I keep going.
It’s the strangest thing.
I disembark at Gatwick. I look at Minnie’s instructions and follow them to the letter. Now I’m on a train to Brighton. When I get there, it’s lunchtime, just like Minnie said it would be. I get into a taxi and say, ‘Take me to the Funky Banana, please.’ It sounds even weirder when you say it out loud.
The taxi driver puts the car in drive and moves into the lunchtime traffic. He is taciturn and therefore unlike any other taximan I have come across and I have come across a fair few in my time, being a great believer in drinking and not driving. At least I was until the bloody Ed situation. Day eight. Three hundred and fifty-seven days to go.
I clear my throat. ‘The traffic’s pretty bad, isn’t it?’
‘Could be worse.’
Silence again. I’m twitchy as a pulse.
I wish Minnie were here. It would be . . . nice, I suppose. To have someone here. With me. Someone in my corner, so to speak. I haven’t thought about what I’m going to say. I just got on a plane and a train and now here I am, in a taxi with a non-verbal taxi driver, and suddenly the back seat of the cab feels enormous, with just me here. And I’ve nothing prepared. No lines to say.
It’s only when I see the café from the top of the street that I realise I was hoping it would be closed. The awning in front of the café is one of the brightest yellows I’ve ever seen, and I’m delighted that I don’t have a hangover because this yellow is so bright it would surely take the sight out of your eyes if you weren’t in the full of your health.
The sign that pokes out at a right angle from the café is in the shape of a banana. A fairly ordinary-looking banana, to be honest.
The taxi driver pulls up in front of the café. It’s packed with people in good form, eating and talking and smiling and even laughing. There’s a lot of joviality, which is weird when you remember it’s Christmas Eve.
The taxi driver puts the car in neutral and sits back, without saying anything. The meter reads twelve pounds forty-five pence and I give him twenty pounds. I don’t even say, ‘Keep the change.’ I just get out of the car. It seems like the least I can do.
The café is quirky by accident rather than design. There’s quite a bit of yellow. There’s a sizeable amount of banana-inspired food. Banana and chocolate-chip milkshakes I can understand, but most people would have to draw the line at banana-infused tea, wouldn’t they? Minnie would tell me to think outside my box of Lyons teabags, but I don’t think even she or Maurice would have the stomach for it. There is not one matching chair in the place but because they’ve been painted such bright colours, it works somehow. I sit at the only vacant table. It’s the one nearest the door, which means there’ll be a draught and I’ll catch my death of cold, on top of everything else.
I sit down. There’s a hint of Ireland about the place. The clock, for instance. Green and shaped like a shamrock. And the dish of the day is Irish stew. The weird thing is that, even though I’m not crazy about stew, when the waiter comes to take my order, I say, ‘Stew, please,’ and he says, ‘Good choice,’ as if he has sensed my hesitation and wants to assure me that I’m doing the right thing.
The Christmas tree in the corner is real, hanging with all manner of wooden fruit, among which bananas feature prominently. Oddly, I’ve ordered a glass of milk with my stew, as if I’m six and not so close to forty I can see the whites of its eyes. Well, I can’t drink a proper drink like wine because of the deal I made with God, which is crazy when you consider that I don’t even believe in God. But something won’t let me disregard the promise. Just in case.
I don’t think Faith is here. In the café. There’s just the waiter, who is a Maurice Minor, which is Minnie’s name for not-quite-a-man-not-quite-a-boy, and a fully grown man I can see in the kitchen every time the Maurice Minor opens the door. He’s got long dark hair, which is in a high ponytail and tucked neatly inside a hairnet. He’s chopping shallots with one of those gigantic, shiny blades that could separate a head from a body with a single swipe, if you were in that humour.
It’s only when I realise she’s not here that my shoulders descend from around my ears. In fact, it’s only when I realise she’s not here that I notice my shoulders are up around my ears in the first place. I take them down. They ache, which means they’ve probably been up there for quite some time. And that’s when I realise that I’m glad. Well, relieved anyway. That she’s not here. And that’s when I ask myself what it is I’m actually doing here. What it is I’m hoping to achieve. And exactly what I am planning to say if I ever do meet her.
