by Lucy Diamond
‘I’m sure it is,’ Jo said gently. The car crash had lasted seconds but the repercussions rippled on and on, affecting so many people’s futures. ‘I can’t imagine how difficult it must be.’
He wiped his eye with his knuckles. ‘In sickness and in health, I said on our wedding day. In sickness and in health. And I meant it! I still mean it. I just never imagined that . . .’ He shrugged, his hands falling palm up on the table. ‘I never thought . . .’
‘Of course you didn’t,’ Jo said. ‘Nobody imagines that. You’ve been desperately unlucky. Terribly unlucky, the pair of you. I’m so sorry.’ She sighed because every instinct in her wanted to find a silver lining, to make this whole situation better for him, but sometimes there really was no silver lining to be found. Sometimes you just needed to be there and listen, offer companionship and solidarity rather than solutions. ‘Are you getting enough help?’ she asked after a moment. ‘Do you have family nearby who can take care of practical things – shopping and that – for the time being? The nurses are still coming round, I take it?’
He blew his nose in a crumpled white handkerchief and nodded. ‘Oh aye, yeah, we’ve got the palliative nurses here every day,’ he replied. ‘And the neighbours have been smashing. Couldn’t ask for better neighbours. They’ve brought round food, picked up shopping, helped me with laundry. One lady, Maureen, has even sorted out a cleaner for us, and she’s been brilliant. I mean, I didn’t even know how to work the Hoover.’ He shrugged, his face rueful. ‘Our son’s down in London, he’s a vet so it’s hard for him to take time off, but he’s been up when he can.’ He blew his nose again. ‘Everyone’s been very kind. It’s just . . .’
Jo reached over and took his hand. ‘I know.’
‘She’s not going to get better, is she? She’s never going to be my Miriam again.’ His chest heaved as he battled with his distress; it was enough to break your heart.
‘I know,’ Jo said again, a huge lump in her throat. ‘And there’s just no quick fix for that, is there? Which must be . . .’ she thought about saying ‘challenging’ but decided it sounded too patronizing, ‘. . . bloody awful,’ she finished instead.
‘It is. It really is. Because I’ve always been able to fix other things, you see. I was an engineer for forty years before I retired: good around the house. Never a squeaking door or a loose floorboard in this place, I can tell you. But now, when my wife needs help, I can’t do anything, I can’t mend her. Nobody can.’ He shook his head, tears in his eyes. ‘Anyway.’ He swallowed hard, trying to smile. ‘I love her, and I’m doing my best. And that’s all any of us can do, right?’
Jo had tears in her own eyes now. She gripped his hand with both of hers. ‘That’s right. And you’re doing a great job here, Bill. A really great job. She’s lucky to have you.’
Chapter Twenty-Four
India was wearing her magic knickers and could hardly breathe as she sat down in the corner of the pub with a vodka tonic. ‘Better make that a double,’ she’d advised the barmaid. She was going to need all the help she could get tonight, let’s face it.
‘Meeting an old school friend in town,’ she’d told Dan breezily, amidst the usual post-dinner chaos of herding soap-dodging children into the bathroom, listening to George explaining to her in great detail how a combustion engine worked, running the nit-comb through Esme’s hair, trying to get to the bottom of why Kit had come home with somebody else’s lunchbox, and disinfecting all her mini maracas following a puking incident at the final music session of the afternoon.
He’d barely glanced up from the Star Wars comic he was nobly looking at with Kit. Perhaps for the thousandth time. ‘All right,’ he’d said, as Kit gave him an indignant nudge and scolded, ‘Dad, are you listening? I said, look, there’s Darth Maul. See him spying on them there?’
‘Oh yes, you’re right, well spotted,’ Dan had said, winking at India in a conspiratorial way.
She’d thought of that wink as she scrubbed at the maracas, rinsing them in water so hot her hands were bright red by the end. The wink that said, ‘We’re a team, me and you’ and ‘We love our boy, don’t we?’, not to mention ‘Yeah, and we both know it’s your turn to read this bloody comic with him next time, okay?’ She and Dan might have their ups and downs, like any couple, but they were a good team, at the end of the day. So why had she never been able to tell him the truth about what had happened, with Robin and Alice? Why couldn’t she be straight with him now about this ‘old school friend’ of hers? Oh yeah, by the way, did I mention, he was my first love? The first love to end all first loves, and the one I’ve never really managed to achieve full closure on?
