Never Saw You Coming

by Hayley Doyle

  ‘Well, well, well,’ my ma says, her voice sounding much stronger at least. ‘Living in the land of the bloody free hasn’t changed you one bit. Still a bossy madam if ever there was one.’

  Griffo backs away, reiterating ‘pints’ and ‘Pacific’, then does one.

  I head into the ward with the magazines. All day, as I’ve taken fivers, tenners, twenties and exchanged them for coins, my left hand turning bright pink with cold, I’ve been feeling sick at how it might be, seeing our Lisa and our Emma and their big fat American life in the humble surroundings of an NHS hospital. Yet, hearing their voices, I actually feel okay, as if stuck in a time warp, and I wish I had a paperback beneath my fleece so I could sit in the corner and blissfully ignore them all. I left Mary’s thriller in the bloody van. I need my head screwing on.

  ‘Yo,’ I say slowly, unsure of where the ‘yo’ came from.

  Emma jumps up first and starts to flap and clap. Her many movements make way for Lisa, who simply stands and embraces me with a warm hug. She breaks away, looking into my eyes with a closed-mouth smile, then takes in my forehead, my hair, my chin. Christ, she’s so dramatic sometimes. Where does she think she is? Little House on the bloody Prairie? Luckily Emma drags me away and between hugs and kisses introduces me to Sienna and Mason, ushering her weary kids to hug me, too. I mess up their hair before I’m whacked – well, smacked – on the back.

  ‘Alright, Jack?’ I say, bracing myself for a strong handshake, only to be pulled into him.

  ‘HEY, BROTHER,’ Emma’s husband yells, suffocating me with his huge body and arms. ‘Glad to see you, it’s been too long.’

  ‘I’m Paul,’ Lisa’s husband says, with a lot less volume yet equal enthusiasm. I take in his neat haircut, his side parting. Finally, I’m meeting the hot-shot lawyer who got hitched to our Lisa in Vegas. He was knee-deep in a case for our Emma’s wedding here in Liverpool; same again for my dad’s funeral, apparently. ‘Apologies. My hands are kind of tied here.’

  Paul’s sitting in the plastic armchair, the youngest member of the family, baby Bree, sat upon his knee chewing on a rubber giraffe. Bree is actually Emma and Jack’s third kid, and I think of how Lisa and Paul have been trying to conceive for years, IVF having failed twice. I instantly warm to Paul, The Good Uncle. He could teach me a thing or two.

  Making my way past my suddenly huge family, I manage to give my ma the magazines and a peck on the cheek. ‘From Griffo,’ I tell her.

  ‘Oh, Griffo!’ Emma exclaims. ‘He was so in love with our Lisa, wasn’t he?’

  Lisa blushes and perches on the armchair beside Paul and Bree. A short breath of silence follows and I’m able to take in the whole picture. Emma, Jack and their kids look as though they’ve walked straight off the set of a made-for-TV family movie, all jumpers and beige ‘slacks’, a song escaping their mouths rather than speech. Lisa and Paul look expensive, their jeans, their boots, their white shirts and sleeveless body warmers all screaming designer labels. But, really, my sisters seem the same as always. Just with better teeth.

  ‘Dare I ask,’ I say, ‘what you’re all bickering about?’

  ‘We’re not bickering,’ Lisa says, to nobody’s surprise.

  ‘Everyone’s getting on me bloody nerves, son,’ my ma says.

  ‘Look,’ Jack says, taking centre stage with his massive hands. ‘Allow me to intervene. It seems to me, from my recent observations, that there is a whole lot of misunderstanding going on here. My sister-in-law – your ever-so-wonderful sister – has made your mother an offer she can’t refuse. However, your mother – this incredibly fearless woman – is finding ways to refuse because she believes the offer will cause problems. Only what your mother – whose strength I admire from the bottom of my heart – doesn’t seem to understand is that there is NO problem. None whatsoever. In fact, there is more of a problem if she …’

  And Jack keeps talking.

  Words bubble out of him like Niagara bloody Falls, leaving me feeling soaking wet.

  Bree starts to cry, prompting Jack to speak louder, and slower, so our Lisa picks her up and bounces her in a different direction. I can’t speak for anybody else but my guess is nobody, not even Emma, is listening to him.

  Then, my ma hurls a magazine across her bed, target unspecified, hitting me in the head. I tell myself to be grateful that the woman’s getting her strength back. Shame she couldn’t have aimed it smack bang into Jack’s mouth, though.

