
CHARLOTTE: That’s good to hear.
KAREN: I think you’re tired today, Mum?
NAN: Aye, I am.
KAREN: What are you having for your tea? It’s Saturday, so what do you have here on Saturdays? Isn’t it Sandwich Selection? That’s your favourite, I think? And fruit cake or plain sponge.
CHARLOTTE: Sounds yum!
(Pause.)
KAREN: Did the vicar come this week?
(Pause.)
CHARLOTTE: I brought you some flowers, Nan, did you see? I’ve put them on the windowsill. So you won’t knock them over.
(Pause.)
KAREN: Bertie’s just gone past, wagging his tail. You like Bertie, don’t you?
(Pause.)
CHARLOTTE: (whispering) God, she’s bad this afternoon.
KAREN: She has these blank days. She could be different again next time I come.
CHARLOTTE: Let’s hope so. Look, I’m just nipping downstairs, get a Twix out of the machine. Do you want anything?
KAREN: No, I’m fine.
(Long pause.)
NAN: Eeh, it’s a struggle to keep my eyes open today. (Pause.) What time is it?
KAREN: Coming up to four.
NAN: Aye.
(Pause.)
KAREN: What is it?
NAN: (sighing) I don’t remember who you are, but I know I love you.
KAREN: Well. That’ll do for now. We’ll sort out where we are tomorrow, I expect.
CHAPTER 11
On a day in November