To make her feel worse, Dan’s mum had phoned just before India had left, enquiring solicitously, ‘And how is his poor wee ear, now?’, which made India feel like the worst wife ever, because she hadn’t really thought to give a shit about her husband’s poor wee ear. ‘Um, fine, I think,’ she’d mumbled. ‘I’ll just get him for you and he can tell you all about it.’
Sipping her vodka – super-pokey – she glanced up at the door as it opened, but it was only some twenty-something couple holding hands, her towing him to the bar and then beaming up adorably at him. Sweet. She bet they didn’t have any dark secrets silted away out of sight.
Does your husband know about me? Robin had written in a second Facebook message, when she hadn’t replied immediately to his first one asking her out for a drink. The question had left a bad taste in India’s mouth. Was that supposed to be a threat? she wondered, staring worriedly at the screen. Was he holding their shared mistakes above her head, like a bomb that he could detonate whenever he felt so inclined? A shudder had run through her, followed swiftly by a twist of annoyance at his own self-aggrandisement. Get over yourself, love, she felt like replying. It was a long time ago. Don’t you dare try and bully me now, when you didn’t exactly cover yourself in glory, either.
Obviously she had voiced no such thing, though, merely typed a stilted reply saying that a drink would be very nice – how about at the Old Nag’s Head?
And now here she was, in a really uncomfortable new dress that she’d spent far too much money on because she wanted to look fabulous tonight – not for his sake, but for hers, to remind her that she was doing fine without him, thanks for asking. The outfit had looked pretty good in the changing-room mirror, especially when she sucked in her stomach, but when she’d put it on tonight she couldn’t help thinking: Mutton. The neckline was too low, the fit was horribly tight around the bum and she was no longer convinced that the colour – jade green – suited her. In fact, if anything it made her look peaky rather than dazzling.
She tugged at the skirt, feeling certain there was a metaphor somewhere in this: about trying on a new life and discovering that it didn’t really fit or suit her after all. Oh, bloody hell, shush, India. It was just a drink. She’d be home again in a few hours and she could put tonight – and Robin – behind her once more.
‘You’re looking very stern there, if I may say so.’
She jumped because he’d suddenly materialized in front of her, looking amused and catching her quite unawares. Standing up, slightly uncomfortably in her flab-squeezing magic knickers, she did her best to hide her flustered panic and plastered on a bright smile instead. ‘Hi! Good to see you.’ Were they going to hug? Kiss each other on the cheek? Shake hands? Ah, an awkward hug: okay then. She hoped she hadn’t left a sweaty hand print on the back of his leather jacket. Meanwhile, he smelled of cheap aftershave and whisky, and she felt her spirits sinking. How many drinks had he necked already?
‘You all right?’ he asked as they parted, and he put a pint on the table. He flashed her one of his wolfish grins. ‘Not having second thoughts about meeting me, were you?’
‘No!’ she lied. ‘Of course not. Always nice to catch up with an old friend.’ You’re not that special, being the subtext. I do this regularly, for all you know.
‘An old friend,’ he repeated, catching her eye as he sat down, and she
blushed as he surely knew she would. ‘Well, here’s to friendship.’ He raised his glass and she clinked it against his. ‘And catching up on . . . what, twenty-one years?’
‘Twenty-one years,’ she agreed. ‘Time flies.’ There was a short, polite pause then she ploughed on, determined to steer the conversation in his direction, seeing as he’d eluded her personal questions last time. ‘Tell me about you. Are you married? Kids?’
‘Was married. Didn’t last. Two kids, although I don’t see them these days.’ He eyed her over the top of his pint. ‘Three kids, I guess, if you include . . .’ He indicated her, his face giving nothing away.
She met his gaze full on. Oh no you don’t, she thought. Don’t start. ‘How about work? Had a good week?’ she asked, trying to keep her voice level, although she could feel a slow simmer of anger taking hold. If he had come here looking for a fight, then he had picked the wrong woman.
He gave a snort. ‘I could ask you the same thing. Baby music classes? What’s that all about? Bit below you, isn’t it?’
‘Why do you say that?’ she countered.
‘You know why I’m saying it – because you were the big music star back then. All your performances and practice sessions and that. Those distinctions you got on your grades. Your dreams! That amazing music college you were so keen to go to. I thought you were going to be the next Nigel Kennedy. Nigella Kennedy – whatever.’