  ‘I’m not going to America,’ she says.

  I pick the magazine up off the floor and roll it into a baton.

  ‘America?’ I ask.

  Jack’s hands are still splayed, but his words – thank fuck – have stopped.

  Lisa passes Bree back to Emma and straightens her super-expensive body warmer, smooths down her sharp mid-length haircut. As always, she stands poised with her feet in a ten-to-two position, unable to shake off the dancer within.

  ‘Jim, I’ve been suggesting it for years,’ she says. ‘And now I’m not suggesting it. I’m enforcing it.’

  ‘Enforcing?’ I ask. ‘What is this? An episode of Law & Order?’

  Sienna and Mason repeat my words to one another in a bad attempt at the Queen’s English, saying ‘lore and ooordare’ over and over. Emma pushes their heads down and they hide out of sight beneath the bed. Which is sort of where I feel like I should be, along with my dignity. It’s supposed to be me taking my ma to Florida. That was the deal, the promise I made to her. The happiness she exuded when I’d twisted her arm into going – it was me who’d been there to witness that, me! Not them. But I can’t take her anymore, can I? Should I be relieved that they’ve come, riding in on their metaphorical horses to save the day, bailing out their hopeless little brother?

  Lisa rolls her eyes at me. ‘Trust you not to understand.’

  ‘Understand what? Try me, sis.’

  ‘You’ve never told Jim about this?’ Lisa says, looking at my ma.

  ‘There’s nothing to tell,’ my ma says. She closes her eyes, pretending to want some sleep.

  Jack’s hands start up again. ‘Allow me to—’

  ‘Jack, not now,’ Emma says. ‘Jim, we’ve been trying to get our bloody mother to come to stay with us for years. She can stay for six months on a tourist visa and if she likes it, Paul can arrange for her to live with us permanently, can’t you, Paul?’

  Paul replies, apologetically. ‘Indeed I can.’ If he was wearing a tie, this would be the point where he loosens it. I imagine he does that often. The capable guy who never gets the praise, just the penance. Not that I’ve got much sympathy for him at this moment in time. I’d promised my ma a couple of weeks by a pool. This lot are promising a lifetime.

  ‘Hold on,’ I say, waving my baton. I’m interrupted by Emma.

  ‘Jim, Florida is awesome for old people – sorry, I mean people like Mum. The sunshine, the lifestyle, and she’d be around her grandkids all the time. It’d feed her soul, don’t you think? And Paul can make sure she gets the best health care. Isn’t that right, Paul?’

  ‘Indeed it is.’

  I step back and hand the magazine baton to Jack, who takes it and swings it like a baseball bat. Standard.

  ‘So, let’s get this straight,’ I say. ‘First of all, you two bugger off to America and don’t come back for eight bloody years. And second of all, you whizz back to steal me ma and take her with you, against her will? Don’t you think that’s a bit greedy?’

  Paul clears his throat. ‘I’d say it was generous, over greedy.’

  ‘Thanks, Paul, mate. But is anyone gonna tell me why it’s taken eight years to check we’re okay? Which we are, by the way. Aren’t we, Mam? We’re O. Kay.’

  ‘We’re okay, love.’

  ‘Really?’ Lisa huffs. ‘Sure you are.’

  ‘You know what, Lis,’ I say, pointing my finger with menace. ‘You’re actually doing me fucking head in.’

  ‘Language!’ Jack sings.

  ‘Soz.’

  Emma grabs
my fleece sleeve, tugging it and resting her head on my shoulder. The dancer in her is also still apparent: her movements so graceful, it’s as if she’s about to haul me into a waltz.

  ‘Little bro, you know why I never came back. We talked about this so many times – I feel like it’s all I ever talk to Mum about when we call. But she’s always said she understood; that you both understood. Tell me you do, please.’

  I do.

  Of course I do.

  ‘Can you all keep your bloody voices down?’ my ma stage whispers. ‘Them in the beds next door are gonna be having a field day with all this going on.’

  Emma had been pregnant with Sienna at my dad’s funeral. She’d been expecting twins, but one died in the womb and the remainder of her pregnancy was complicated. The doctors assured her this had nothing to do with flying, nothing whatsoever, and it would have happened anyway. Then Mason came along soon after Sienna and with two small children, she never found the confidence to fly again. Hypnosis started to help, and she was never shy to admit how much she wanted to visit home, something I perhaps tend to forget. It makes me dislike pieces of myself more and more. I can’t be sure what Lisa’s reasons are for not coming back sooner, but I’ve always presumed it’s a mixture of being there for Emma and trying to start a family of her own. Plus Lisa isn’t good at going back. If only I could follow in her footsteps, just a bit, like.

