The Day Of Second Chances

by Julie Cohen

  ‘What I mean is,’ said Bailey, ‘is this seat taken?’

  It was Avril’s seat.

  ‘I won’t talk to you or anything if you don’t want me to,’ Bailey added. ‘I just need somewhere to sit and eat.’

  It was that, the offer not to talk, the straight-out acknowledgement that she didn’t fit in and that she was resigned to it, that got Lydia. She moved Avril’s books to one side, clearing the table space for Bailey. ‘Knock yourself out,’ she said.

  Erin leaned over. ‘She’s got a crush on youuu,’ she crooned into Lydia’s ear. Lydia rolled her eyes.

  Across the dining hall, she heard the silvery sound of Avril’s laughter.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Jo

  ‘I SPY, WITH my little eye, something that is green.’

  ‘Tree!’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Flower!’ Oscar hung onto the side of the buggy, jumping up and down. Iris was asleep and had been for twenty minutes, having exhausted herself with a tantrum in Waitrose. Oscar was still full of beans, and Jo was hopeful that maybe she’d actually get the shopping done without another meltdown from him, too.

  She hadn’t slept much last night. Mostly she was worrying about Honor, but around three o’clock, the old thoughts had started coming back, the same ones she’d had for ten years now in the middle of the night. It was always worse in the spring. In the end, she’d got up and made herself a cup of chamomile tea and read her book until nearly dawn.

  She suppressed a yawn. ‘Flowers aren’t green, Oscar.’

  ‘That one’s green!’ He pointed at one of the planters in the middle of the shopping precinct.

  ‘That’s not a flower, sweetie, that’s a fern.’

  ‘Fern!’

  ‘Nope. Keep looking.’

  ‘Apple!’

  Jo looked around. ‘Where’s an apple?’

  ‘In my mind!’

  ‘Things that are in your mind don’t count, sweetie. They have to be things that you can really see.’

  ‘Grass!’

  ‘You’re getting warmer.’ Oscar looked confused, so Jo explained, ‘It means that the thing you’re looking for is really near the grass.’

  Oscar stopped walking, peering hard at the patch of grass beside the fabric shop. Jo mentally ticked off her list: Waitrose done; key cutters next to get a set made for Honor, which would be fine because Oscar liked poking at all the keys on display; library last because Iris might have woken up by then and even though she woke up cranky, Oscar would look at books so that Jo could give Iris a cuddle. The library had a toilet too, and baby-changing facilities.

  Her shopping trips these days were always zig-zags around the precinct, visiting the shops in the optimal order to keep the children happy and interested. She always had to do the supermarket first, whilst the children were still fresh, because that’s where tempers would fray: where Oscar would ask for sweets he couldn’t have, and Iris would decide it was fun to grab items off the shelf at toddler pushchair height and throw them onto the floor. If the kids were relatively happy and not bored yet, they could get through those hurdles without too much trouble.

  Of course this meant that if she wanted anything frozen, she’d have to come back at the end of her shopping trip, too, so it wouldn’t melt whilst she ran her other errands. She hadn’t quite worked out a way around this yet, other than getting Lydia to look after her siblings whilst Jo went to do the shopping on her own. Even without children, Jo caught herself planning her route to avoid the rows of sweets, positioning her trolley more than a small arm’s reach away from the heavy cans.

  Sometimes she saw couples doing their weekly shop together with their children. They ran interference for each other, one distracting the children whilst the other found items on the shelves. She remembered doing this with Stephen. He used to make illustrated lists for Lydia, so she could tick off items as they went into the trolley.

  ‘Bin!’ cried Oscar.

  ‘The bins are black,’ said Jo, looking at the nearest bin to make sure, and seeing Marcus from next door walking across the precinct. He wore a white shirt and a green tie, sleeves rolled up, and he was holding a canvas shopping bag. He smiled when he spotted her, raised his hand, and changed his course to approach her. Jo scrubbed at her eyes quickly, as if she could get rid of the shadows under them.

  ‘Hello!’ he called. ‘How are you doing, neighbour?’

  ‘Fine,’ answered Jo, irrationally pleased that he’d gone out of his way to greet her, irrationally disappointed that he’d evidently forgotten her name. ‘How are you, Marcus?’