The truth is, I don’t know. I don’t know the answer to any of those questions, but instead of leaving and getting in a taxi, then a train and a plane and going home to Dublin, where I happen to know the answers to lots of questions, I stay. It’s like being in the dentist’s waiting room. It’s crowded and heavy with that dense smell of too many bodies in one small space. And you’re afraid. You’re terrified. There’s a chance of root canal. But you stay. For some reason, you stay.
The stew comes in a pasta bowl with a plate of soda bread on the side and a dish of thick, yellow butter that is guaranteed to coat your arteries with the best kind of cholesterol. When I ask, I’m told that the milk is full-fat. ‘It’s the only kind we have.’
I butter the bread, dip it into the dark brown gravy, spear a piece of beef with my fork, add a baby carrot, a stick of celery, a chunk of turnip. It’s good. It’s very good. Even if you’re someone like me, who doesn’t eat this type of mush, you’d have to concede that it’s good. Mrs Higginbotham would have said that a stew like this one would warm the cockles of your heart. I never really knew what she meant by that until now. I hadn’t realised how cold I was until now. Or how hungry. It feels like an odd time to be hungry, but there you have it. Turns out I’m hungry. I haven’t felt hungry in ages. I end up eating everything and use the rest of the bread to mop up the remains of the gravy.
When the waiter comes to clear away the plates, I am amazed to discover that I’ve drunk every drop of the milk. That’ll look good on the scales tomorrow. ‘You’ll have dessert.’ He states it like it’s a fact, so I nod and ask what’s good and he says, ‘The Funky Banana, of course,’ and I say, ‘Yes, please,’ as if I know exactly what a Funky Banana is.
When the waiter returns with the Funky Banana – which turns out to be a sort of ice-cream sundae in a tall glass with caramel and chocolate and sprinkles and, of course, bananas jammed in – I manage to say something.
I say, ‘I’m looking for Faith.’ That sounds a little born-again so I say, ‘Faith McIntyre.’
The waiter looks at me. Like he knows me from somewhere. But whatever it is he’s about to say, he decides not to say it. Instead he says, ‘I’ll get Jack.’
My heart is hammering inside my chest and I haven’t even had one spoonful of the Funky Banana yet. It’s like I’m on a path now. And I can’t turn back, even if I wanted to, and, let’s face it, I want to. I really want to.
Jack turns out to be the man in the kitchen. He has removed his hairnet, which I find oddly gratifying.
He has two mugs of coffee in his hands. He stops when he gets to my table and stares at me. Then he says, ‘You’re that woman. On the telly. Aren’t you? You’re Killian Kobain.’
I glance about to see if anyone has heard, but no one is listening. I say, ‘Yes.’
Jack puts one of the coffees in front of me and sits down in the chair opposite me. ‘You’re a dab hand with an umbrella, I’ll give you that.’
‘That wasn’t me. That was my friend. Minnie. It’s a long story.’
Jack leans forward. ‘So, you’re looking for our Faith?’
I nod. He wipes his floury hand on the front of his apron and extends it towards me. We shake hands. He’s got baker’s hands. Soft and fleshy and warm. Great hands for kneading dough, I’d say. You can’t lie to a man with hands like that. Or maybe there just comes a time when you have to face up to things. Steppi
ng up to the plate, Minnie would call it. Telling the truth, Ed would say. And Thomas? I don’t know what he’d say. He probably wouldn’t believe it. What I’m doing. He’d be too shocked to say anything.
I say, ‘I’m Faith’s . . . biological mother.’
Jack takes it in his stride. He says, ‘Oh,’ and he looks at me more closely. ‘You look very like her.’
I say, ‘She came to Dublin looking for me but I . . . I wasn’t able to meet her. She’s not expecting me. Is she around?’’
Jack shakes his head. ‘She’s gone to Scotland. With Milo. They’re spending Christmas with their dad. It was a last-minute thing. I don’t think she could face it, in the end.’
I say, ‘What do you mean?’
Jack sweeps a hand around the café. ‘Christmas. This is the first Christmas since Beth’s death. You know she died, don’t you?’
