I am the worst mother in the world!
I stride out onto the decking and gather her up in my arms. 'I'm so sorry Pops! I wish your Dad was here too!'
'He is Mum!' she says, squirming to and fro to get free.
'No Poppy... he's lost at sea! I'm so sorry! But there are plenty of people out looking for him, I promise you!'
The look of exasperation I am greeted with should not be possible for a seven year old. They simply haven't had enough life experience. Nevertheless, Poppy pulls it off with startling aplomb.
'No Mum! Dad isn't lost. He's down here!' She once again points a dainty finger down over the railing. If this is all in her imagination, it's doing a very good job of convincing her it's real.
I join her at the edge of the deck, and look down.
My heart skips ninety three beats in the space of a quarter of a second - which I realise is impossible, but it happens anyway.
Below me, bumping gently against one of the concrete pillars the decking is propped up with, is a pedalo. Slumped in one seat of the ridiculous contraption, with his head lolled back on his shoulders, is the pinkest Jamie Newman I have ever seen.
Pink, and very much alive, I am pleased to say.
'Hey baby,' he says in an exhausted and pained voice, as his eyes focus on me. 'I may have got a little bit sunburned. Do you think you could get me a drink and some aloe vera?'
'Jamie!' I cry in shock. 'You're not pale and bloated!'
He gives me a confused look. 'Er... thanks?'
'I mean... you're alive!'
'Dad!' Poppy exclaims happily. 'Do you want to see my new crab?'
Jamie gulps and blinks several times. 'I'd love to Pops, but first I think I might need some help. Laura, can you go and see if you can find me a doctor? I don't feel right.'
It is at this moment that Sylvester joins me and pokes his head over the railing. Jamie sees the helpful old man, and his face immediately darkens. 'Not that kind of fucking Doctor!' he wails, before promptly fainting into unconsciousness.
Luckily, Jamie's injuries appear to be confined to the kind of sunburn they warn you about on public information films, and a degree of dehydration that is solved by the consumption of two litres of water. By the time half an hour has passed, my husband is looking a lot better. So much so that the island's doctor has left us alone, as has poor old Sylvester and the rest of the Wimbufushi staff. Ample opportunity then, for me to enter into scolding mode.
'You absolute twat.'
'Yes, dear. I know.'
'You selfish, irresponsible idiot.'
'Yes, that's me.'
'You thoughtless moron.'
'Thoughtless moron... yes, I am indeed one of those.'
'You could have left me a widow and your daughter fatherless, just so you could have a go on a child's toy.'
'Hey, hey, hey! Steady on. It's not a child's toy.'
'Be quiet Jamie! I am the one speaking here, not you!'
'Yes dear.'
And so on, and so forth, for a good fifteen minutes, until Mr Kadesh knocks politely at the bungalow door. I open it and provide him with my best apologetic facial expression. It's one I'm well practiced at making, so it's very convincing.
'Hello Mrs Newman. How is the patient?'
I roll my eyes. 'He's fine. Sporting one hell of a sunburn and extremely embarrassed, but apart from that he'll be okay.'
'Excellent,' Kadesh beams, probably out of relief that his resort island hasn't been the site of a tourist death today. 'Do you think you will be able to make your plane back to Malé at three o'clock?'
I glance up at the clock on the wall of the bungalow, and am stunned to see that it's only just after half one in the afternoon. There's nothing like a heightened sense of panic to make you lose track of time. I could have sworn the search for Jamie went on for a good ten hours, but here we are, a mere three hours later and all has been resolved. 'Yes, definitely. He's fine to travel - as long as I cover him in enough cream. You'll probably want to lay down some plastic sheeting on the plane's seat.'
Mr Kadesh stares at me with mixed confusion and revulsion.
'Just kidding. We will all be fine to travel.' I bring out the apologetic smile again, because at this point, it really can't hurt.
'Mr Kadesh!' I hear Jamie call from behind me, and look round to see him coming towards us. Given that he is more sunburned than the Sahara, Jamie is walking with a strange, stiff gait that makes him look like C3PO with troublesome bowels. 'Thank you for all your help,' he says to the other man, offering a hand with a wince of pain.