  ‘You can’t just take her away from her home,’ I say, quietly.

  ‘What’s she got here?’ Lisa asks.

  Emma squeezes me, slipping her hand into mine.

  ‘She’s got me,’ I say.

  Then Lisa takes my other hand.

  ‘But, what have you got here?’ she asks, the bluntness in her voice now softened.

  Nothing, I think.

  And that’s just what I say. Nothing.

  It’s not ideal to go out drinking the night before an early shift.

  And with no money.

  But when Griffo says he’s paying, he always pays. I don’t like taking the piss though, and won’t be staying out long. After the family meeting of the decade, I just need a stiff pint. And maybe a shot of JD.

  Lisa and Paul drop me off at the Pacific Arms on the way to some big Victorian house in south Liverpool they’ve rented on Airbnb, sharing with Emma and her brood. Paul expresses his love of the decor and despite it having five bedrooms, calls it ‘quaint’. Lisa doesn’t speak much during the journey apart from asking the odd question about my job and my flat (‘Still there?’ applying to both). She makes a remark about how I shouldn’t be renting, it’s such a waste. I hear her complain to Paul about the weather, saying something about how she doesn’t miss ‘this’.

  ‘Don’t they have rain in Florida?’ I shout from the back seat.

  ‘Shut up, Jim.’

  ‘Sorry, it’s just I’m sure I read somewhere that Walt Disney invented big heavy rain clouds to appear once a day so it pisses down and makes everywhere look green and lush. Is that not true?’

  ‘Just shut up, Jim.’

  Griffo’s got a pint waiting for me. I almost cry with happiness.

  Snowy leads us all in a ‘cheers’ and gives a short speech about something and nothing. He’s wearing the latest Everton shirt and his trackie bottoms, his usual attire for mid-week drinking unless we go into town. Griffo keeps his smart coat on, long and bulky, which I always like to believe has pockets filled with wheels and deals. In school, he used to keep Refresher bars in his blazer and sell them for 7p. He insisted he was making a profit and we had no reason not to believe him, as much as Mikey tried to prove him wrong. And now, with his loose tie patterned with Pooh Bear and honey pots, Mikey’s still in his teacher’s uniform, glasses resting on his nose. I remove my fleece and tie it around my waist.

  ‘Aaaannnnd!’ Snowy goes on. ‘Drum roll, please!’

  We tap our hands on the table we’re sat at, our spot, in the corner next to the quizzie. Tonight we’ve got our pick of tables, it being a Monday. The place is dead except for a few old regulars at the bar, sipping a bitter, reading the paper, watching the footy news. Snowy blows a pretend trumpet with his fists and gives one final bang on the table, prompting us to stop and listen.

  ‘Now’s the time for us all to open our ears – and our hearts – to hear our very own Jimbo’s story about … Zara.’ Snowy waves his hand above his head, painting an imaginary rainbow, and repeats Zara’s name as if she’s some sort of moon goddess.

  How does he know her name?

  Oh.

  Shit.

  Helen.

  What else has Helen told Snowy? I hope his intentions to propose haven’t been ruined by …

  No. No, no, no. She would never. I know Helen inside out and she’d never tell Snowy about us, or about what could’ve been us. Of that I’m sure. Snowy’s elbowing me over and over to the point where I want to wallop him.

  ‘Jimbo,’ Mikey says. ‘Spill. I need a bit of juice. Not only did I have to do detentions after school today but Tori’s giving me grief about me not wanting to go to her ma’s for Chrimbo. It’s November. Who talks about Chrimbo in November? Who? I’ll tell you who. Crazy bitches. That’s who. And now I’ve got to commit to listening to her and her ma slag off the Queen and get all teary over Call the bloody Midwife when all I wanna do is sit in me own chair, in me own house, drinking me own ale.’

  Snowy slams his hand down again.

  ‘Have you finished, Michael?’

  ‘He’s never finished,’ Griffo laughs.

  ‘Fuck off, Griffo.’

  Then, my three mates turn their entire focus onto me. I’ve got two choices here. One; tell them to shut up and mind their own sorry business. Or two; tell them the truth.

