by Lucy Lawrie
‘Hmm,’ I began nervously. ‘Yes, he’s got an employee who claims he’s a special case under the Working Time Regulations because he can see ghosts. He wants Elliot to do an exorcism of the premises.’ I put down my knife and fork. ‘Oh, Jonathan, I’m worried I might have given him the wrong advice. I told him an exorcism wasn’t necessary.’
‘Of course it isn’t necessary,’ said Jonathan.
‘What if the employee has a nervous breakdown, and sues Elliot? I could be liable.’
‘Listen, Cassie, if you were my lawyer and you told me I had to carry out an exorcism, I’d bloody sack you. Now, forget about it.’
‘It’s your fault, you realise. If you hadn’t sent Elliot McCabe and Murray Radcliffe that terrible breastfeeding email—’
‘It wasn’t a “terrible breastfeeding email”, Cassie. It was an email announcing the birth of our daughter.’
Good – now we were on the subject of parenting. It was time to try and get him talking. ‘You’re still sleep talking, you know,’ I ventured. ‘You seem to be having nightmares about your dad.’
He shrugged.
‘You’ve never told me much about your dad.’
I could see him stiffen, though he went on picking through the lasagne with his fork.
‘What was he like?’
He didn’t answer for a while and I wondered if he was actually going to ignore the question. But then he mumbled something in the direction of his plate. ‘He was a wonderful dad.’
‘Why was he wonderful?’
‘I don’t know. It’s hard to explain. You can’t explain someone to another person.’ His voice was different than usual, softer and more tentative.
‘How did he die?’
He gave me a dark look. ‘He went to work one morning, and collapsed from a stroke. We knew it was bad . . . I mean, he didn’t regain consciousness, and the doctors weren’t hopeful. We stayed with him at the hospital, all day and . . . well, he died during the night. Another stroke.’
‘It must have been awful.’
‘Yup.’ The soft tone had gone now.
‘Did you have a good relationship?’
‘Yes.’
‘It must bring it all back, now you’re a parent yourself.’
An even darker look came my way. ‘Hmm. So how are you feeling about going back to work? Did that nursery confirm Sophie’s place?’
I ignored his attempt to derail my line of questioning. ‘I suppose it’s different for me, because I never really knew my father. So there’s nothing to . . . you know . . . dredge up. Apart from, well . . .’
Absence. That’s what I wanted to say.
‘What is this, Cassie? Dead Dads Club?’
I laid my knife and fork down. I blinked.
‘Come on, sweetheart! It’s our anniversary! We should be making plans, thinking about . . .’
Sophie interrupted with a gravelly little wail, ending the conversation. From then on, we had to take turns, one of us eating while the other jiggled Sophie around. But the crying intensified to the point where Jonathan had to take Sophie outside to the cobbled street and walk her up and down.
He came back in eventually; Sophie was quiet but looking very grumpy. ‘Have you finished?’ he said. ‘She’s got a dirty nappy.’
With an exaggerated sigh, I scraped my chair back and followed them downstairs to the toilets. There was no baby changing room, so we had to change her nappy on the floor of the disabled toilet, on a disposable padded mat I’d packed in the changing bag.
‘Yuch. I’ve got poo on my shirt.’ I scrubbed at it with a baby wipe. ‘Shall we just go home? I don’t think I want dessert.’
‘Hang on,’ said Jonathan, leading the way out of the toilet and into the wine cellar area, which had been the old nightclub dance floor. ‘This must have been the spot . . . right about . . . here.’
He held out his arms. I dumped the changing bag on the floor and went over to him, Sophie wriggling in my arms. He folded us into a hug and held us, his mouth pressed against my hair. He started shimmying around and humming into the side of my head – ‘Disco 2000’, an old Underground classic.
It hadn’t happened quite like this, of course, on that first night. There had been no physical contact at all. After that initial exchange, Jonathan and Gordon had simply remained next to us – the seething mass of bodies all around would have made it difficult to move away even if they’d wanted to – and shouted questions at us over the noise of the music.
