by Jenny Colgan
It was too noisy to speak, but occasionally Huckle would turn his head to the left as if to check on how she was doing, and she would blink back to indicate that she was all right and he would power on.
But was she? She sat rigid in the sidecar, trying to examine herself to see what she actually thought. Was this all connected? she wondered. The way she kept brushing Huckle off whenever he tried to talk to her about children. She kept telling him they were too poor, or too busy . . . but was that true? Or was it all down to the fact that she didn’t know how to be part of a family? Not a full one anyway. She didn’t know how a father should be.
She had a nasty memory, suddenly, from out of the blue. When she was very small, hardly older than Year 1, she had developed a huge pash for the school janitor and had to be told not to throw her arms around him or follow him about. Even at that tender age, she had been hopelessly humiliated as the head teacher had spoken gently but firmly to her mother, telling her to make sure it didn’t happen again.
What had that been, she wondered now, but a sublimated desire to attach herself to a father figure?
And every dead end in her heart; every time she’d stopped thinking about it, or cut herself off. Had it changed things? Made them go away? Of course not. Just because she stopped herself spending a lot of time dwelling on things, that didn’t mean they had disappeared. She was just putting off confronting them for another day, and then another.
And now that day was here.
She realized that part of her felt flattered, oddly vindicated. As if, yes, you did think about me. It did matter to you, whatever you said or didn’t say, however much you didn’t pay me any mind or make contact. I was there all the time. I did exist for you. I was real in your eyes.
Although did that matter in the end?
Her heart was beating dangerously fast.
She had to see him. Didn’t she? But what kind of a state would he even be in? Perhaps he was raving. Completely crazy.
And what would her mother say? This terrible thing, this elephant in the room, how would they move beyond it? Perhaps Polly wouldn’t tell her. Yet would that not just add to the family secrets that bore down on them so heavily, that kept her mother’s heart so sad even after all these years?
She sighed out loud, but Huckle didn’t hear her. The sun was up properly now. It was going to be a ravishing English winter’s day, the sun slowly rising over fields carpeted with frost; beasts turned out in the fields; a pause in the beat of the farming year as the world held its breath, waiting for Christmas, the darkest, quietest time—or at least it was meant to be—followed by the full bursting of spring. It was quite lovely.
They could go somewhere else: watch the cold crashing waves; find a deserted out-of-season hotel; eat scones in front of a roaring fire. Jayden already had the shop covered, and it didn’t take much to persuade Huckle to bunk off. They could just have a lovely day, the two of them.
But how could she, when all she’d be thinking about was this?
Instead, they neared the busy outskirts of Plymouth, already clogged with angry-looking commuters—was it worse, Polly thought, commuting to work on a mucky day or a beautiful one? She hadn’t ever thought about it when she used to drive to the graphic design office she ran with Chris. It was traffic and parking and fuss. It was what it was. Nowadays she ran thirty meters along a cobbled promenade with trays of warm buns in her arms; that was her commute.
She looked at the angry drivers, most of whom turned to stare at the motorbike—it garnered attention wherever they went. They looked stressed, their shoulders and bodies tense over the steering wheel; groups of noisy, disruptive schoolchildren in the back; radios blaring.
It was funny, she reflected. When she thought about how tough it was working for yourself—the long hours, the paperwork, the worries that kept you up at night—she never considered that she no longer had to get to work, and how grateful she was for that.
They queued through the traffic and finally turned in to the hospital. There was nowhere to park, but Huckle popped them up on a grass verge: nobody minded a motorbike, even if it was as wide as a small car. He stilled the engine, and suddenly the world became a lot quieter.
Polly started to shake. She felt incredibly sick. She should have eaten before they left. Or maybe that would have been worse. Huckle blinked. Even his blinking, Polly thought sometimes, was kind.
“Well?” he said in that slow drawl she loved so much. “Whadya reckon?”
She sat there, not moving. Huckle didn’t feel the need to fill the silence, or indicate what he’d rather do either way. He was perfectly happy to wait, or to come, just as she needed him. Although if he’d heard her plan to take the day off and have a picnic, he’d probably have liked that the best.