She sighed and the anger went out of her because he was right, and she still felt sad to think of that defeated teenage India, who’d once made such big, optimistic plans. ‘Yeah, I know. I thought I was. too. Only . . .’ She couldn’t quite meet his eyes. ‘Life gets in the way, right?’ She swirled her drink around, the ice knocking against the side of the glass, remembering how she had given her violin to the charity shop at the end of that summer and had never lifted a bow since.
‘But you still play, don’t you? As well as your “baby classes”?’ he persisted. You could practically hear his inverted commas.
She shook her head. ‘Nope.’ Sometimes she would hear a piece of music and imagine her own fingers on the strings; she would find herself disagreeing with the musician’s interpretation, or she would appreciate the technique, the dynamics, the emotions conjured from the notes. Sometimes she even dreamed she was performing in a concert with an audience of hundreds, and she’d wake up in a sweat, panicking that she couldn’t remember how to play.
‘How about you?’ she said, unable to bear the look of surprise on his face. ‘Youth work, was it, you said you did?’
‘Yeah.’ He shrugged. ‘Never made it as a professional footballer. Never made it as anything, really. We’re a right pair, aren’t we?’
Speak for yourself, mate, she thought, her smile tightening, then she tugged at the neck of her dress where it had slipped down another centimetre. ‘Ah, well, everyone has their teenage dreams,’ she said. ‘It’s practically the law.’ Time for another change of subject. ‘Um . . . So are you still in touch with anyone from school?’
‘Course I’m not,’ he scoffed. ‘Best thing I ever did, getting away from that place.’
Was that a veiled attack on her? Probably. She sighed. This was hard work, virtually impossible to get a conversation going, let alone draw anything out of him. ‘How about your parents?’ she tried. ‘Are they okay?’
He shook his head, looking impatient. ‘I don’t give a shit about my parents and I’m pretty sure you don’t, either,’ he replied. ‘Fuck’s sake, Ind, I thought we were here to talk about us, not school or work or fucking parents.’
‘What do you mean, “us”?’ she asked warily.
‘You know what I mean! Us – me and you: what happened.’ His eyes narrowed and he knocked back the rest of his pint. ‘How you killed our baby,’ he went on and she gasped, winded by his cruelty. ‘Bet he doesn’t know that, eh, does he? That husband of yours. Dan, isn’t it? Dan the plumber. Bet you never told him that little story, did you?’
So this was why he’d come: revenge. This was what he wanted, to rail at her and punish her, to put her in her place. He must have been hanging on to his rage for all these years, letting it seethe away inside him, a foaming stew of bitterness.
‘It wasn’t like— Do you know what, I don’t have to sit here and listen to this,’ she said, half-rising in her seat. Fuck off, Robin, she thought. Just get stuffed. An image flashed into her head of Dan winking at her as she left, Dan with his arm around Kit, reading that God-awful Star Wars comic, and she felt like crying at her own lack of judgement in coming out at all.
‘Yes, you do,’ he replied, putting a hand on her arm to stop her. ‘Because I know you’ve been thinking about it, too. About what would have happened if you’d had the guts to run away with me that night. About how—’
‘Oh God, Robin, will you listen to yourself? We were kids,’ she said, shaking his hand off her, still standing. ‘We were barely eighteen, we didn’t have a clue. We wouldn’t have lasted five minutes out in the real world.’ She glared at him, feeling nothing but contempt. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Yeah, I do, because I did manage out there. I managed fine for years, while you took the coward’s way out and did exactly what Mummy and D—’
She bristled all over. How dare he? ‘I didn’t take the coward’s way out,’ she hissed through gritted teeth, wishing she’d never come here, wishing she’d never bumped into him in the first place. Some things were best left sealed up and undisturbed. What good was it now, raking over all of this?
‘. . . Daddy wanted you to do. What do you mean?’ He leaned closer, his eyes fixed on hers. ‘What are you saying?’
She sat down heavily. Sod it, she was going to have to tell him now. Just what she didn’t want. ‘I know you think I went along for an abortion there and then,’ she said, every word feeling like an effort, ‘but I didn’t.’
There. That had shut him up. His whole body tautened in surprise, his head turned. ‘You . . . didn’t?’
