In the Light of What We See

by Sarah Painter

  I pulled a tissue from the box on my bedside cabinet and scrubbed at my face. I couldn’t explain it properly. I couldn’t have forgotten Geraint; that would be like forgetting myself. ‘So, lots of twins in your family, then?’ Stephen was tactfully ignoring my red eyes and I appreciated it.

  ‘It’s always been weird to me that Mum and Aunt Pat were twins, too,’ I said, after a deep breath. ‘The proper sort.’

  ‘Proper sort?’

  ‘Identical. They were so different, though. Inside.’ The stories about my mum were always about her creativity and constant movement; the way her hands were always fluttering. While Pat was immovable as a brick wall. ‘Pat’s always done the practical stuff, but I’ve always been in love with my mum. Or the idea of her, at any rate. She’s still my mother, even if I never knew her.’

  ‘Must be hard for her.’

  ‘She’s dead, so—’

  ‘Not your mum. I mean, it must be hard for your aunt.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘From what I can tell, the practicalities are a big part of parenting. And she didn’t have to take you on.’

  I felt mildly rebuked. And cross as a result. I wanted him to leave. ‘You have kids?’

  He shook his head. ‘God, no. I’m far too young.’

  ‘My mother was twenty-one when she had me and Ger.’

  ‘Well,’ he looked away, ‘it suits some people.’

  ‘And you’re not very young really, are you?’ I was being downright unpleasant now. I was punishing him for sympathising with Pat. I knew this and I knew I wasn’t being fair but I couldn’t stop myself.

  I expected him to get up. To look cross. Instead, he laughed. ‘I suppose not. I’d better get a move on, then.’

  ‘Only if you want them.’

  ‘Oh, I do.’ His earnest tone surprised me. ‘Definitely. Don’t you?’

  I opened my mouth to say ‘No way, no how, no thank you’, but the words stuck in my throat. I didn’t know. I didn’t think I was the sort of person who had children. I prodded around my mind for some maternal instinct.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Stephen said. ‘That was a bit personal, wasn’t it?’

  ‘I’m picturing babies. Cute ones with little hats and stuff.’

  ‘Okay . . .’

  ‘Trying to see if I feel anything,’ I clarified. ‘I don’t know how I feel about things. Some things are really clear, like whether I like cheese or whatever, but other things . . .’

  ‘Well, it’s a more complex issue than cheese.’

  ‘Is it, though? Don’t you just know? In the same way? Isn’t that what the instinct thing is all about?’

  ‘Your instincts are fine. It’s normal to be a bit muddled and I really don’t think the question of parenthood is easy or simple for anyone. Especially not someone with—’

  ‘Some cognitive impairment,’ I finished his sentence.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, again. ‘I’m not making a good job of this conversation, am I?’

  ‘Stop apologising. At least you’ve reminded me how much I like cheese. I’d kill for some mature cheddar right now.’

  Stephen smiled then, but it wasn’t a relaxed expression. There were shadows in his face and his eyes were watchful. ‘Well, I’d better get on.’ He paused before leaving. ‘I’ll see if I can find you some cheddar.’

  My mother and father were fated to be together. According to Pat, my mum described it as a great love affair. Admittedly short-lived, but a grand passion nonetheless. The way she told it, it was filmic, huge – nothing less than a 1970s Welsh Casablanca. She’d dressed the story up in finery so that when Pat passed it on, I’d thought it was like a fairy tale.

  Our father’s name was Howard. Mum had first seen him when she was fifteen. Seen his image, that is; she didn’t actually meet him until she was twenty.

  There’s a giant lump of granite on top of the bryn. It’s a Neolithic burial chamber called Maen Ceti or, for the tourists, Arthur’s Stone. The tradition goes that at full moon the maidens of Gower would make an offering of honey cake, then crawl around the stone on their hands and knees to see a vision of their one true love.