  He held up his canvas bag. ‘On a lunch break from work. I’ve been sent out to replenish the tea bags and the biscuits. Don’t judge me because of the bag.’

  It was pink, with daisies on it. ‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’

  ‘That’s a relief.’ He squatted down to eye-level with Oscar. ‘Hello there, I live next door to you. I think I’ve seen your trucks in your garden.’

  ‘I love trucks,’ said Oscar. ‘I have eighty million of them.’

  ‘That is impressive.’

  ‘This is Oscar,’ said Jo, ‘and the one asleep in the pushchair is Iris. Oscar, this is our neighbour, Mr …?’

  ‘Marcus is fine. Nice to meet you, Oscar.’ Marcus held out his hand solemnly and Oscar shook it, up and down, one-two.

  ‘I didn’t know he knew how to do that,’ Jo said.

  ‘A nice, firm handshake. A good thing to have.’ Marcus straightened up, smiling. Even though he wore more formal clothes than when she’d seen him before, his hair was still dishevelled, as if he’d forgotten to brush it before he went to work, or as if he’d been running his fingers through it. ‘What’s your mission, then, Jo?’ he asked, and Jo felt a burst of joy that he had remembered her name, after all. This young man who probably wasn’t ten years older than her own daughter.

  ‘I have a very exciting schedule of the key cutter and then the library. We’ve already been to Waitrose to try to find something that will tempt my mother-in-law to eat.’

  ‘Ah. Mother-in-laws are tricky, I hear. Haven’t got one, myself.’

  His face was clean-shaven today, and there was a small mole on his cheek, the only flaw in his smooth skin. Jo tried to bring herself back to the moment.

  ‘Honor’s staying with us for a bit whilst she recovers. She’s had to have hip replacement surgery. She’s not the easiest person to live with.’

  This was an understatement. Honor had barely said a word since she’d been installed in Lydia’s former room the day before. She ate nearly none of the Sunday roast that Jo had cooked and went to her room before the children were in bed, refusing all offers of hot drinks or help. Jo had heard her still shuffling around behind the closed door at eleven, when she’d gone up herself.

  This morning, Honor had been up before Jo had come downstairs with the children. Jo had found the kettle hot and a plate with toast crumbs in the sink.

  ‘She doesn’t really want to spend any time with us,’ Jo heard herself saying. ‘She stays shut up in her room. She doesn’t even look at you directly – she sort of stares over your shoulder all the time, even when she’s speaking to you. As if eye-contact is too much trouble.’

  ‘Sounds like most teenagers I know.’

  Jo laughed, as much because of his sunny grin as what he’d said. ‘I don’t know what to think,’ she confessed. ‘On the one hand, it’s great that Honor’s settled in so quickly and that she feels confident enough in the house to look after herself. On the other hand … I’d sort of hoped that we’d be behaving like a family.’

  ‘What does your husband say?’

  ‘Oh, he’s—Honor is the mother of my first husband, who passed away.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be, it was a long time ago.’ Jo thought about her moment in Honor’s room yesterday, looking at the photograph; the moment in Waitrose just now, watching the couple. Lying in bed awake last night. She hurried on. ‘
I had Oscar and Iris with my second husband.’

  ‘He must be very special to put up with a mother-in-law who isn’t even his.’

  ‘He doesn’t have to put up with her. We’re divorced.’

  ‘Oh.’

  He didn’t add anything, or do anything, just stood there politely. Because she’d been stupid enough to basically tell him in the middle of the shopping precinct, with her two kids in tow, for heaven’s sake, that she was single and available.

  ‘So about …’ he began at last.

  ‘Anyway,’ she interrupted, before he could say he needed to get going, make his excuses and embarrass her further, ‘I’m sure that you don’t want to hear my entire history in the—’

  ‘Streetlamp!’ yelled Oscar.

  They both looked at the little boy, who was jumping up and down and pointing at a streetlamp in the middle of the patch of grass as if it were the most exciting thing in the world.

  ‘What’s that, mate?’ said Marcus.

  ‘Streetlamp! The streetlamp is green, Mummy, is that it?’

