THIRTY-SIX
OCTOBER
IF I’M HONEST WITH myself, I knew something was wrong before I went away to New York, but I didn’t want to admit it and she seemed pretty good when I got back. Kath had been having a lot of her ‘off’ days with headaches and tiredness and snapping at me for such small things, and now, after couple of months I fear the worst. I keep thinking about Derek and how quickly he went, and then feel like I’m going to throw up at the thought of the same thing happening to Kath, my Kath. Everything feels a bit much right now. Obviously everything with Theo has fallen away and I’m still smarting, Lyla’s been so spirited ever since her Autumn Leaves dance triumph and I’ve barely heard a peep from Natalie – she’s been sending me out on jobs mainly on my own. I really should check in with her, actually.
Anyway, right now my shoulders feel pretty heavy.
I’m so worried. I made Kath book in with her GP just to talk about her tiredness and headaches. She came over to my house the same day and said everything was fine but that she was being referred for further tests. I pushed her on it. ‘You don’t get referred to the hospital for more work if you’re fine. What else is going on?’ Well, apparently she’d collapsed a few days prior (prompting her to take me up on my advice about seeing her doctor), and was suffering from a fair bit of sudden blood loss after not having had a period in months. Naturally I’d googled this, and jumped straight to logical conclusions. Cancer.
Not letting any of this show, I turn the car radio down and say, ‘I hope we can find parking – you know what they’re like at the hospital, it’s an absolute nightmare, isn’t it?’
‘I’m sure we will, lovey,’ she says quietly, clearly lost in thought herself, hopefully not about cancer.
‘I’m not having you walk miles though, Kath!’ I’m starting to feel weirdly panicked now; I can feel all the things in my head swirling about, and the only thing I can seem to do is keep talking at a hurried pace about parking. ‘I’m actually going to complain if we have to park miles away. You’re a patient, you deserve a close spot!’ I’m almost crying at this point, and I think we both know it’s not about the parking.
‘Robin, lovey, stop. Take a deep breath. I’m all right to walk, and I’m all right in myself,’ she says, patting her ditsy-print gypsy skirt as if to illustrate how healthy she is and how far she can walk.
‘All right, we’ll see where we can find a spot. I just want to make today as easy as possible for you. I love you,’ I say, looking at her briefly and trying to keep my eyes on the road at the same time.
Resting her hand on my knee, she says, ‘My dear girl, I’m absolutely fine. We’re only going to a hospital appointment – I’m not actually being admitted.’
I take a deep breath and remind myself that this is about Kath, that I need to pull it together and be supportive. ‘You’re right. We’ve faced far worse than this and we are strong. Let me get your coat out of the boot and we’ll go inside.’
Walking round to the boot and brushing away my tears before she can see any upset, I take a big gulp of crisp autumn air and add, ‘Better the devil you know, eh?’
‘That’s the ticket,’ she says, and we head into the appointment.
* * *
WAITING THE COUPLE OF weeks for Kath’s results is nerve-wracking. With the days drawing in and the clocks going back, play dates have migrated from National Trust grounds and adventure playgrounds to soft play centres and indoor trampoline ‘parks’ (absolutely hideous environments, where kids are worked into an energetic frenzy, dads insist on showing off, falling and pretending they haven’t slipped a disc and mums cross their legs with every bounce). Last winter our only real outings were to the soft play centre, mums I didn’t know to speak to all sat round the brightly coloured plastic tables sipping crap coffee and the children running feral through ball pools and rope mazes. Lyla never seemed to enjoy them that much, preferring to stick close to me and have me run the jumbo obstacle zone than play much with the others.
Lately, though, and to my delight, she’s been asking more and more to visit friends or have them over, so I sent out a group text to the gang to see if they fancied a soft play date.
Sat round our table with drinks and packets of crisps we’ll say are for our children, but it’s not Lyla shovelling Wotsits into her mouth, I feel relaxed and happy to be with Gillian and Finola. How times have changed.
I’m wearing soft skinny jeans with an overgenerous give to them, a plain grey T-shirt, white trainers and no make-up. Once this would have sent me into a frenzy of self-deprecation, but not any more. I’m allowed to let my face be my face, to wear practical clothes, to just be myself and not worry. Theo, Val, anyone negative be damned – I’m a happy camper!
