The First Time I Saw You: the most heartwarming and emotional love story of the year

by Emma Cooper

  ‘Hello, I was wondering if you could tell me if there are any flights to Cardiff scheduled, or is everything still grounded?’

  ‘I’m afraid all flights to Cardiff are still grounded. The storm is set to hit the west coast in the next few hours.’

  ‘How about England?’

  ‘Most flights to southern parts of England will hopefully resume shortly.’

  ‘Could you tell me if there are any spaces on any flights that are leaving in the next couple of hours?’ I ask. I stand up and begin taking off my pyjama bottoms – or lounge pants, as Mam has recently discovered they are called.

  ‘Just one moment while I connect you.’

  ‘Hi, are there any spaces available on any flights to England in the next few hours?’ I feel my watch again and reckon I could get to the airport and checked in by breakfast time.

  ‘There are spaces on the EasyJet eight-fifteen flight to London Gatwick, or the—’

  ‘I’ll take it.’ I give out my card details while stepping into my jeans. I can’t risk taking the later flight with Da; the storm might still be raging.

  The taxi arrives. I shrug on my jacket and leave a quick note to Da telling him I’ve got an earlier flight and to wish me luck. At least I’m hoping that’s what it says. I’ll send him a text when I’m on the way.

  The airport is filled with boredom and impatience. Children are crying, couples are arguing, and strangers are snoring on awkward chairs, using bags for pillows.

  I book a train ticket from Victoria station to Aberystwyth while I wait for my flight, and Michael takes me to a fast-food restaurant. I replay the images from last time I was here: the woman in the orange puffer jacket; the tired children swinging from their parents’ hands; the garish holiday shirts; the crumpled business suit hanging over the arm of an overweight man. I replay the scene on a loop because all that the end of the tunnel lets me see are flashes of colour passing me by.

  The flight is quick, the airport busy and Michael has a hard time guiding me through the sea of disgruntled travellers, their bags on wheels tackling Michael whenever they can, but we make it.

  The Gatwick train waits for me with a hiss and a grumble and carries me to Victoria station. My shoulders rock with the motion of the commute as the wheels grind beneath me on the track, but the familiar hum inside the carriage does nothing to cushion the panic that begins to prickle inside. I start tapping my pockets for my phone. I check the seats around me, I ask for help, but nobody can find it. Then I see it: sitting next to the sink where I had washed my hands after the toilet in the airport. I see it flashing with a picture of Da’s face as it vibrates off the porcelain and smashes on to the grey-tiled floor.

  The train arrives at Victoria, exhaling the doors open while Michael and I wait for the tribe to pass; the surge that smells of sweat and irritation, of perfume and half-eaten sandwiches. The tribe that I once belonged to – the pushers and profanity users, the suits and briefcases and newspapers folded into armpits, their hands clutching designer coffees and twiddling with earphones – pass me and Michael by, and move on as one.

  We descend the train, and I lift my bag on to my shoulders. I stumble and apologise my way to the connecting train to Aberystwyth, where Michael demands everyone’s attention until people notice him, give him a wide birth and avoid his gaze.

  My stomach churns as the journey continues. I’ve been travelling for what seems like days and the constant movement is making me nauseous. I stare out to where Russell is having his final outburst over the circle of Welsh hills, their summits hidden by the heavy mist and rain that slides down the windows. The man next to me smells of fried onions and something similar to the inside of my gym bag.

  ‘Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. Due to local flooding, this train will terminate in Mak-hun-hleth, I repeat, this train will terminate in Mak-hun-hleth. Apologies for the inconvenience and have a good day.’

  Machynlleth. Where the feck is Machynlleth?

  Week Thirty-Five

  Sophie

  The nursery calms me as the storm starts to retreat, the empty wind replaced with heavy rain, and I sit in the feeding chair which slides rhythmically on its runners. The lemon walls have taken on a creamy tone from the small night-light that hangs above the changing table; it caresses the soft, oatmeal-coloured carpet, while the mobile above the cot hangs motionless, a smiling crescent moon and a cluster of stars dropping their shadows on to the soft blankets below, blankets that are waiting to enfold a sleeping baby.