Mr Kadesh warily reaches his own hand out. I can tell he's debating on whether it's a good idea to shake my husband's hand, for fear of some of the stupid rubbing off on him. Eventually good customer service wins out over understandable trepidation, and he pumps Jamie's hand up and down a couple of times, before letting go. 'No problem, Mr Newman. I'm just glad you are well.'
'Oh yes! Nothing that a bucket of Sudocrem and a visit to a skin specialist won't cure!'
The poor resort manager doesn't really know how to respond to this, so he simply bids us both good day, and scuttles off back to the island, no doubt to hand in his resignation and look for a job on the nearest fishing boat.
'Come on tomato boy, we'd best make sure we're packed properly if we're going to get off this island on time,' I tell Jamie and wander back across the bungalow to get my suitcase.
It's just as well we have a good hour and a half before the sea plane leaves, as it takes almost that long for Jamie to get dressed.
Picture, if you will, a man in moderate pain asked to accomplish a simple task on his own.
It's not a pretty sight, is it?
What should be the easiest thing in the world for a fully grown adult to do - get dressed - becomes a Herculean task for a man, when you introduce a bit of discomfort into the equation. You would think that given how violent and aggressive the buggers can be given the right motivation, they would power through pain in a very macho, Michael Bay movie kind of way, but nothing could be further from the truth.
I watch in dismay as my husband becomes a dainty little girl in front of my very eyes, wincing coquettishly every time he slides an item of soft material over his reddened skin. The painful enterprise is conducted at a snail's pace. Tectonic plates shift faster than a sunburned Jamie Newman putting a t-shirt on over his head.
I look over to where Poppy is happily packing her suitcase and evil, evil thoughts fill my head.
'Pops?' I call to her.
'Yes Mum!' she replies enthusiastically.
'Why don't you help Dad pull his t-shirt down for him?'
It's cruel, I know. But so is putting your family's future well being at risk because you want a go in a bloody pedalo.
'Okay Mum!'
Poppy skips over to where Jamie has the t-shirt just over his head and is contemplating the next tortuous move. She reaches up, grabs the hem and in a triumphant voice says 'let me help you Dad!'
'No, no, wait Poppy!' Jamie screeches, but to no avail.
With a mighty tug Poppy yanks the t-shirt down, scraping it over Jamie's lobster red belly.
You can tell he wants to scream at the very top of his lungs, but Jamie is a good father and he wouldn't want to scare his daughter that way. I am instead treated to the sight of his eyes bulging out of their sockets as he tries to contain the agony.
'Thank you sweetheart,' he tells Poppy in a high pitched, strangled whine, before shooting me a look of disgust.
I suppress the broad, smug grin that is threatening to envelop my head. 'Perhaps Poppy can help you with the rest of your clothes, Jamie? It might help you get packed a bit quicker?'
'No no! I can manage!' he moans and starts to awkwardly gather up his clothes. There are many ways to get a man to do what you want, but I can't think of a better one than aiming a well meaning seven year old in his direction.
Sadly, what I can't get Poppy to do is make Jamie walk any faster, so my daughter an
d I have to accompany C3PO and his bad bowels as he makes his turgid way back to the island and over to the jetty where the plane is due to take off. Still, at least I know what it'll be like to go for a walk with Jamie when we're both in our eighties.
As we shuffle our way towards the open plane door, I spy something out of the corner of one eye in the water about thirty yards away to my left.
With a grin of pure delight, friendly old Sylvester is paddling towards us on the pedalo. He looks to be in the absolute lap of luxury as he expertly steers the contraption around a couple of rocks and out around the plane.
I hear Jamie start to growl.
'Are you alright?' I ask him.
'That little bastard...' he hisses.
'What?'
'That little time travelling bastard. He's just rubbing it in!'
'You mean Sylvester? Be nice! He was very kind to Poppy and I while we thought you were fish food!'
Jamie growls again as Sylvester reappears from behind the tail fin of the plane, looking directly at Jamie with the most self-satisfied smile I've ever seen.