Finally Polly turned to him, her face pale and anxious.
“We’re . . . I mean. I suppose. We’re here now,” she said.
Huckle shrugged. “That doesn’t matter.”
“But I don’t . . . I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. I don’t know what I’m supposed to feel. Three hours ago I thought I didn’t have a dad, or rather that it didn’t matter. Three hours ago my life was totally happy.”
“Well that’s good to hear,” said Huckle, politely not mentioning the snit she was in about Christmas, or the puffin sanctuary.
“But now . . . I mean, everything’s been turned upside down.”
“Eep,” said Neil.
“Thanks,” said Polly. Huckle tried not to roll his eyes.
Stiffly Polly pulled herself out of the sidecar. It wasn’t the easiest of maneuvers. She stretched her legs.
“Well?” said Huckle.
“Well,” said Polly. “Nothing ventured.”
“You’re very brave.”
“I’m an idiot.”
“Do you want me to come?”
“Yes. No. Yes. No.”
“Don’t start this again.”
Polly heaved a sigh.
“I feel this is something I need to find out by myself. Maybe. In case it all goes wrong.”
“Okay.” Huckle nodded. “Oh,” he said. “Look. I know this isn’t exactly the time, but . . . I bought you something. Well, something I owed you. Selina made it for me. Well. For you. For us.”
Polly blinked.
“What do you mean?”
He handed her a little box.
“I was going to keep it for Christmas. But I decided I couldn’t.”
“When did you decide this?” said Polly.
“Five minutes ago,” said Huckle. “When you couldn’t decide anything, I decided something.”
Polly took the box and opened it gently.
It was a beautiful engagement ring. Silver, the metal carved so that it looked like a tiny twist of seaweed; exactly what he’d proposed with in the first place. It was quirky and precious and entirely them, and suddenly Polly loved it more than anything in the world.
“Oh!” she said, slipping it on. It fit perfectly. “I love it,” she said.
“It goes very well with . . . whatever it is you’re wearing.” Polly had gotten dressed in a hurry.
She kept staring at the ring, her eyes full of tears.
“You’re part of my life,” she said, slowly. “The most important part. Maybe you should come after all.”
“The thing I love most about you,” said Huckle, “is your decisiveness.”
She didn’t smile, just kept staring at the ring, shaking her head. Then, finally, “Okay, stay,” she said. “Look after Neil. I’ll call you if I need you.”
Huckle pulled her forward, and she buried her face in his chest once more.
“Are you sure?”
She nodded and attempted a weak smile.
“And if I come out shouting GUN IT!, we break for the border, okay?”
“Okay,” said Huckle.
He watched her small frame disappear into the vast hospital, looking very alone. Her head was held high; you wouldn’t have known from l
ooking at her the turmoil she was in. That’s my girl, he thought.
Neil eeped inquiringly.
“I don’t know either,” said Huckle. And he left the bike on the grass verge and went off in search of coffee.
Chapter Fifteen
It was slightly absurd, Polly thought as she looked out for Carmel, who’d said she’d be waiting for her by the entrance, that it had never crossed her mind that she might be black. Too long living out in the country, no doubt. It didn’t matter, though, as the soft-voiced woman with the very short hair came directly toward her. Her face was drawn.
“Sorry. Sorry, are you . . . are you Polly?”
That was it, Polly thought later. The final chance; her last opportunity. She could have lied, could have said no, sorry, you must have someone else in mind. She could simply have turned around, walked back out into the exquisite December morning.
The woman’s hands were trembling, Polly noticed. Trembling almost as much as her own, which she’d jammed into her jeans pockets.
She cleared her throat.
“Yes,” she said quietly. “Yes, I am.”
The hospital was vast. Endless pale, identically lit corridors. It reminded Polly oddly of a ship, crewed by men and women in green scrubs and white tops, sailing—well, where? From birth to death, she supposed. Traveling on. Pregnant women walked slowly up and down, interspersed with the elderly; people were wheeled around, some missing limbs, many pale and gray-faced. Carmel didn’t seem to notice. But then she wasn’t desperately trying to hang back as Polly was; wasn’t trying to spin out time before some kind of reckoning had to be met.