  Sleep has hidden from me and as the sun tries to lift itself up from beneath the metal-grey sky, my stomach tightens. I lift my maternity nightie and watch my skin harden. Time is running out: I’m thirty-five weeks pregnant today and there is nothing I can do to stop the weeks from passing; they hurtle towards me.

  I’m scared. I keep thinking of red-faced women screaming from TV shows, their faces contorted in pain; people in the background shouting for clean towels and hot water. I wish Samuel was here. That he could be with me, that he could be like the men in those shows, rubbing my back, wiping my brow with a cool flannel.

  Light from my phone screen flashes and Helen’s face grins up at me. The sounds of her kitchen rush into the nursery: the gurgle of water being added into the sink; the sound of the fridge door being closed; the unloading of the dishwasher. Helen always has me on speaker, always multi-tasking, never still.

  ‘Hi.’ My voice betrays me; it is hurt and defeated and broken.

  ‘Soph, are you OK? Is it Bean? Has something happened?’

  ‘No, yes. Oh, it’s nothing really, but I’m scared, Helen. I’m scared of going into labour and I can’t stop thinking about Samuel. It’s stupid, but I keep thinking about silly little things, like how he smiles when he talks about his family in Derry and the chip in his front tooth and . . .’ I sniff and blow my nose again; the moon and the stars on the mobile quiver and swing. ‘Ignore me. It’s just my hormones.’

  ‘Chip in his front tooth?’ Greg asks from somewhere in the kitchen.

  ‘Yep,’ I answer. ‘Illegal tackle from the other team.’

  ‘You’ll find him,’ Helen puts in.

  ‘And Irish?’

  ‘Yes, Greg, keep up.’

  I can imagine Helen rolling her eyes at me, the way she does when Greg says something stupid.

  ‘Tall?’

  ‘Jesus, Greg, what does his height have to do with anything?’

  I hear the oven door being opened and I imagine her there with a tea towel in her hands, lifting out a tray of sausages and hash browns; slamming them on to the counter and reaching for her cup of tea while Greg takes a bite out of a sausage, blowing hot steam out of his mouth as he does. I wish I was there right now, with them.

  ‘Well, the thing is,’ I hear Greg say, ‘there was a tall Irishman with a chipped front tooth here a few months back.’

  ‘What?’ Helen and I say in unison.

  ‘Why didn’t you say anything, for God’s sake?’

  ‘I didn’t want to upset you. He said he was a journalist, he was looking for Helen Yates.’

  ‘And what did you tell him?’

  I think of the way that Helen had rebuilt her life after Ian had been sentenced. The way she had journalists hounding her, asking for interviews, for quotes . . . did she always know he was a killer? One time they had parked outside one of her friends’ houses to take pictures of the killer’s daughter. No wonder Greg didn’t say anything.

  ‘What do you think I told him? I said I didn’t know a Helen Yates. He was—’

  ‘Was he hot?’ asks Helen. I’m standing now, walking around the thick carpet, the new smell rippling through freshly laundered bed linen.

  ‘How should I know?’ I imagine him throwing his hands up in the air. ‘I suppose he was good-looking if, you know, you like that kind of thing?’ Greg sounds uncomfortable.

  ‘Helen, hang up the phone. I’m sending you a picture, I’ll call you back on my landline.’

  I bri
ng up a photo of Samuel from Dropbox, one that I had taken when he wasn’t looking: a beer bottle just meeting his lips, his mouth grinning at a Charlie Chaplin film I had made him watch, his hair thick and sticking up on one side. My fingers are trembling as I try to forward it to Helen. I hit send as Samuel leaves my room and lands inside Helen’s kitchen. Slow down, Bean tells me with a stretch as I pick up the phone by the side of the bed and call Helen back. Could it be him?

  ‘It’s him, Sophie. Samuel was here.’

  ‘Let me speak to Greg.’

  ‘I’m here,’ he says.

  ‘Tell me everything, tell me everything about him.’

  I smile as Greg tells me that he had been funny, my hand resting on Bean who has begun to doze. He tells me about how Samuel had fallen, and then he hesitates.

  ‘Sophie . . . the thing is. Well, the thing is, he was . . . well, he was blind.’

  ‘Blind?’ I whisper.

  ‘Yep. White cane and everything . . . he said he’d been in an accident.’