  ‘Zara is …’ I begin. This is awkward. I should just change the subject. ‘Lovely.’

  ‘Ahhhh,’ they all sigh, to my surprise.

  ‘Fit?’ Mikey adds.

  ‘Mikey. Shut up,’ Griffo and Snowy both say.

  I swig my pint. ‘She’s about this tall, or should I say, short? Fits under me arm, like. Never stops gabbing, in this not quite American, but definitely not English accent.’

  ‘Sound.’

  ‘Boss.’

  ‘Boss.’

  ‘She’s seen the whole world. Well, not the whole world, but you know what I mean. She’s one of them expats. Travelled, moved around, got a shit load of stamps in her passport.’

  ‘Come on, mate,’ Mikey sulks. ‘More juice.’

  This feels so pointless, such a waste of my – and their – time. And yet my best friends look like puppy dogs, eager for a bone. The last thing I want to do is piss on their chips.

  ‘She’s got a nice tan,’ I say, trying to jazz up my description. Christ, for someone who prides themselves on reading a lot, it seems I’ve dumped any eloquent vocabulary I know in a nearby wheelie bin. ‘And sort of dark hair with loads of them highlights, and she winds it up into a little knot on her head when she’s in the middle of talking, then pulls it out again. I wonder how her arms don’t get tired.’

  ‘Long hair? Sweet.’

  ‘Boss.’

  ‘Sound.’

  ‘And you know what? She’s kind. Like, she tries so hard to be nice and be good that it seems to backfire, like she’s just a bit too soft for this world. But, I don’t mean soft … ’cause she’s strong, stronger than she thinks. She’s brave. Yeah. That’s it. She’s brave.’

  ‘In what way?’ Snowy asks.

  ‘She just – I dunno – jumps. Goes for stuff. Almost without thinking.’ I laugh inwardly, enjoying how much I know about Zara Khoury. ‘She follows her heart, which is big, fellas. It’s one big old heart and she follows it. Hasn’t brought her much luck, though.’

  Mikey groans. ‘Look, lad, this is all getting a bit, like, fucking mushy. Get to the good stuff.’

  ‘Michael,’ Snowy says. ‘You are a pervert. End of.’

  Griffo leans in, lowers his voice. ‘Jimbo, this is the closest you’ve got to a gi
rl in years.’

  ‘Eh, I’m not a prude, lad,’ I say, in my defence.

  ‘One night stands don’t count,’ Snowy says. ‘So, come ’ead. Dish!’

  I shrug. They want more, but I don’t have more to give.

  ‘That’s it,’ I admit. ‘Sorry, lads.’

  ‘That’s it?’ Mikey asks, almost crying in pain.

  ‘Well, she lives in Dubai. I’m not likely to ever see her again, am I?’

  ‘Why not?’ Griffo asks, but I shoot him a filthy look. Money is no object to Phil bloody Griffin. Mikey takes out his phone and starts messing about on Facebook. ‘Does she like you?’

  ‘Dunno,’ I say. The Zara I’d gotten to know seems to like everyone. ‘At first, her positivity made me think she was nuts. But, as the day went on, I found it admirable, you know, a better way to get on with the daily grind of life, that’s for sure. You should’ve seen the way she enjoyed every bite of this tuna butty in the minibus, and her sheer joy in forcing me to sing—’

  ‘Ah, mate, I miss you singing,’ Griffo butts in.

  ‘Shh,’ Snowy says, gesturing me to continue.

  ‘We talked a lot,’ I say. ‘Well, I’ll be honest, she talked a lot. It actually made me sad to hear her sadness, like it should be against the law for someone who tries so bloody hard to be happy. She was fucked in so many ways, and yet she kept smiling, unlike yours truly.’ The lads nod, groaning in solidarity. ‘So yeah, I’m confident she liked me. You happy now? You mad sods. You’ve bled me dry and that’s it.’

  Except that’s not it. Zara also thinks I’m a great many things that I’m absolutely not. How could I have told her I wasn’t successful? That failure’s all I know, laced with lost drive. How? If I were to ever see her again (which is absurd), I’d have to tell her the ugly truth. And it’s so very ugly.

  ‘That’s it?’ Mikey checks.

  ‘Yep,’ I say, finishing my pint. ‘Anyone else got any stories they’d like to share or is it alright if I scrounge some money to win back a few on the quizzie?’

  ‘Whoa, whoa, whoa.’ Snowy stands. ‘Not so fast, mate.’