'Sod off Doctor!' Jamie shouts at him. 'I hope the bloody Daleks get you!'
In response, Sylvester simply laughs and pokes out his tongue at my irate husband.
With another growl, Jamie puts one foot up into the plane and moves painfully inside. But at the last minute he sticks his head back out and fixes the old man with another glare of pure malevolence. 'You know what?! I always preferred Colin Baker to you anyway! Everyone did!'
'Jamie! Get on the bloody plane!' I snap. For what feels like the umpteenth time that day I effect the apologetic smile and throw it in Sylvester's direction.
'Bye bye Mr Wizard!' Poppy shouts at the old man and gives him a wave.
Doctor? Wizard? What the hell are these two going on about?
It's just as well we're leaving the Maldives, as I think the sun has well and truly got to the two other members of my family and boiled their brains.
You can imagine how much fun the ten hour flight back to the UK is, can't you Mum?
The pained shuffling through the airport is bad, the constant hisses and moans coming from the seat next to me is far worse. You'd think Jamie was sitting on a giant cheese grater, rather than a plane seat, the way he keeps going on. He’s also radiating an uncomfortable amount of heat from the sunburn. It’s rather like being sat next to a malfunctioning boiler.
It is with some considerable relief that we start our descent into Gatwick. If nothing else, the cold March drizzle outside should sooth Jamie's injuries somewhat and give us all a bit of peace and quiet.
'Good to be home,' he says to me as we shuffle through customs.
'Yes, it is,' I say in a distracted voice. I'm slightly afraid that Jamie's odd gait will look deeply suspicious, and at any moment we're going to get pulled over by a customs officer, so he can check what my husband has got stuffed up his arse to make him walk in such a funny manner.
Luckily, no such thing occurs and before you know it we're out of the airport and making our way back to the car.
I hadn't planned on driving home, but I'd rather put up with that than listen to more malfunctioning boiler, so I tell Jamie to lie down on the back seat for a rest, and have Pops up front with me.
Jamie doesn't protest, and is fast asleep by the time we hit the M3. This suits me fine, as it gives me a bit of peace, and allows me to concentrate fully on the road, which is no easy thing at nine thirty in the morning when you've had about an hour's sleep and are jet lagged to the eyeballs.
I breathe a sigh of relief as we turn into our road, and breathe and even bigger one as I pull into the drive. All I can see in my future is a nice hot bath and some crisp white bed sheets. I'm going to sleep for a fort -
There's a man outside the house, huddled in the porchway to stay out of the drizzling rain.
As I pull into the drive, he walks towards the car. The hood of his battered old black coat is up so I can't quite see who it is.
I switch the engine off, open the car door and climb out.
'Hello there,' I say to the man with tired curiosity. 'Can I help you?'
'Well, you can start by giving me a hug!' he says in a cheerful voice as he whips back the hood.
The blood drains from my face.
My knees go weak.
The world starts to swim away.
'Dad?' I say in a faraway voice.
Bet you didn't see that one coming, did you Mum?
No, neither did I.
Love you, miss you, and want you around right now more than ever.
Your tired and shocked daughter Laura.
XX
Jamie's Blog
Saturday 8 May
Things have been a tad fraught in the Newman household over the past few weeks.
This sentence makes me a master of understatement to the extent that I believe I should be allowed to wear a shiny golden hat with the words 'Master Of Understatement' emblazoned across it.
The reasons for the complete lack of tranquility, peace, or sanity, are twofold.
Number one: Laura's father Terry has turned up out of the blue after thirty years of absence.
Now, a long lost relative appearing on your doorstep the minute you get home from a disastrous luxury holiday is enough to send anyone into a state of shock, but when said long lost relative is the only parent you have left on the planet, the shock and surprise are magnified beyond all comprehension.
Given the fact that Laura has not seen her father in three decades, and given the fact that he's only returned after she's come into some money, you can understand that her levels of suspicion were absolutely stratospheric once she'd got over the initial shock of seeing the old bastard.
