by Kerena Swan
Max had looked out for Sophie after the umbrella incident and had taken most of his lunches at the café, wondering if she would ever go in there. She was in and out of her office constantly but disappointingly never crossed the road or glanced towards him. Whenever she appeared his heart would beat faster, and he’d hold his breath with excitement.
It was another month before he decided to follow her around town – then he’d looked up her agency website and seen her photo. Wow, she was stunning even in a poorly taken pose. Once he had her surname he could look her address up on the electoral roll. Bloody hell, Sophie lives in quite a sought-after village. How could she afford it? He’s also looked up her address on the gov.uk website to see who the land is registered to while at work and it appears she owns the place rather than renting it. This is surprising as she seems to be on her own with the two kids. He hasn’t seen any men around and he’s sure her job can’t pay that well.
Max opens his eyes and leans forward to adjust the weights. He’s going to push himself a bit harder tonight. It’s important he maintains a good level of strength and fitness. As he strains with the effort he can feel the veins on his forehead bulge and a film of sweat coating his skin. He must remember his breathing. He always forgets to do what his trainer has taught him – to breathe out slowly at the point of most effort.
As he breathes, an image of Sophie struggling to catch her breath forms in his mind. He could teach her so much about panic attacks. He watched his mother suffer from them for years. She used to bang on the nearest radiator to attract his attention and he would rush to her side with the paper bag then help her to count breaths. He’d begged her to go to the doctor, but she’d dismissed the idea with an impatient wave of her hand saying, ‘Don’t be daft. What do the quacks know? They haven’t helped with anything else, have they?’
Max couldn’t argue. His mother had suffered with manic depression, or bi-polar as they like to call it now, for most of her adult life. When he was a child he’d spend hours on his own fending for himself while she lay in bed. His earliest memories were of struggling to open the fridge door to drink milk straight from the bottle and dragging a chair to the kitchen counter then climbing up to eat stale bread he found in the bread bin. When the bread turned blue and the milk lumpy, he would climb on the chair again and unlatch the front door.
His neighbour was usually home and she would give him hot chocolate and delicious toast and honey before taking him back. He was afraid to go there too often though as his mum was always furious if she found out and embarrassed by the presence of the neighbour. She’d always claim she’d just been having a little nap and as there was no evidence of drinking or drugs the neighbour didn’t report to the authorities that he was being neglected.
Max moves across to the rowing machine for his cool down. He’ll do ten minutes then maybe go for a quick swim to freshen up. The girl in pink Lycra has lost interest in him, thankfully, and has a new target in her sights. His mind wanders again as he rows. It was the manic phases he struggled with the most. Sometimes his mum would drag him out of bed before daylight saying she’d planned an exciting day out for them and would need his help preparing a picnic. They’d discover they didn’t have enough food, so they’d have to wait outside the Co-op for it to open at 8.00 a.m. She’d be jittery; hopping from one foot to the other, looking at her watch and rushing to the corner to see if the shop assistants were on their way. She talked non-stop making little sense and didn’t seem to notice he was shivering with cold.
When they got home she would be up half the night clearing out cupboards and singing so loudly he couldn’t sleep. His nan looked after him when she could, but she worked and lived on the other side of town and didn’t know the full extent of her daughter’s illness.
Climbing off the rowing machine he heads back to the changing rooms, pausing momentarily by the water fountain for a quick drink. He stops by his locker and nods politely to a man standing with a towel round his waist, rubbing his hair dry. Max doesn’t fancy a swim now. He just wants to go home and think about Sophie. It’s crazy. He seems to be getting physically stronger and emotionally weaker. He steps into the shower, enjoying the warm water running across his skin. Why has she got such a hold over him? She’s constantly in his thoughts and he finds his own weakness appalling. Sometimes he just wants to get on with his well-ordered life. It had taken all his will-power not to give in to the impulse to drive over to her village again this evening.