  ‘Yes, it is, darling! I Spy,’ she explained to Marcus.

  ‘Your turn!’ said Oscar, turning to Marcus. ‘You guess!’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘Don’t you – I mean, please don’t feel that you have to play a game with him. I know you’re on your lunch break.’

  ‘Already had my lunch,’ said Marcus. ‘And the world won’t collapse if people don’t get their tea and biscuits in the next five minutes. Lay it on me, Oscar.’

  ‘I spy with my little eye, something that is brown!’

  ‘Hmm.’ Marcus put his finger on his chin and gazed around them. ‘The ground?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘The bank?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘The sky?’

  ‘The sky is blue!’ Oscar was beaming, his shoulders thrown back in the way he did when he was being bossy.

  ‘So it is. Your mummy’s hair?’ Marcus caught Jo’s eye for a second. ‘No, your mummy’s hair isn’t brown. It’s more … auburn.’

  ‘Ginger,’ said Jo.

  ‘Auburn,’ affirmed Marcus. ‘Hmm. Let me see, then. Not the ground, or the bank, or the sky which is blue, or Mummy’s hair. How about … my shoes?’

  ‘Yes!’ cried Oscar. ‘Brown shoes!’

  ‘Good work! You nearly got me there, mate.’ He exchanged a high five with Oscar, and straightened up.

  ‘You’re good with children,’ she said.

  ‘I’ve got a nephew about his age.’

  He hesitated, and Jo jumped in. ‘Well, we’ve got to get these keys cut before Iris wakes up. Nice to see you again, Marcus.’

  ‘Nice to see you, too. And nice to meet you, Oscar. I’ll make Iris’s acquaintance later. Jo, I was …’ He ran his free hand through his curly hair, making it stand up a bit more. ‘I still owe you that cup of tea.’

  ‘Oh. Yes, that would be’ another opportunity for me to gawp at you and make a fool of myself ‘nice.’

  ‘Great. Come by any time you’re free. I’m number thirty-six.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I’m sorry, I really have to go, or I’ll be late.’ He walked away, backwards, holding up the pink daisy bag. ‘I’ll even throw in a biscuit!’ he called, and turned and loped off at half a run. Jo watched his easy stride, his graceful body, until he was out of sight.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Honor

  WHEN THE HOUSE was deserted, it was much quieter than her house in Stoke Newington. Traffic was sparse; the passing cars were well-serviced and full of children.

  Honor had nothing to do. No household task, no research to complete, no errands she was able to run. Before she had gone out, Jo had brought her a flask of tea, a plate of biscuits and another plate of sandwiches, covered with cling film, accompanied by an apple and a banana. They all sat, untouched, on the small table near the comfortable yet not too soft armchair that Jo had also arranged for her specially. She had also arranged a grabber – a sort of pincer at the end of a stick, controlled by a handle. It was to allow Honor to pick up things without getting out of her chair, or bending down.

  This was the radius of her world: what she could see from the edges of her eyes, what she could reach with the end of a stick.

  Honor stood and walked with her cane out of her bedroom into the empty house. She had carefully flushed all of her pain medication down the toilet in the ensuite. The pain was bearable, or she would make herself bear it; the doctor had assured her that it would abate, day by day, as her wounds healed. He had also told her to be as active as possible. ‘You want to use that joint to strengthen it, even though it will be hard at first. Only be careful – we don’t want you falling again!’

  The condescending ‘we’. At least Jo didn’t use that particular construction. Honor was more grateful for that than the house room, or the grabber, or the carefully prepared food.

  She made her way across the slippery floor, using the cane, across the kitchen to the door leading to the garage. Here in the semi-darkness, in the scent of oil and concrete, in the open space abandoned by the too-large car, was something else she was presumably meant to be grateful for. In the shadows it hunkered like a large clumsy insect, a misshapen beetle perhaps.

  It had arrived this morning, in the back of a van that beeped as it reversed into the gravel drive, and Jo and the children had harried Honor outside to marvel at it.

  ‘Scooter!’ Oscar had cried, jumping up and down, running with that never-ending supply of energy. ‘It’s a scooter, Ganny H! And it’s purple!’