  Pat passed on the story to me and Geraint along with the photographs of Mum and a selection of her sketchbooks and dreamcatchers, but her mouth twisted as she told it. She couldn’t help adding her own commentary. The story began with one magical moonlit night, when Mum drank her father’s bramble wine and climbed the hill with half a packet of digestives and a torch. She ate most of the biscuits but left the broken ones in the space underneath the capstone. Then she crawled three times around Maen Ceti and, at the end of her final rotation, saw Howard Davis – or his image at any rate – shimmering in the night air in front of her. ‘Your mother said that when he walked into the Spar shop five years later, she recognised him straight away,’ Pat said, but she would always add that Mum was only in the Spar shop because she’d been driving Dai-the-Shop demented by rearranging his stock, and that the reason she’d seen a figure up the hill was because the bramble wine was twenty per cent proof. She also added that although Mum had been very happy to be pregnant with us, Howard Davis was a big mistake. Pat’s face would get a sad closed-off look and then she’d say Mum ‘paid too highly for it, too’.

  When I hit my teens, I began asking Pat for more detail, but she would always find some job that needed doing urgently. The side garden needed weeding. The tomato plants were due to go in. The washing was waiting to be hung out on the rotary airer and those clothes weren’t going to walk outside and peg themselves. One time I even asked Uncle Dylan. His lips went thin and his body very still. After a moment or two, he left the room and I heard the back door bang shut.

  I asked Geraint, too, in case Pat had ever let anything slip to him. He repeated the same story that I knew or told me to shut up about it, depending on his mood. Once I asked Pat outright about my father and she said that he was from Llandaf in Cardiff. I waited, holding my breath for more, but Pat pursed her lips, just said that he’d been on holiday when he’d met Mum.

  When I turned fourteen, Pat sat me down at the kitchen table. ‘I know you wonder about your father and you’ve every right.’

  I was in shock. She was bringing up a subject that I’d seen her turn up the radio, leave the house, get into the shower to avoid.

  Pat’s voice was quiet. ‘And I suppose you’re old enough now.’ Pat, who was incapable of sitting still for more than sixty seconds without finding herself something useful to do, was leaning back in the wooden chair. A strand of hair had worked loose from the twist at the back of her head and was stuck to her cheek. ‘Fact is, Howard Davis knew your mother wasn’t a full bushel. He wasn’t stupid and he could see it. More than that, our parents told him. When he came to the door, asking to take her out. My mam and dad, your mamgu and tadgu, told him straight.’

  ‘It was love at first sight.’ I wasn’t ready to give up the fairy tale.

  Pat looked at me sadly. ‘Men and women are very different. A woman might feel love at first sight, but for a man it’s biological.’

  The kitchen was full of steam. Pat had been boiling bones for stock and the window was misted up. I concentrated on its opaque surface and prayed she didn’t decide to give me The Talk.

  ‘Boys have certain urges. When they say love, they usually mean lust. And lust doesn’t last. Once it’s burned out it’s gone and so are they.’ Pat shook her head. ‘Howard Davis took advantage of your mother. He knew she didn’t have the sense to say no. He took advantage and left her pregnant.’

  ‘Did he visit when I was born?’

  ‘Have you heard anything I’ve just said?’ Pat said, frustrated. ‘He was a bad sort. Tadgu wouldn’t have let him into the hospital even if he had shown up.’

  I straightened up.

  ‘Which he didn’t.’

  But it was too late. I was convinced that my dad had travelled from Cardiff to visit Mum and me that day. I could see him. Not his face exactly, but a mediu
m-height, dark-haired man with black eyes and a teddy bear under one arm. He would’ve been excited and hopeful and then heartbroken when Tadgu sent him away without so much as a glimpse of his beloved twin babies. Especially his daughter, his precious baby girl. My eyes filled with tears.

  ‘Don’t turn on the waterworks. It’s ancient history. I’m only telling you so that you can leave the subject well alone.’

  I shoved my chair back so that the legs scraped on the tile floor.

  ‘Don’t run off, I want you to top and tail the beans.’

  I scarpered anyway. Went down the bottom of the garden to sulk and, for once, Pat left me to it.

  The idea that my dad was out there, thinking about me, took hold and a couple of weeks after the conversation with Pat, I decided to find him.

  I didn’t tell Geraint what I was doing and I don’t remember why. I think I must have assumed he wouldn’t be interested; he never wanted to talk about our dad or join in my ‘what if’ flights of imagination.