Getting into his BMW he sits for a moment deciding whether or not to visit Peacock House to check out the garden, but his stomach growls and he changes his mind. He pulls out of the car park and indicates left at the junction then sighs and lifts the lever to indicate right. He’ll go and prepare himself the ready meal for one he bought from M&S. He reaches the next roundabout and turns right but instead of taking the third exit towards home he impulsively continues right round and gets back on the road he’s just exited, passes the gym on his left and on towards Sophie’s house.
14
I press the lever on the toaster and get the milk from the fridge, determined to count my blessings. I have a job I enjoy and a family I adore and even though I’ve had to battle with a stroppy fifteen-year-old who would clearly also prefer to stay snuggled under the duvet, at least I know she’ll pull it all together at the last minute and be out of the door in time for her school bus.
Mia is a different story, though. This morning she has wriggled and squirmed as I tried to dress her in her little skirt and polo shirt and tie back her hair. I don’t know what’s got into her.
I turn to get her favourite Peppa Pig bowl from the cupboard and I spot her in the doorway. My heart sinks. She is clad from head to foot in her nightwear; Paw Patrol pyjamas, rabbit slippers and dressing gown. I can’t believe I’ve wasted a precious ten minutes getting her dressed and am no further forward in getting out of the front door on time.
‘Mia, you were supposed to be looking for your reading book. Why have you put your pyjamas on again?’ I ask.
‘I’m not going to school today. Ayshe is on holiday so I’m having a holiday too.’
‘You can’t just take the day off. You have to wait for the school holidays.’ I pluck the cereal box from the cupboard and realise it’s almost empty. Damn, I’ll have to do some food shopping today.
‘Ayshe has a holiday,’ she repeats, and sits down hard on the kitchen chair. Oh no. I can’t face having two moody daughters. I need to snap her out of this quickly.
‘How about we play ‘holidays’ when we get home later? We can pack a little case and make a pretend aeroplane with a line of chairs and go wherever you want to.’
Mia’s eyes light up. She loves playing make-believe games and is desperate to go on a real holiday like her friends do.
‘I’ll make you a mocktail and we can sunbathe by the pool.’ We’ve done this before and it’s one of her favourite scenarios.
‘Can we put our costumes on as well?’ she asks. I hesitate for a moment. It’s a bit chilly today but I don’t want to spoil the moment.
‘All right. But only if you promise to get ready for school quickly.’ She jumps off her chair and rushes out of the kitchen, bumping into Tilly in the doorway.
‘Whoa! Steady on. What’s the rush?’ asks Tilly.
‘We’re going on holiday tonight,’ Mia announces from the top of the stairs.
Tilly looks at me with hope flickering in her eyes and my heart squeezes.
‘Only pretending I’m afraid, Tills.’
She gives me a half-smile as if to say she knew that already, but I’m not fooled. I know both my girls would love to go on holiday, but I really can’t afford it. I started a big jar and stuck a ‘Holiday Fund’ label on it but I had to break into it recently to pay for the TV licence.
Tilly pours herself a bowl of muesli and chops a banana on top. I’m impressed. She’s studying nutrition as part of her GCSE coursework and has clearly taken it on board. I spread a thin layer of
marmite on my toast and sit opposite her.
‘Mum, what job was my dad doing when you met him?’ she asks.
I’m knocked off balance by this question although I shouldn’t be. Tilly rarely mentions her father and when she does, I try to lead her onto a different subject as I know she will only get upset. What can I tell her? That when I told him I was expecting her he shouted at me that I’d got pregnant on purpose to trap him? That he wouldn’t listen when I tried to explain that even women on the pill can get pregnant and perhaps it was due to the sickness bug I’d had? That he even denied that Tilly is his and told me I should get an abortion and when I refused, packed his bags and left the small flat we shared? That I couldn’t afford the rent on my own and had to go back to Mum and Dad’s with my head hung in shame?
‘He worked for the local council as a youth worker,’ I tell her instead. She looks somewhat taken aback. ‘I don’t know what he’s doing now. I haven’t heard from him for years. Why do you ask?’ This is a stupid question. She has every right to be curious about her father, but I’m worried it was prompted by the thought of us being unable to afford a holiday. I don’t want her to contact him. He’s so unreliable she’ll only get hurt. My words look as though they have punctured her happy bubble.