‘So what are your first impressions?’ Jonathan had asked me after a couple of minutes, never one to hang around. ‘They say you can tell whether you like someone in the first eleven seconds. So what do you think?’
‘I think you look a bit like a hedgehog,’ I shouted.
He looked crestfallen, just for a second, quickly recovering with a laugh.
‘No, no, I didn’t mean you have hedgehog-like stature,’ I said. ‘You must be nearly six foot tall, are you?’ I stepped back and looked him up and down. ‘No . . . I was thinking of your . . . hair, because it’s dark and sticks up a bit at the front. And you have that whole designer stubble thing going on.’ Or had he just not bothered to shave? I had a sudden urge to run my hand down the side of his face.
He gave a mischievous smile, and his eyes locked with mine.
‘And what about me? What do you think of me?’ I was curious to see myself through his eyes. Would the dark smokiness of the nightclub lend some mysterious allure?
‘Hmmm. A Bambi, definitely,’ he said decisively.
I could see his point; there were similarities: diminutive stature (though gently rounded all over, in my case) brown eyes, reddish brown hair, slightly upturned nose. About the same level of personal effectiveness, too.
Jonathan and Gordon stood drinking beside us for the rest of the evening, until the club was about to close. There was always a Cinderella moment when the lights went up, leaving everyone blinking and confused and revealing disasters such as smudged mascara and sweat-soaked hair. So just before three Helen and I said we were going to get our coats and disappeared, knowing that if our admirers were keen they would catch up with us again outside.
‘That Jonathan one’s quite promising,’ I said, once we had retrieved our coats and exited into the cold, damp night, taking care to step around a splattered puddle of vomit on the pavement.
‘I thought you’d say that.’
‘I don’t know if he’s exactly my type, though.’ I paused for a second, then said, as if it had just occurred to me, ‘He’s nothing like Malkie, for example.’
‘No,’ said Helen, pondering. ‘No. He doesn’t look like the edgy, commitment-phobic type. He looks really quite normal.’
‘You’re right.’ I was starting to shiver now. ‘I might give him my number, I haven’t decided yet.’
I pulled my phone out of my bag and studied it. I was wondering whether to phone a taxi, knowing it could take the best part of an hour to arrive.
However, Jonathan and Gordon had come out of the club and were striding over to us.
‘Right, Cassie,’ said Jonathan. ‘Have you got your mobile there? Can I borrow it a sec?’
I handed it over with no comment, like an audience member obeying the instructions of a stage magician. I was curious to see what would happen next.
Jonathan dialled a number on my phone, and then when his own phone rang he flipped it open, checked the screen, and flipped it shut again. ‘Good,’ he said with a curt nod. ‘I’ll call you.’
At that point, two black cabs swung in to the kerb. ‘That’s yours,’ said Jonathan, opening the door and holding it as we climbed in. ‘You’ll need to tell him the address. I just told the switchboard it would be Morningside.’ He shut the door and saluted as the taxi pulled away.
‘You were such an arse that night,’ I said now, murmuring over the top of Sophie’s head into Jonathan’s ear. ‘You didn’t even ask for my phone number, you just took it.’
‘Well, I cou
ldn’t risk you saying no. I knew from the moment you compared me to a hedgehog that I wanted to marry you.’ His hands reached down to squeeze my bottom and his lips moved to my mouth.
‘Oi!!! Get out of it, you two!’
We sprang apart, looking round to see where the angry voice was coming from. Slightly light-headed from the Bacardi Breezer, I burst into giggles at the sight of the now-elderly bouncer who had manned the door at The Underground all those years ago. Helen and I had had frequent run-ins with him. Once, when he’d pronounced that we were too drunk to be allowed into the club, we’d threatened him with legal proceedings (I think we’d just come out of an exam in Civil Procedure) and he’d never much cared for us after that.
Now, however, he was furious at my amusement.
‘Out!’ he barked, pointing to the stairs up to the exit. ‘No funny business in here. Yous should be ashamed of yourselves, wi’ a wee bairn and a’.’