  The sunshine was dazzling; Honor could see squat wheels, a flash of purple. ‘You got me a mobility scooter?’

  ‘I thought it would be useful, and it would give you more independence,’ said Jo. ‘You can go to the shopping precinct, run your own errands. I mean I can drive you, of course, but if you wanted to do it yourself.’

  ‘How much does one of these cost?’

  ‘I rented it. You can have them by the week. It’s not as good as your bicycle, but …’

  ‘I’m not certain that this is—’ Honor was surprised to feel a small cool hand slip into hers. Oscar tugged her towards the scooter. ‘Come and ride it, Ganny H!’ At a loss as to what else to do, she went with him. ‘This is the seat here,’ he told her, pointing. ‘And this is the start button. Can I press it?’

  ‘No, Oscar, it’s Granny Honor’s scooter, not for little boys,’ said Jo.

  Honor could not see the start button, but Oscar, impatiently, put her hand on it. ‘Press it!’ he insisted, so she did. The scooter came to buzzing, vibrating life. Oscar whooped in delight. ‘I want a ride!’ he cried.

  She shut it off. Oscar made a disappointed noise.

  ‘I’ll put it in the garage for now,’ said Jo, cheerfully, but Honor could hear her disappointment. Yet another thing Jo had done that Honor was meant to appreciate, and did not.

  Now, hours later and alone, Honor approached it. She put her hand on its smooth carapace. For a moment she thought about getting on it, pressing the button. Trundling out onto the pavements of Woodley and somehow, guided by intuition perhaps, making her way at four miles per hour, metre by metre, down Keats Way, across Tennyson Street, out of the regimented blocks of suburbia to the jumbled streets of London, back to her home. There had been a film about that, hadn’t there? An elderly person taking their destiny into their own hands.

  She snorted. She was not an inspirational film. She was a woman. Once she had been a daughter, an academic, a lover, a reader, a mother. Object of pity, object of desire, subject of scorn.

  Now none of those. Only a woman. Another old lady. Useless, irrelevant and invisible. This scooter did not give her freedom; it represented her limits.

  It also meant that Jo had not guessed her secret.

  It had started nearly a year ago, when the words began to jump.

  She had been reading a sentence and it shifted on the page. A word leaped, changed position, suddenly higher than it had been before
.

  She retraced her reading – back to the beginning of the sentence, reassuringly solid and black next to the white margin, and started again. And in the same place, the sentence bucked up, as if it had become detached from the page, as if it had become capricious.

  And then the word after, and the word after, until the tail end, the right margin, when the words lay still again. She tried the next line, which lay still near the margin, and then jumped in the middle, mid-phrase. Again, on the next line, the next paragraph, the next page.

  She put down her book and rested her eyes, rubbing her forehead. It was evening and she was lying in her bed with the reading lamp on. It was a hardback edition of Anna Karenina. The pages were soft from the touch of her fingers. With her eyes closed she could visualize the page she had just tried to read. She could see the sentence that had moved, as it should be, rock-solid and reassuring. If she opened the book on her lap, she would be able to put her finger on it without even looking, because words did not move. Their meanings might shift with time and experience, translation and context, literary theory and fashion.

  But words themselves did not judder on the page like clumsy dancers.

  For her entire life she had read whilst walking. Physical movement helped her think. She enjoyed reading as a passenger in a car or a train or an aeroplane. She had occasionally opened a book and snatched phrases from it whilst she was riding her bicycle, steering with her knees, listening for obstacles.

  She liked the feeling of the world moving around her whilst her words stayed solid and safe and true.

  Honor thought of the sentence she had been reading: They have no conception of what happiness is, and they do not know that without love there is no happiness or unhappiness for us, for there would be no life. She opened the book and put her finger on it by feel, without looking. She pictured the sentence in her mind.

  When she opened her eyes, the words danced.

  After this first tremor she carried on reading for several months, regardless. With a book she knew well, it was less of a problem; the words at the edges around the margin stayed obediently still, ranks of reliable soldiers, and she could predict the meaning of the dancing middle, even if she couldn’t quite catch the words. But a new book was impossible to understand. Meaning became slippery, syntax distorted. Distracted by movement, she couldn’t follow a sentence she had started.