  I took the school stuff out of my backpack and replaced the books and folders with my purse, pyjamas, a change of underwear and a T-shirt. I added a paperback for the journey (although I knew I’d be too excited to read), but left my toothbrush in the holder in the bathroom. Pat would notice if it was missing and might come looking for me too quickly. I didn’t mind being caught eventually, but I needed time to find my father and enjoy our tearful reunion first.

  That morning, I got the bus to school, but instead of heading towards the main building to find my friends like every other morning, I slipped straight out of the front gates and walked towards the main road.

  There were loads of kids coming towards me, heading in the other direction towards the school. I felt self-conscious, as though a big finger was pointing at my head and announcing to the world ‘skiver’. I’d never cut school in my life and although, technically, I wasn’t doing anything wrong at this point, and a casual observer might assume I lived locally and was popping home for some forgotten homework, I was sweating with nerves.

  I’d never used the bus stop on the main road, although I’d passed it every day. I hoped that all of the teachers had already passed this way and parked in the staff car park. If not, then I was a sitting duck. I took my tie off and put it in the front pocket of my bag. I had a black T-shirt on underneath my school shirt but I felt too self-conscious to start undressing there, out in the open.

  I saw the double decker come around the corner. It had the right number and ‘City Centre’ on the destination board. Just then, a familiar figure appeared from the side road that led to the school. My heart leaped into my mouth, but it was Geraint, not a teacher.

  ‘Mitching?’ Geraint said, as he reached me. ‘Never thought I’d see the day.’

  The bus pulled up and we boarded. I’d prepared my excuse for the driver – I was going to say that I had a dentist’s appointment in town – but he didn’t so much as glance at us.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I asked. Geraint was wearing a dark grey hoodie and wires snaked from the pocket to the ear buds around his neck. He didn’t even have his school bag. At fourteen, he already towered above me.

  Ger treated me to his favourite facial expression. The one that said, ‘Stop asking stupid questions, you fool’. ‘More pertinently,’ he said, ‘since when did you skive?’

  ‘It’s a special occasion,’ I said, primly. ‘I’m going to Cardiff.’ I explained, as best I could, my plan to find our father.

  ‘That’s nuts,’ Ger said. He settled back in his seat. ‘I bet you won’t get on the train,’

  ‘Nope,’ I said, gleeful with the rare opportunity to surprise Ger, to be the adventurous one for once. ‘Costs too much. I’m getting the coach.’

  He shook his head, but didn’t argue. At the bus station in Swansea, I found the National Express office and bought a return. Geraint didn’t say anything, but he bought one, too. I hadn’t asked him to come with me, but I was secretly relieved. I didn’t like the bus station. It smelled of cigarette smoke and bins, and there was a homeless man with a scary-looking dog.

  I remember the coach ride as fun. I didn’t let myself think about what I was going towards, or what I’d left behind. I knew Pat was most likely going to find out, and that I would be in a world of trouble, but that reality lay in the future. It was a long way from the fuzzy seat cover of my coach seat and the scenery rushing past the window, the sense of adventure and freedom.

  Once we got to Cardiff, a bigger, busier bus station, with unfamiliar buildings crowded all around and a light drizzle falling, my sense of elation fled.

  ‘Right, then. What now?’ Ger said.

  My heart sank further. I had no answer. I realised, then, that I hadn’t really expected to go through with it. I’d thought that a teacher would stop me or the bus driver would refuse to let me on. I’d got caught up in the moment, and hadn’t wanted to back out in front of Geraint. Now I had to admit I had no idea what to do. Howard Davis wasn’t going to magically appear, just because I’d made the effort. I was an idiot and a child. I felt myself go red.

  Geraint looked at me for a moment, then he said, casually, ‘I’m starving. Have you got any money left?’

  We pooled our resources and went to the nearest fast food place for burgers and milkshakes. At once, it was fun again. We were on a mini adventure. A trip to the big city, eating the kind of crap food Pat never gave us, in a restaurant on our own. I don’t remember us discussing Howard again, or the original intention of the day. Ger just messed around, sticking straws up his nose and making me laugh, and then, later, we got the next coach back again.

  We even made it in time for the school bus home and nobody was ever the wiser, but I never forgot how kind Ger was that day.