‘Yes . . . I was involved in that accident too. My car was a write-off but I walked away with hardly a scratch.’
Jack says, ‘Jesus. That’s incredible.’
I nod.
He drags a hand down his face. ‘Poor Beth.’
I put my hand on top of his and sort of squeeze it, briefly. I don’t intend doing it. It just happens. I put my hand back round my mug of coffee and say, ‘Were you close? You and Beth?’ He smiles. ‘I knew Beth for years. We worked together in various restaurants and hotels over the years and then she set up this place and asked me to come and work for her. We had some great times here.’
I say, ‘I’m sorry.’ I can’t think of anything else.
Jack nods.
I say, ‘How is Faith? With . . . everything that’s happened?’
‘Not great, I suppose. She’s been angry. With Beth. For not telling her about being adopted. And busy too, looking after Milo. I think she sort of forgot how sad she was, you know?’
I say, ‘Yes,’ even though I don’t. I don’t know. Jack says, ‘Faith asked me if I knew. Since me and Beth were friends, she assumed . . . But I didn’t know a thing. All I know is that Beth loved Faith to bits. They were so close, those two. More like sisters than mother and daughter.’
For the first time, I get a sense of this girl. I get a sense of Faith. And her mother. I don’t mean me. I mean her real mother. Beth. The woman who reared her. Who never told her because she loved Faith too much. She didn’t want her to feel that she was missing out on anything. Didn’t want her to know that someone had given her away.
Didn’t want her to know that I had given her away.
That’s what I did.
I gave her away.
My hands tighten round the mug of coffee on the table. So tightly my fingers are white. So tightly, the mug might shatter. Jack says, ‘Are you OK?’
‘I’m fine, thanks.’
‘What are you going to do now?’
‘Do you happen to have Faith’s address? In Scotland, I mean?’
‘Yes, but it’s Christmas Eve. You’ll never get a flight now.’
‘I will. I’ll go stand-by or something. I’m here now. I have to keep going. I don’t know what else to do.’
Jack looks at me for a moment, then gets up and says, ‘I’ll be back in a minute.’ When he returns, he hands me a piece of paper. There’s an address on it. I put it in my bag.
‘Thank you.’
We shake hands again and he says, ‘I suppose it’s not a great time to ask for your autograph?’ and I say, ‘No, it’s not.’
‘Next time?’
‘Yes.’ And then I smile and I have no idea why. Perhaps it’s because Jack thinks there will be a next time, and he knows Faith so I take it as a sign. A positive sign. That maybe, just maybe, things might work out OK in the end.
When I step outside the café, it has already begun to snow.
For the first time ever on Christmas Day, I don’t wake up at five o’clock in the morning. I wake up at my normal time, which happens to be eight o’clock. I suppose it’s because I don’t believe anymore.
I am reading the instruction manual for the Xbox. Dad says he’ll bring me to a shop when he gets a chance and get me a game that’s suitable for my age. He says I can keep the Declan Darker game and play it when I’m older.
I got goggles too. They’re the Speedsocket Mirror ones, which means that they cost twenty-three pounds but, so long as I don’t lose them, which I nearly definitely won’t, they’ll last me until I’m around twenty or maybe even older than that. They’re blue and I’m wearing them at the moment, just to get used to them.
Faith got me a book about sharks, and a new swim bag that’s got a waterproof bit for your togs. Ant and Adrian got me a London bus moneybox with two tenners already in it, to go towards my London saving fund.
I say, ‘What London saving fund?’
Ant says, ‘You’re coming to London. At half-term. You’re going to stay with us for a couple of days.’
I look at Faith to see if this is true. She’s smiling so it must be.
I say, ‘Can we go on the London Eye?’
Adrian says, ‘It’s compulsory, mate.’
I say, ‘Legend,’ and everyone smiles, all at the same time, even Celia, who is in better form now because she’s had a good rest in the hospital and when Dad brought her back this morning he made her poached eggs on toast, which happens to be her favourite breakfast.