I could feel Jonathan bristling, deciding whether or not to mount a challenge, but I pulled at his sleeve and he just shook his head and came upstairs with me to pay the bill.
*
Later that night, Jonathan wanted to bath Sophie and do her bedtime bottle – ‘Daddy time,’ he said firmly, batting me away. Glancing at the clock, I wondered whether I ought to take the chance to phone Helen – I’d been smiling all afternoon at the thought of telling her about The Underground, and seeing the old bouncer. But then I decided it was too early in the morning in New Zealand, so I pulled out my laptop and began an email.
I sat staring at the blank screen for a full five minutes, then shook my head and forced myself to type. How difficult could it be to write an email to your best friend?
Hi Helen,
Guess what we did today – Jonathan and I went to The Underground for a re-enactment of the night we met! We’d been planning to go out last night and have a proper night out for our anniversary, and we’d arranged babysitters and everything, but we ended up cancelling it because we didn’t want to leave Sophie. So Jonathan arranged this Underground thing as a surprise for me, and we went at lunchtime so she could come too! The upstairs is an awful bistro thing now, but the downstairs is just the same! We saw that old bouncer, remember the one that used to chuck us out?
I sighed, and sank my head into my hands. What was the point of this?
Helen, I’m scared. I’m scared about Jonathan and me. It’s hard being a mother. I’m terrified all the time. I don’t know how other people do it.
But what could I expect her to do about it? She was living in another world now. I clicked on to her Facebook page: 486 Facebook friends, the vast majority of whom I didn’t recognise. Her status updates were all about barbecues on the beach, sunsets and amazing seafood. She didn’t even look the same – her mousy, shoulder-length bob had been transformed into a sun-kissed blonde crop.
‘What’re you up to, Cassie-Lassie?’ said Jonathan, breezing into the room with a muslin cloth still over his shoulder.
I switched back to my email and deleted the draft.
‘Oh, nothing. What DVD are we watching, then?’
He smiled and tossed over the rental box.
‘Penguin Party Two – Adventures on Ice?’
‘Oh no!’ he said. ‘They’ve mixed up the boxes. Oh well, this should be right up your street. Are you ready for some scenes of mild peril?’
Jonathan had always found it most amusing, my refusal to watch any film or TV show that might be remotely disturbing. I’d asked him to look out for a newly released comedy starring Julie Walters and Maggie Smith, but this penguin thing sounded even better.
I would be able to settle into my seat knowing that nothing terrible was going to happen. I could be sure that there would be no penguin abuse, no torture, violence or murder. I knew that the lead penguin’s best friend was not going to die in a car crash, leaving her with orphaned twin toddlers to bring up (who would otherwise be left at the mercy of penguin social services).
I knew that no penguin was going to decorate the nursery wearing cute maternity dungarees and then fall off the ladder, thereby bringing on a hideous miscarriage. No penguin was going to find any suspicious lumps and have to undergo scans and biopsies and years of grueling chemotherapy . . . no, thank you very much. My heartstrings were quite ropey enough without any of that kind of thing.
I often thought how nice it would be if one’s own life could be classified and given a rating at the outset, together with a helpful nugget of consumer advice. At least then you would know what to expect. Of course, you would have to hope that you didn’t get ‘Contains very strong bloody violence and horror’. But if you could be sure that life would be a nice comforting PG, containing nothing worse than the prospect of mild peril, well then you could just get on with things.
‘Or . . .’ began Jonathan. ‘We could go upstairs and act out some scenes of our own . . .’
Even for Jonathan, this was pretty lame. He grabbed my hand and led me up the stairs to the spare bedroom.
*
‘It wasn’t too soon, was it?’ he said, afterwards, lying in bed with his arms around me. ‘Are you okay? You seem quiet.’
I kissed him. ‘It was lovely.’
But the truth was, I felt strangely unmoved. I felt as if everything had been warmed up, excited, enlivened, working from the outside in, but leaving a small, cold, hollow space somewhere in the middle of me.