‘What have you been doing with yourself then, deary? Spending the weekend with any dashing young men we should know about?’ Finola asks with gusto.
Gillian titters excitedly on the other side of the neon orange table, bless her – she’d love a bit of gossip, I know.
‘Sadly not, ladies; my life is a man-free zone at the moment, and it’s going very well. I spent the weekend with my aunt,’ I say, calmly taking a sip of my crappy coffee.
‘The one with the crocheted socks?’ Gillian enquires with earnest, trying to speak loudly enough to be heard over the din of screaming children in the nearby foam pit.
‘Yep, that’s the one. She’s got a bit of a thing for handicrafts. I’m not sure there’s anything she can’t make. When Lyla was born, she made her a full set of clothes from this beautiful soft white wool with pearly buttons and lace around the cuffs and collar. She looked like a little angel.’
‘How lucky! I’d love to have someone in my family who could sew. Paul’s mother’s idea of sewing is having something taken up in John Lewis, and my mum’s too busy on her cruises these days to even see Clara, let alone knit for her.’ Gillian actually seems a bit bitter about this, which is a surprise considering her usual meek and mild demeanour. I’d never really considered that other people don’t have a Kath around to make mad things and teach mad dance routines. I had been so busy focusing on the fact that I’m a single mum, and that Mum and Dad had moved away, and I was so lonely, and then there was Theo, that I just hadn’t stopped to appreciate just how big a space in my life Kath fills.
‘I am lucky. We’ve had a bit of a scare with her health – we’re waiting for the results now – so now we have regular “Kath and Robin” dates together. Kath lives and dies for charity shops. I go in and find total junk, and she’ll go in and find couture – it’s incredible! Kath used to look after me a lot when I was little, and she talks about how she spent many hours at parish hall Tumble Tots with me, and now I’m an adult we do days like shopping in little villages, or crafts at her house. It won’t be long before our lot outgrow the soft play and they’re taking us out for lunch!’
‘Now there’s an idea! Perhaps Roo and Honor could send me off on a riding retreat as a thank you for all these early morning lessons I’ve been giving them all their lives!’ laughs Finola.
‘I thought you loved all those hours at the stables!’ pipes up Gillian.
‘Of course I do, my dear, but I wouldn’t mind a morning fumble with Edgar every now and again!’ admits Finola, still laughing and reaching quite a pitch with it.
The thought of Finola wanting or having any kind of sexual experience is enough to send Gillian and me into fits of giggles. All four children come running up and look confused to find their mothers have lost their minds, and beg us to come in and play with them.
Usually we’d say no, but since we’ve descended into hysterical chaos, we allow ourselves to be dragged into the mayhem and spend the next forty-five minutes laughing, running, sliding and falling all through the play zone.
Every time I make eye contact with Lyla I can see she’s that kind of happy you normally only see when the birthday cake comes out, or when you switch on the Christmas tree lights for the first time. She’s playing so well with
Roo and the others, but I know that having me there, enjoying myself with carefree abandon, is thrilling her. It’s thrilling me too. I don’t care that my knickers are poking out above my jeans or that my hair is sticking to the back of my sweaty neck.
I don’t even care when I get stuck in the curly slide and Gillian and Finola have to yank me out by my feet from the bottom. This is what proper joy feels like. In this moment, I’m not even fretting about Kath, but I’m living life, fully and happily. It feels great …
* * *
WE GET THE RESULTS. I haven’t felt relief this overpowering since they placed a newborn Lyla on my chest and said, ‘A healthy baby girl, Miss Wilde, congratulations!’ I’m so relieved, I feel dizzy and sick and hysterical with laughter all at once.
‘The menopause! You’re starting the menopause!’ I say over and over as Kath and I head out to the surgery car park.
‘Yes, all right, dear, let’s not shout it to all and sundry,’ Kath says firmly, but she’s also clearly relieved.
‘Sorry Kath, but I’m just so happy! I was so worried it was something sinister,’ I dance as we walk across the car park to our spot.