  GRACE

  In the weeks after an exceptionally wet and dreary March, people began to talk about the May Day concert. It was a hospital tradition and everybody from the janitors up to the senior house surgeons got involved. Dr Palmer was doing a magician’s act and he required a girl to saw in half. He pointed at Grace. ‘You’ll do,’ he said.

  ‘Doctor, please,’ Grace protested. Every part of her wanted to move away and, too late, she realised that this reaction was only going to encourage him. ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Not can’t,’ Palmer said, smiling humourlessly. ‘Won’t.’

  Grace gathered her strength. ‘I won’t,’ she said.

  ‘I’ll do it,’ Barnes said. ‘I’ll lie ever so still.’

  Palmer barely glanced at her. ‘I don’t think you’ll fit in the box, Nurse.’

  Barnes blushed redder than usual and hurried away.

  Grace made to follow her.

  ‘I don’t think I excused you, Nurse Kemp,’ Dr Palmer said. ‘You go when I say you can go.’

  Grace froze.

  ‘That’s better,’ he said, moving a little closer. ‘Now, I want you to be my assistant in the show. I don’t think that’s too much to ask, do you?’

  ‘No,’ Grace managed.

  He straightened up. ‘A couple of rehearsals ought to do it,’ he said, sounding business-like. His manner could change like that; one moment so threatening and wrong, and the next back to an entirely normal air of detached authority. It made Grace question whether she’d really glimpsed a monster, whether she was going quite mad.

  ‘Don’t look so worried, Nurse,’ he said, putting a finger on her cheek. ‘I’m not going to bite.’

  ‘I don’t know why you don’t want to do it,’ Evie said that night. ‘It’ll be fun. And Dr Palmer isn’t half bad.’

  ‘He’s all bad,’ Grace said, without thinking. She did that more and more these days. Evie’s friendship had made her less guarded.

  Evie looked up in surprise. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Grace shook her head. ‘I just don’t like him.’

  ‘You don’t have to like him, just let him buy you a drink, take you out for dinner . . . He can afford to treat you.’

  ‘I
’m never going anywhere with that man,’ Grace said. ‘Not ever.’

  ‘Very well.’ Evie waved her hand. ‘If you aren’t going to take my wise and wonderful advice, at least come out with me and Robert tomorrow. You’ve been stuck in this place for too long. It’s not healthy. Besides,’ she added, ‘Thomas would like to see you.’

  They were both on off-duty and Grace had been wondering about whether to take the tram home or not. Grace felt the pull of temptation. She pictured Thomas’s warm eyes, his sweet smile. A shutter came down in her mind. She could see her father standing above her, the black rage in his face. Grace swallowed the sudden lump in her throat.

  Evie frowned. ‘You’ve gone a peculiar colour. You keep doing that, you know. It’s quite alarming.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ Grace said. She cast around for a subject to deflect Evie. ‘You still like Robert, then?’

  ‘Don’t say it like that,’ Evie said. ‘Do at least try to be polite about him.’

  Grace blushed. She hadn’t realised she was so obvious. ‘He’s just a bit . . .’

  ‘Strong. Handsome. Definite.’ Evie arched an eyebrow. ‘That’s why I like him. Can’t stand wet blankets.’

  ‘He makes me nervous,’ Grace managed.

  Evie laughed. ‘That’s because you’re a sweet little bird. He’d eat you for breakfast.’

  Grace shuddered and, at once, Evie was at her side. ‘What is it? I was only teasing, you know.’

  Grace found she couldn’t stop shaking. Her father was still there. Angry. She tried to blink him away, but it didn’t work. ‘I know,’ she managed to say, her teeth clashing together. ‘Ignore me, I’m being silly.’

  Evie wrapped both arms around Grace and held her until she stopped shaking. Then she pulled back and looked into Grace’s face. ‘I wish you’d tell me what’s wrong.’

  ‘It’s nothing. I’m just a nervous sort,’ Grace said, forcing a smile. ‘Tell me more about Robert. Perhaps if I hear about his virtues, I’ll like him a little better.’

  ‘Oh, he’s not virtuous,’ Evie said, flashing her most wicked smile. ‘But then, neither am I.’ She paused, considering. ‘I like his get-up-and-go. He does things. He’s not just sitting around waiting for the next thing to fall into his lap.’