‘Sorry, is there anything else you want to know?’
Tilly is about to reply when Mia bounds into the room again wearing her school uniform. Hah! Now she has proven her independence with dressing I’m going to find a way to get her to do it every morning. She clambers up to the table, pulls her cereal towards her and starts munching. Tilly pushes her chair back and ruffles Mia’s hair.
‘Hey, stop it. I’ve just made my hair look all pretty,’ Mia says, and she flattens her hair down again with both hands.
‘Sorry, Mimi,’ Tilly laughs. ‘How about I curl it for you at the weekend?’
Mia’s face lights up with a huge smile and she swivels in her chair to hug her sister around the waist. My chest expands with love for them both and I feel myself grinning. This is definitely one of life’s blessings. It’s just a shame they don’t get on this well all the time. Tilly isn’t always very patient with Mia, especially when she goes in her bedroom and messes with her make-up. Tilly grabs her school bag and coat and heads for the front door then turns and beckons me over.
‘Mum, have you noticed anyone hanging around the bus shelter lately?’ she asks in a low voice.
‘Like people waiting for a bus you mean?’ I laugh, but I feel a shiver across my skin and the backs of my hands tingle in alarm. I’m seriously worried but don’t want Tilly to see it on my face.
‘It feels like someone’s watching us,’ Tilly says. ‘There was someone in there last night when I got back from babysitting and this isn’t the first time. It’s as if someone is inside looking at us and when I look across they back away into the dark.’
Oh my God! Tilly has seen that too. It isn’t my imagination. My insides are turning to water and my hands are trembling. ‘Maybe it’s someone sheltering from the rain or those boys from your school having a crafty fag.’
‘Yeah, perhaps.’ Tilly slings her bag over her shoulder then shuts the door behind her.
I lean against it after she’s gone. I’m going to have to keep a close eye on the shelter from now on. Maybe I’ll ask the elderly neighbours if they’ve seen anything suspicious. I hope it isn’t someone planning to burgle one of our houses. Older people can be so defenceless. What if the person is watching me or Tilly though? It’s at times like this that I feel quite isolated and vulnerable, being the only adult in the family. I see happy couples everywhere – in cars, the supermarket, and the street. Why am I on my own? I feel a flash of the old anger towards Harry. Mia’s father had seemed lovely in comparison but even that hadn’t worked out. We thought having a child would bring us closer together. but we were wrong. Either I’m rubbish at sustaining relationships or I pick the wrong ones.
What was it Tilly had asked me last night? Oh yes, ‘What if I fall in love the wrong person? Are there clues when you meet them?’ Thankfully she’s forgotten to ask me again today because I still don’t know the answer. As I re-enter the kitchen I remember Max. Now he’s a ‘totally different kettle of fish’, as my nana would say. He’s kind and thoughtful and incredibly good looking. He’d protect me from possible stalkers.
I bundle Mia into the car, day dreaming about bumping into Max again. Maybe he’ll be there when I visit Ivy today. I’m not going to get my hopes up though. All that glistens isn’t necessarily gold; Harry and Ryan have taught me that. I’ll just take each day as it comes then I won’t be disappointed. I’m fastening Mia’s seat belt when I suddenly notice a blue strap peeping out from under her polo shirt and my heart sinks.
‘Mimi, have you got your swimming costume on under your uniform?’
15
‘I’m sorry, Lydia, the answer has to be no. You’ve agreed to these shifts and I can’t cover them at this short notice.’ I switch my phone to the other ear as I get my bag from the car. I can feel myself tensing up at Lydia’s ridiculous request for leave at the last minute.
‘I really want to go to Cornwall. I would have asked sooner but my boyfriend only invited me today.’ Her voice is adopting a whining tone.
‘You’re needed here. You start supporting Ivy later today and you need to take your job seriously. What employers do you know of that would grant a week’s leave on the day of asking?’
‘It was just an idea. All right. I’ll tell him I can’t go.’