Where was it, that elusive part of me that used to glow with warmth and joy, when Jonathan and I were making love, and wholly absorbed in one another? Why didn’t I feel that way any more? With a rush of guilt, and terrible fear for the future, I realised I knew the answer.
When Sophie had been born, when she’d fought her way out of my body and into the world, she had taken my heart with her.
6
The cherry blossom came and went, browning drifts washed away by the heavy rains that fell in May. Sunny weather followed in June, though, and I started to actually enjoy those interminable daily treks through the Botanic Gardens. Perhaps I was beginning, coaxed by that little bit of extra warmth and sunshine, to relax into motherhood. My days with Sophie fell into a rhythm; we would have long naps in the morning, lying together on top of my bed, sunlight falling in pale columns across the carpet. It was the only time I could fall asleep easily, soothed by the rhythm of her breathing, all my frets somehow driven into the background by the immediacy of her.
She gained weight, and her little body grew sturdy, her movements more confident. When she learned to sit up unaided, this opened up a whole new world for her. Positioned on her play mat, surrounded by a ring of cushions, she could sit and play with her rattles and squeaky toys while I put on a load of washing or emptied the dishwasher – although she loved my car keys best, or the remote control for the television. Relieved of the frustration of having to be held all the time, or strapped into a bouncy chair, she cried less, smiled more, and charmed everyone.
But when the height of summer came, I went back to work. I’d agreed to this when negotiating my part-time working package, but at that time I’d had no idea how tiny Sophie would still be at five months, how different my outlook would be. I was in no position to object now – it had been impressed upon me that the part-time arrangement was on a trial basis. If it interfered with continuity of client care, I would be expected to phase a return to full-time hours. The prospect of having to work full time in just a few more months, leaving behind forever those sleepy sunlit hours with Sophie, seemed too cruel.
The call came on my third day back. I wasn’t doing much work. From my desk in the basement, I could look up through the window and see people hurrying past on the pavement, on the other side of the elegantly wrought cast iron railings. When I wasn’t doing that I was closely studying my colleague, the sharp-suited Annabel Masters. She had barely acknowledged me, since I’d arrived back to find my desk piled high with her filing. Perhaps I’d simply fallen below her radar now that I was a mother and part-time worker. All day
long, she paced up and down . . . whilst on the phone, whilst talking into her dictaphone, whilst giving the secretaries a brisk, acid-edged ticking-off. She was particularly imperious today, as there was a new work experience student in the office and she was showing off, continually asking him to make coffee or pick up her documents from the printer.
I flinched when the phone rang and hesitated before answering it; what if it was a client on the other end, seeking advice? I had to remind myself that I had been doing this job, perfectly capably, for years. ‘Cassie Carlisle?’ I said, trying to sound snappy and professional, imagining I was perfectly presented like Annabel. In fact, that morning the hem of my skirt had been hastily repaired using Sellotape and I had polished my boots with a baby wipe whilst trying to fasten Sophie into her car seat. It didn’t seem to have worked well, judging from the soapy smears on the leather.
‘Cassie, hello. Elliot McCabe here.’
I looked up through the railings again, wishing myself to be anywhere but here. I hadn’t heard from Elliot since that day at the Botanic Gardens, although I’d emailed him to say I was coming back to work and to contact me if there was any work he needed doing.
‘I was wondering if you could help me – it’s that rather delicate matter again, I’m afraid.’
It seemed that all was not well at Braid Hills Funeral Home. Bobby Spencer – the employee who ‘saw dead people’ – had been observed, on Elliot’s new CCTV system, letting himself into the premises in the middle of the night. He had taken a deceased woman out of the storage area, drawn a moustache on her upper lip with a permanent marker, and then left.
‘So I’m going to dismiss him, okay, and I just wanted to check that it was all above board.’
‘Oh. Well, I’m afraid it’s not as simple as that.’
‘Look. All I need to know is, can I sack this . . . this buffoon, or not?’