  ‘An explosion,’ my voice says. I want to put into words this strange sensation that I’m feeling, that makes my skin cold, and steals the saliva from my mouth. My stomach twists and turns as it tries to escape the reality that I’m facing. I think of the way he always noticed small things: a piece of fluff on my shoulder; a drop of mustard that had escaped from the corner of my mouth; the colour of my eyes. He had a way of describing things, almost poetically sometimes. He had laughed when I said that to him: Don’t let my da hear you say that, he had said as he leant over me, kissing me gently. I close my eyes and concentrate on the darkness that fills the room and it scares me. Images of our time together in Washington pass by like flashes of lightning, splitting the darkness in two: his hand as he took the umbrella from me; the picnic; the cinema; the leaf; the meeting; his expression as he closed the door behind him the day I left him . . . and the taxi ride to the airport without him by my side.

  I open my eyes and wipe the tears away: he’s going through this without me.

  ‘I can’t believe you didn’t mention that Hot Irish Samuel was here!’ Helen shouts in the background.

  ‘I’m sorry, Sophie, I had no idea,’ Greg apologises, his voice muffled by the rub of his beard.

  ‘You weren’t to know,’ I say, but wishing that he had said something. I wish that he had, because Samuel could have been here, could have shared this pregnancy with me.

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘I’m going to email his friend in DC and I’m going to tell him that I know that Samuel is blind and that if he doesn’t give me his address then I’ll fly over to Washington and get it from him myself.’

  ‘But Sophie, you’re thirty-four weeks pregnant – maybe you should wait?’

  ‘Thirty-five, and I’ve waited long enough. I’ll call you.’

  ‘Wait, Sophie!’ But I have put the phone down.

  Bret’s email drops into my inbox almost immediately, giving me an address in Derry.

  I ignore Bean’s protests as I find myself on all fours again, reaching for the case that hides beneath my bed and lifting it on to the mattress.

  The room is filled with action, with leggings and loose tops, with face cream and deodorant, with make-up and hairspray, with giant knickers and socks and shoes and The Book. It takes moments to pack, moments to book a flight, moments that pass without me noticing the cramps in my stomach have begun to find a rhythm.

  I call for a taxi, but the storm has caused flooding. It’ll be another hour, the woman says. I glance at my watch: I still have time; I’ll still get to the airport in time. Just. I pack my pregnancy notes inside my handbag and tidy around the cottage, picturing his face when I show him my home. My new knowledge of Samuel takes a little time to catch up with me, reminding me that Samuel won’t be able to see my new home. This thought distracts me, it stops my hand from wiping down the kitchen counter, it stops me from moving. How will he cope without being able to see? How will he be able to do his job? The new knowledge kicks me into action. I fold up the dishcloth. He will be OK. Billions of people lose their sight; we just have to find a new way of living, that’s all.

  I smile to myself, pick up my case and reach for the door. But the case is suddenly too heavy in my hand; the room is filled with a sound from my mouth – not my voice, just a breath, a breath that is struggling to find a pitch. The walls sway; the room is off balance; clear lines smudge as my leg muscles surrender, losing their strength. The doorway leans on to its side, the carpet rushes up towards me and everything that surrounds me is swallowed into darkness.

  Week Thirty-Five

  Samuel

  ‘What in God’s name were you thinking, Samuel?’ Mam shrieks down the phone. I can almost hear her crossing herself in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost.

  ‘I had to get here as soon as I could and—’

  ‘Did it ever occur to you to wake your father? To wake me and tell me what you were up to? Anything could have happened to you, swanning around London. You’ve got to have eyes in the back of your head when you’re in a city like that, and your ones in the front don’t even work. I could string you up, so I could!’ I put my ear closer to the phone receiver and grimace at the man behind the counter frying fish and chips, hoping he can’t hear Mam’s voice through the payphone.

  ‘Mam, where’s Da now?’

  ‘Where do you think? On his way to find you and your Sophie, that’s where! And why haven’t you answered your phone? Is it too much to let your mother know you’re alive and well?’

  ‘I’ve lost it.’

  ‘Fecking marvellous!’ I wince at the sound of Mam swearing. A sign that I’m well and truly in the doghouse.