Dad is wearing the apron I got him and making a lamb vindaloo, because a nurse in the hospital told Celia that a hot curry and a glass of full-bodied red wine might do the trick. Dad says, ‘I’ve got a lovely bottle of red in the cellar. It’s nearly eighty years old. Worth a fair bit now, I’d say.’
That’s when Ant and Adrian put on their jackets and the scarves I got them and say they are going out.
I don’t have the lamb vindaloo for dinner. It’s not because it’s too spicy for me. It’s just that there’s loads of chilli leftover from yesterday and I have that instead cos it’s my favourite. Nobody mentions the turkey with all the feathers hanging on the hook in the pantry.
I’m watching Pirates of the Caribbean when the doorbell rings. Faith is texting Rob. They’ve been texting all day. I don’t know why they don’t just phone each other. I really don’t.
Celia is sitting in the rocking chair with her feet in one of those foot massager things.
The doorbell rings again.
Faith says, ‘Milo, will you get the door?’
I say, ‘I’m watching the movie.’
‘You’ve seen it a million times.’
‘It’s the really good bit.’
‘Milo.’
I get up and step into the hall. The front door is made of coloured glass and through the glass I see her. The woman. She has long dark hair, like Faith’s. She’s wearing a purple coat. I’ve seen the coat before. In a photograph in Ed’s house. I’m pretty sure about that. I’m nearly positive.
I stop walking. I say, ‘Faith?’
She says, ‘What?’
‘I think it’s for you.’
‘What’s for me?’
‘The door. I think it’s for you.’
‘How could it be for me?’
‘Just come out here, will you?’
I hear her sighing, putting her phone on the table beside the couch, getting up. She walks into the hall, looks at the woman on the other side of the door, then looks at me.
She says, ‘Why don’t you answer the door?’
I don’t say anything and she shakes her head and tousles my hair as she walks past me. She says, ‘You can be so weird sometimes, you know that?’ and she goes right ahead and opens the door.
I make myself scarce.
I end up saying, ‘I should have called first.’ After all the time I’ve had to think of something to say, that’s what I come up with. Hours I have spent, waiting on stand-by at Gatwick airport for planes to Edinburgh that never arrived, or got delayed or cancelled, while the snow fell and fell until you couldn’t see the runways anymore and the airport could do nothing but decl
are itself closed and people wept and roared at airport staff as if they had personally cancelled Christmas. I spent the night on a red plastic chair and finally managed to squeeze myself onto a flight to Glasgow. The airport at Edinburgh was closed because of the snow that kept falling and falling as if it would never stop. From Glasgow, I got a train to Edinburgh and a taxi to the address that Jack scribbled on the back of an envelope. I could not give an accurate or even approximate account of what thoughts rose and fell in my head in all that time. Which is disgraceful when you think that I could have spent at least some of those long, dreary hours coming up with something better to say at this door than, ‘I should have called first.’
Even as I press the bell at the imposing door of the large, modern house in Edinburgh’s leafy suburbs, I haven’t yet come up with that killer line. I’m still rummaging around for something brilliant to say.
‘I should have called first.’ I think I say it because it’s Faith herself who answers the door and this throws me. When I see her face, I get a sensation of being picked up and hurled against something solid. A brick wall. I don’t know how I can be this unprepared. I’ve had nothing but time to think about everything. Surely, I should be more prepared. But I’m not. She looks like me. She looks like my daughter. If we walked down the street together, people would know. People would say, ‘She’s cut out of that woman.’ I wouldn’t have to say a thing.
‘I should have called first.’ My mouth is dry. For the first time since it began to snow, I feel the cold. It’s digging into me like a spade.
Faith says, ‘Yes, you should have.’ She is wearing jeans, a T-shirt with some band on the front I’ve never heard of, a cardigan that goes down to her knees. In spite of the cold, her feet are bare. She looks so young. I bet she gets asked for ID all the time. I did too, when I was that age. I bet it really pisses her off.
I say, ‘I’m sorry. I just . . . It was a spur-of-the-moment thing. I just left Dublin and . . . I kept going.’
Faith says, ‘It’s Christmas Day.’
‘I know. I’m sorry. I got delayed. All the flights . . . with the snow . . .’
Lifesaving for Beginners Page 34