'What do you want?' Laura asks him in a thin, growling tone, holding one hand out to ward him off from attempting to hug her. As she does this, I open the rear door of the car and slowly get out, trying not to rub any more sunburned skin off on my clothes.
Terry shakes his head in apparent dismay. His long, grey thinning hair sways around his head as the drizzle continues to come down. 'Wow. I knew you'd be surprised to see me, but I was really hoping you wouldn't be mad.'
'Wouldn't... wouldn't be mad?' Laura responds in flinty fashion.
'Mum? Who is this?' Poppy asks her mother as she clambers out of the car.
'Nobody,' Laura tells her in a flat tone. This makes Terry wince.
From the looks of the straggly long hair and badly maintained beard, it appears Terry's hippy tendencies haven't deserted him as he enters his old age. I'm fairly convinced that at any moment he's going to start talking about bad vibes and dark auras. I can't say I see much of Laura in his features - she really does take after her mother. There's a hangdog quality to Terry's looks that Laura has thankfully avoided.
'I'm your Grandad, little ‘un,' Terry tells Poppy softly. 'Your long lost Grandad.'
Laura takes Poppy's hand. 'You are no such thing,' she snaps. 'Now I think you should leave.'
Terry looks disheartened. 'But I came to talk to you sweetheart! To see if I can, you know, mend things between us.'
'Mend things? There's nothing to mend! You left me when I wasn't much older than my daughter here. You're not part of my life! You never have been! You elected to leave me all those years ago, now I want you to do the same.' Laura walks Poppy around Terry across the front garden, giving the old man a wide berth.
It occurs to me that sunburn or not, I'm going to have to order this man to go away in as manly a tone as I possibly can. 'I think you'd better get out of here, Terry,' I tell him, lowering the octave of my voice slightly.
He points a finger at me and smiles. 'You're Jamie, right? Love your books, mate.'
'Do you?' I reply suspiciously.
'Yeah! They're great.' Terry's eyes go wide as he realises the implications of what he's saying. 'But Laura! That's not why I'm here! Your books I mean!'
She turns back to him. 'Really?' she says in disbelief. 'Y
ou mean that you haven't just turned up here after all this time because you've found out that my husband and I have done alright for ourselves writing books?'
'No!' he rubs his eyes. 'Well, of course that's how I heard about you and found you... but I'm not here for anything!' He puts out his hands, palms up. 'I don't want your money, Laura! I don't want anything from either of you.' He sighs. 'I just... I just saw your face in a magazine, and even though I haven't seen you since you were a little girl, I recognised it instantly, even before I read the article. And I just felt so bad that I didn't know you any better than anyone else who could pick up that mag and read it.' He walks toward Laura, arms still open. 'I've been a stupid, selfish, awful man. All these years. All I wanted to do was come see you. Come and apologise. To tell you that I am so, so sorry for everything I've done... and not done over the years.'
It's heartfelt, it's convincing, it's eloquent, it's raw.
And I don't believe a fucking word of it.
However, this is something I must sit back and watch. If I jump in now (sunburn notwithstanding) and get in the middle of this, I will come to regret it. I have to trust that Laura will make the right decision here.
My wife swallows hard, blinks away what I'm sure is a combination of rain water and tears, and fixes Terry with a hard stare. 'I have just got off a plane. I am tired, dirty and fed up. I do not need to be standing here having this conversation with you.'
'But - '
'You need to leave Da - Terry,' she tells him. 'I can’t deal with this right now.'
Well done, I think. Give the old bastard his marching orders.
'But you can come back tomorrow morning.'
What?
'I'll be in a better frame of mind then... and maybe I'll listen to what you have to say.'
I'm somewhat flabbergasted by this turn of events, but age has brought me wisdom, so I keep my thoughts to myself - for the minute at least.
Terry seems very pleased at this last minute reprieve. But then he would, wouldn't he?
'Okay sweetheart,' he says, backing away with his hands still out. 'That's fine, that's fine. I'll come back tomorrow and we'll talk then.' As he moves away, he comes closer to where I'm still standing by the car door.
Love...Among The Stars: Book 4 in the Love...Series (Love Series) Page 9