‘Oh yes, so am I. I can’t wait for the mood swings and night sweats,’ she says sarcastically but with a smile creeping over her face. ‘You just wait till it’s you having to deal with dryness down there, hot flushes and forgetting your own name, my girl.’
‘OK, sure, it’s not ideal but it’s not cancer! It’s not a heart condition! It’s not a disease! It’s just the menopause!’ I actually start skipping a little bit. But then I stop, ‘In all seriousness, though, Auntie Kath, I get it. I do. We’ll be there for you, I promise. I thought I was going to lose you. I thought Lyla and I would be orphans,’ I laugh, realising how ridiculous I sound.
I look over at Kath, who has stopped still in her tracks and has tears welling in her eyes.
‘I’m sorry! I shouldn’t have said the C-word. Oh Kath, I didn’t mean to upset you, I’m so sorry. I’m here for you. Lyla is here for you. Whatever you need, whenever you need us, our door is open to you. I won’t even get cross when you try to open my bills or customise my clothes with pom-poms. I love you; I don’t want to make you sad.’
‘You haven’t upset me, lovey. You said “orphans”. All these years I’ve felt like you and Lyla are more daughters than nieces, and here you are saying it back to me. I should be sad about the bloody menopause, but this is a happy day! I’ve got my health, I’ve got my girls, I’ve got it all!’
‘We’ve got it all, Kath, we’ve got it all!’
With that, we both skip to the car, probably looking like absolute maniacs, me in skinny jeans and Kath in a floaty maxi skirt, skipping out of a hospital to take on the world!
LACEY IS TRYING TO make the best of things, but I can see underneath it all she’s broken. We’re sat in Dovington’s studio room with our standard cups of tea and custard cream biscuits and a stack of baby magazines.
‘I really thought this was it, Robin. Honestly. Ten days late – nearly two weeks – and all the signs. I know I shouldn’t have bought the tests yet, but they were right by the tills. I was buying them and I felt so confident. I had that glow, you know? The glow they talk about pregnant women having? I had it. So I just picked them up as I was paying and the test –,’ she says with a heaving sob, ‘– the test was negative. Another fucking negative.’
‘Oh Lacey, you’ll get there, I know you will.’ I put my tea down and stare into the cup. It’s not just me that has problems and feels despairing, sometimes; everyone is fighting their own battle. I don’t envy Lacey, my poor lovely Lacey.
‘I know, I hope I know, but it’s been so long. We’re not far off the year mark now, and I’m so sick of it all. Sex isn’t sex any more, and I resent seeing every one of my friends wheeling their beautiful babies around, or going to baby showers for girls who didn’t even have to try. All I seem to do is try!’
We’ve been here before, many times, and I never know what I should say. I don’t think she does either.
‘I know there’s nothing I can say to give you what you really want right now, but Lacey, I love you and I’m here for you. If you want to have a great big cry, go for it; if you want to smash things up in frustration, I’m here for you; if you want to go out and get absolutely shit-faced, I’m your girl. You name it, I’m there. And then, when this fantastic little baby blooms into our lives, I’m going to be the best faux auntie it ever had! I’ll babysit and take it out and teach it the ways of the world, and then when it’s old enough, I’ll pass it over to Auntie Piper to take out on the town and show it how it’s really done.’ Hmmm, turns out I did have something to say, I just hope it’s what Lacey wanted to hear.
A thin smile crosses Lacey’s face and she takes a sip of tea. Success!
‘It’s going to be perfect, isn’t it, Robin?’ she asks, looking for confirmation more than anything.
‘Yes, it is – we just have to wait for it,’ I say, giving her hand a little squeeze. ‘In the meantime—’
I’m interrupted by the buzz of my phone vibrating on the huge wooden table.
‘Oh jeez, it’s Simon. I haven’t left something out of her bag, have I?’ I say to nobody really. ‘Sorry, Lacey.’ She gestures that it’s fine.
‘Hi Simon, everything OK?’ I say, taking the call.
‘Hi, yeah, er, now, Storie is away on an aromatherapy course,’ he dithers.
‘Right. OK,’ I answer firmly, still confused as to why he’s calling.