‘No. I didn’t, Robin. So maybe, just maybe, it’s time to rethink your assumptions about me and what actually happened.’ Her voice rose with dislike, and the anger for him that she’d held in check for so long bubbled up inside. ‘And maybe – here’s a suggestion for you – if you’d bothered to stick around and help me, instead of flouncing off on your own, you could have found this out back then, too.’
She had completely taken the wind out of his sails with that little speech. For the first time since they’d been back in touch, he seemed unsure of himself, as if the world had just slipped a few degrees on its axis. You don’t know me, she thought, watching the emotions flash across his face.
‘I . . . Right,’ he said after a moment’s recalibration. ‘So . . . you had the baby? What do you mean?’
She shut her eyes briefly, trying to find the strength she needed to tell him the story after so long. She owed him that much, she guessed.
‘I changed my mind,’ she began baldly. ‘My parents were pushing me to have an abortion and, yes, I went along for the appointment, but I couldn’t go through with it. I left messages for you with your parents, but they didn’t know where you were or how to get hold of you. So I decided to go it alone. To do it all by myself.’
‘Oh God.’ Give him credit, he looked quite stricken. And damn right, too, she thought, remembering how frightened she had been, how conflicted. ‘I’m sorry,’ he stammered, the brittle facade no longer there. ‘Shit. I just assumed . . .’
She let the silence hang for a moment, accusing and condemning. Yeah. You assumed. I had noticed. ‘It was a pretty grim summer,’ she went on, fiddling with her vodka glass, turning it in circles to give her hands something to do. ‘I screwed up my A-levels. Didn’t get into “that amazing music college” after all, funnily enough.’
Her pointed glance was sufficient to make Robin turn his eyes down to the table, his earlier jibe about her baby music classes resurfacing between them. Tosser.
‘I had a
scan when the baby was twenty weeks old and found out . . .’ She swallowed. It was harder to say than she’d thought. ‘Found out I was expecting a girl.’ She couldn’t bring herself to look at him. ‘But I also found out that . . . the baby didn’t look quite . . . right.’
It was never going to leave her, ever, that moment when she’d glanced across at the sonographer and seen the alarm on his face; how he’d hurried out of the room to find a doctor to confirm his suspicions. She’d lain there, cold gel slathered all over her belly, feeling numb with fear, an awful dread rising in her that perhaps she’d done something terrible to the baby when she’d chucked herself off the top step back at home, landing with a carpet-burning thump at the bottom.
Robin rubbed a hand over his face, looking agitated. ‘What was wrong? Christ, I had no idea. What was wrong with the baby?’
‘She wasn’t developing properly.’ A tear rolled down India’s cheek, probably taking half of her carefully applied mascara with it, but she didn’t care. She could still picture the screen on which the consultant had talked her through the image, gently pointing out the bell-shaped chest, the bowed and deformed legs, the disproportionately large head. The images haunted her at night sometimes, as they had haunted her through every one of her subsequent pregnancies. ‘The doctors told me that her lungs would be too tiny to cope outside the womb, that I’d give birth to her and she would almost certainly die anyway.’
(Was it my fault? she had heard herself whispering, agonized, to the consultant.
No, absolutely not, he had replied firmly, looking her in the eye. It was perhaps the kindest thing anyone had ever said to her.)
Robin’s face had twisted unhappily. ‘Oh no.’ He put his hand on hers again, but this time it was compassionate rather than preventative. ‘Oh, India.’
‘I didn’t know what else to do.’ Her voice had become a squeak, and she put her hands up to her face because she was terrified she was about to burst into sobs. ‘I was a teenager.’ She swallowed, trying to get a grip, because there was still the last and worst part of the story yet to come. ‘The doctors said a termination might be for the best, and I . . .’ She couldn’t look at him. ‘I was scared and alone, and so I . . . so I said yes. Yes to the termination.’ And then some last vestige of defensiveness kicked in and she was rounding on him, daring him to take her to task for it. ‘But if you want to go there – if you want to accuse me of “killing our baby”, then you need to take a damn good look at yourself.’ She jabbed her finger, rage rising again. ‘And you need to ask yourself: where were you when I was having to go through this, the worst time of my life, the hardest decision I’ve ever had to make. Where were you? Bloody nowhere. Running away like a fucking kid. So don’t you dare – don’t you dare try and . . .’ She banged a fist on the table, tears running openly down her face, her voice shaking. ‘Don’t even go there.’