I thank her and feel a shaft of guilt at refusing Lydia a week off, but I think she’s being unreasonable to ask. I just hope she doesn’t let me down. I lock the car and slip the phone in my bag as I walk up Ivy’s path.
‘I’ll have to add this Arnica cream to your Medication Administration Record,’ I say to Ivy as I gently rub the remedy into her bruises.
‘Oh, stuff and nonsense! All this silly paperwork.’ Ivy grins widely causing her glasses to slip slightly on her nose. ‘Don’t bother. I won’t tell if you won’t.’
‘I have to record everything, Ivy, or I’ll get into trouble,’ I tell her. ‘Here, let me clean your glasses. I’m surprised you can see out of them. No wonder you had a nasty fall.’
I take Ivy’s glasses carefully off her face and breathe on them before I wipe them. I look up at the clock and see I’ve already exceeded the allotted time for Ivy. Half an hour really isn’t long enough to provide quality care.
‘Would you like me to adjust these slightly? They seem a bit loose.’ I produce a mini screwdriver from my bag.
‘Well strike me up a gum tree!’ Ivy exclaims, and I laugh. My nana used to use that expression. ‘We don’t get many like you to the pound. Max is the only one who usually bothers to clean my glasses.’
My stomach flips with excitement at the mention of his name. Maybe I’ll work into my lunch break and see what I can find out about him from Ivy.
‘He’s very good to you, isn’t he?’ I say, fishing for information.
‘Oh yes, he looks after me. He’s all the family I have left since Patricia died. He’s a good boy.’
‘Who’s Patricia?’
‘Max’s mother. She passed away years ago. Not that she would have been able to help me much. She suffered with depression. Up one minute, down the next. I think they call it something else now. Max spent a lot of his childhood at my house so he’s more like a son, really.’
‘How old was Max when she died?’ That’s what the P on his ring stood for then.
‘He was nine. He was the one who found her.’
I’m shocked. ‘How awful. How did he cope with that?’
‘He didn’t, really. He wouldn’t speak for weeks. He came to live with me permanently after that.’
‘What about his dad?’ I’m fascinated and horrified by what Ivy is telling me and my heart goes out to him as a small boy trying to cope with the devastation of losing his mother. I’m desperate to ask how she died but don’t wa
nt to appear tactless.
‘We never knew who his dad was. Patricia wouldn’t say. Either that or she didn’t know.’ Ivy raises her eyebrows at me and I suddenly realise I’m crossing professional boundaries here by quizzing her about her family history. I’m dying to ask if he’s married with kids or single, but I really should focus on why I’m here.
As Ivy rummages in her handbag I quickly tidy the small, cluttered living room, making sure there are no trip hazards. There’s very little space and it’s full of the usual paraphernalia older people seem to collect; ornaments with English seaside towns written on them, a padded footstool, a coffee table, and a pair of china dogs at either end of the small, tiled fireplace.
‘You really should get rid of this rug, Ivy,’ I say pointing to the boldly flowered piece of carpet with curled-up corners in front of the gas fire. ‘You could easily catch your foot on it.’
‘That rug has been there for twenty years, my dear. I think I know it’s there by now.’
As I gather up my bags to leave, Ivy grasps my arm in her bony, blue-veined hand. I look at her in surprise.
‘Don’t go yet,’ she says with a worried expression on her face. ‘I’m expecting a call and I may need help.’
‘A call? Who from?’
‘Nature. I need to go for a number two and I need a cup of tea and a fag to help me go.’
‘I didn’t know you smoked,’ I say as I go and put the kettle on then resume my tidying.
‘Only when nature calls,’ she says. ‘Sometimes it hurries things along, you know.’ She rewards me with one of her funny laughs and I turn and laugh with her.
Ivy reminds me of what I love about old people. They’re so resilient to their circumstances of restricted lifestyles, pain, and loss of independence. They’re cheerful and really grateful for every little gesture of kindness shown to them. I find this group much more rewarding than working with teenagers who have perfect health and freedom and yet are still moody, miserable, and uncommunicative most of the time.