‘Yep, er, Lyla is coughing quite a bit and, er, I wondered, shall I, er, shall I bring her home to you?’
‘No, Simon, it’s a cough. Can’t you deal with it?’ I’m glad he can’t see me rolling my eyes.
‘Deal with it how? Mother always gave me, er, a shot of warm whisky, ha, but Lyla’s refusing to drink it,’ he says, demonstrating how little he understands our child.
‘Yep, well, she will, Simon, because that’s gross and she’s seven, so don’t you dare give her alcohol. You need to go out and get her some children’s cough medicine and then just wrap her up in front of the TV and make her some soup or something nice, OK?’
Fuck’s sake.
‘Right, right, yep, OK, so not to bring her home to you? It’s just that, ha, Storie is away, so, er, it’s just me here handling this,’ he continues to dither.
‘Simon,’ I say, trying to talk slowly and clearly as he’s obviously having a hard time understanding that this isn’t a big deal. ‘I handle everything on my own all the time, just fine. It’s a cough. You can manage. I’m having some me time. If things get any worse then call the doctor, and then me, but for just a cough, you’ve got this.’
I put the phone down and roll my eyes again at Lacey.
‘Bloody hell, that was painful,’ I say.
‘Poor thing,’ she says supportively.
‘Poor thing?! I deal with this all the fucking time by myself! It’s about time he felt what my life is like for half a day!’ I say fervently.
‘No, no, Robin, I meant Lyla being poorly. Poor her,’ she says, a bit taken aback by my outburst.
‘Riiight, sorry! I know I seemed harsh there, but he’s got to manage. I think Storie does everything when they have her, and it’s not right. Lyla needs her dad to step up, and for once I’m not going to enable his weakness. I’m strong enough to stand firm on this.’
Before I can change the conversation to something a little lighter, my phone buzzes again with an unknown number.
‘You’re popular today!’ Lacey says, popping another custard cream in her mouth and munching it gladly.
‘First time for everything,’ I say with a smile.
‘Hello, Miss Popular speaking!’ I say in jovial, high-pitched tones.
‘Robin, it’s Natalie. Sorry to ring on a Saturday. Are you free for a chat? Do you think you could come over? Now?’
THIRTY-SEVEN
DECEMBER
A few minutes to midnight …
&
nbsp; PLACING HER WINE GLASS carefully and importantly (it’s quite the honour to be given a wine glass when you’re only seven years old) on the marble worktops of our new kitchen, Lyla says, ‘Mummy, this is our princess castle and you are the queen.’
‘It certainly is, Bluebird, and how glad I am to be your queen! We’ve had quite a year, haven’t we! What’s been your best bit?’ I ask, filling her glass up with more ‘wine’.
It’s 31 December. We’re having our very own exclusive, only-two-invites-sent, New Year’s Eve party in our new house, complete with actual breakfast bar (as opposed to my old stub of Formica posing as a one) in the very lovely marble-worktopped, under-cupboard-lit kitchen. We have Skips in bowls, cut-in-half Babybels, chocolate fingers and jelly babies as our buffet, and Appletiser on tap. It might not be the Sugar Factory with Piper, or even the stylish party Lacey and Karl threw last year but honestly, this might be the best New Year’s Eve I’ve had. I’m so far from where I thought I’d be. I’m content.
After Natalie’s big offer, we moved house. I loved Granny’s house. It was everything I needed when Simon left and the familiarity of Granny’s touches was like a warm hug. Now though, I realised it was time for something that was mine. Something I had worked for and that I can put my own stamp on. Also, something a little less draughty and rickety is quite the treat! I wasn’t planning on moving so quickly but when this house popped up for sale in Figgsberry Village, a stone’s throw from Lyla’s school, chain-free, with a beautiful garden for her to play in and ticking every box I had ever wished for, I pounced. Martin helped me with all the paperwork and Karl and Lacey helped me move in the day after my 29th birthday at the beginning of December. We all regretted having one too many glasses of fizz the next day – my god, shifting boxes and hangovers do not mix! It’s been a crazy couple of months and, thinking about it, I never imagined I’d have the strength to do any of this. That’s the thing about change, sometimes you don’t even realise it’s happened until it has.
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