  ‘Mam, I’ve got to go, the taxi is here.’

  ‘Wait! What do I tell your father?’

  ‘I’ll call once I’ve spoken to Sophie, OK? Has his flight landed yet?’

  ‘I’ve not heard from him, like father like bloody son. And God only knows how he’s going to find his way to the train station!’

  ‘He’ll be fine, Mam, he’s a big boy. Look, I’ll be in touch. Tell him to check in to the same B&B as last time and I’ll meet him there later. If his flight has only just landed, he’ll be at least three hours away. By the time he gets to Wales I’ll hopefully be able to introduce him to Soph.’ The taxi driver hits his horn.

  I slide into the back seat of the taxi and give Sophie’s address. It takes me a while to find the seat belt; to hear the click as it locks into place. The driver sighs his impatience. You think you’re in a hurry? I almost say. I’ve been stuck in this town for four hours, the roads only now beginning to clear.

  ‘Quite a storm, eh?’ His accent lifts and turns. ‘Where by you?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Where do you live? Ireland, is it?

  ‘Yeah, Derry.’

  ‘Storm Russell hit it bad, I heard. Seems to be easing off now, though?’ he replies, each sentence sounding like it’s a question. He leans forward and looks through the window. ‘Are you visiting?’

  The word ‘visiting’ sounds like visit-ten. I smile and shake my head. How did I not recognise Sophie’s accent? ‘I was wond’ren,’ she had said, ‘why did you stop playing rugby?’

  ‘I wasn’t good enough. I was better lining up numbers than standing in a line-out,’ I’d replied as she rolled on to her stomach and traced the bump in my nose with her finger.

  A bump in the road brings me back. ‘Yes, I’m visiting my girlfriend,’ I answer.

  ‘Ah, love, is it?’ I notice that the ‘it’ sounds like ‘et’. I laugh and nod.

  The rhythmic sounds of the wipers and the heat inside the taxi are lulling me to sleep, my eyelids drifting down, my head leaning back against the headrest.

  ‘Ah, no can do, mate.’ My eyes fly open, the darkness filling my vision. The taxi has pulled on to the side of the road. ‘The road across is still flooded. Pain in the behind, this dip is, they need to get on and sort it.
If you were coming from Aberystwyth way, you’d have made it.’

  I look up at the sky and fate shrugs its shoulders. Really? I ask it. Is there anything else you can do to stop me from getting to her? ‘We’re not too far away, though, if you fancy a bit of a hike?’

  I stare out of the window, the edge of the tunnel, wet and grey, and the pinprick of vision is filled with greens and browns. Michael taps against my leg. This is a bad idea, he says. I hear the driver’s seat belt unbuckle and the fabric in his denim fold and crease. The air in the taxi changes as he notices Michael.

  ‘I can take you back to town if you want? No extra cost. Best wait it out, I reckon.’

  ‘How far away is it, you know, if I walk?’ I ask, ignoring Michael who faces the other way.

  ‘About twenty minutes, give or take. Just follow the path, but it’s quite a steep incline through the trees, and the ground—’

  ‘I’ll be fine. I’ve been here before.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘I’m not completely blind, this is just for a bit of help.’ I smile my reassurance at him. ‘Honestly, I’ll be grand.’ I don’t tell him that I can hear the turn of the cement mixer as another brick has been picked up, slotted into the wall, tapped into place: the tunnel is almost closed. What if I go back, and by the time I return, the last brick has been laid, the tunnel sealed? She’s twenty minutes away. I can do this.

  ‘How much do I owe you?’

  I sense that he is giving me a discount as he tells me the amount, then waits patiently while I fumble with my wallet and pass him the fare.

  ‘Let me give you a hand up the verge so you’re on the right path, eh?’

  ‘That would be great,’ I say reaching for the door handle and dragging up a reluctant Michael.

  ‘We’ll be fine,’ I say to him through gritted teeth and haul him out of the taxi.

  Week Thirty-Five

  Contractions Forty-Five Minutes Apart

  Sophie

  It’s almost dark. This is the first thought that crosses my mind. Not I’m alive, not Is Bean safe? But It’s almost dark. Strange how in the most dramatic of scenes the simplest words come to mind.