“He saw you in the paper,” said Carmel. “He stared at it for ages. I didn’t know what was up with him.”
She looked at Polly, really looked at her. Then she laughed.
“What is it?” said Polly, thrown. She twiddled her new ring, a talisman to remind herself that things weren’t so bad, no matter how strange the situation she found herself in.
“You . . . I mean, it’s undeniable. Do you remember when Boris Becker had a baby in a broom cupboard?”
Polly didn’t say anything, and Carmel’s face dropped.
“I’m so sorry, love. I’m just nervous.” She swallowed hard. “I knew I’d say the wrong thing. I’m so sorry. I’m . . .”
She looked at Polly again, then turned her face away, shaking her head.
“You see, until the paper . . . and until he got sick the first time . . . I had absolutely no idea you existed.”
Polly hadn’t wanted to hear it, but there it was. She was invisible. She had been airbrushed out of his life completely, just as she had always thought. She came to a halt in the middle of the corridor.
“You didn’t know?”
Carmel stopped beside her.
“No. Not until two weeks ago.”
“You never knew anything about me?”
Carmel shook her head. “I thought he told me everything.” She paused. “Turned out I was wrong.”
“What did he say?”
Carmel sighed. “Oh Polly, I wouldn’t want to . . . I mean, your mum . . .”
“Forget about my mum,” said Polly, shaking with anger. “He did. Tell me. What did he say?”
“He said it was a one-night stand,” said Carmel. “He was a traveling sales rep. He said it had just happened . . .” She gave Polly a look. “We were married very young. He traveled about. His family . . . They didn’t want him to marry me in the first place. Things were a bit different back then.”
Polly nodded.
“He calmed down, you know. After the children. He just got married young and he was a good-looking chap, and there was a lot of opportunity . . .”
It sounded like she was trying to convince herself.
“My mum was not an opportunity,” said Polly, with barely concealed fury.
Healthcare workers and patients were having to move around them, standing stock still in the middle of the floor.
Carmel shrugged.
“No. No. I’m sorry. I’m saying the wrong thing again. You’re right. It was just . . . I’m so sorry. I think it was just one of those things that happened.”
“I’m just one of those things that happened?”
“Oh dear,” said Carmel. “I’m making things worse. I’m sorry. You have to realize this was as much of a shock to me as it is to you. And when he saw you in the paper . . . He’d been ill already, and he just gave the biggest sigh. Like it was a weight on his chest. I have never known a man apologize so much.”
Polly blinked in fury.
“I imagine there was probably more than an apology back then,” she spat. “He probably offered to get rid of me.”
Carmel stared straight ahead.
“I don’t know,” she said.
Polly thought back to her mother’s face: so perpetually weary, disappointed in the world. She tried to imagine what must have happened when Doreen had realized she was pregnant. Did she go to the doctor? Twenty years old, but so sheltered, still living at home; she must have been terrified.
Did she turn up at his work when she found out? Did she go around to his house, to be met by this gorgeous, immaculately groomed woman, and bottle it? Did she trail home afterward, tears running down her face, all her hopes and dreams for the future gone, exploded in one night’s madness? One night Polly’s so-called father professed to barely remember? A night that meant exactly what she had always suspected: nothing. Nothing at all. She meant nothing.
“No,” she said suddenly, bile rising in her throat. “No. I can’t do this. I can’t.”
And she turned around in the middle of the gleaming corridor and ran out against the flow of humanity pouring in; flew outside to the beautiful freezing winter’s day.
Huckle had just gotten his cup of coffee, and was sitting feeding bits of a very poor croissant to Neil and enjoying the sunlight when he saw Polly, half blinded with tears, her red hair glinting, tearing down the hospital steps like a rushing wind, and stood up to catch her.
“Did you see him?” he said, and she shook her head mutely, dampening the shoulder of his jacket. He didn’t mind.
“It’s okay,” he said, over and over again. “It’s okay.”
He didn’t say anything else at all, just calmly helped her into the sidecar, tucked her in and stuck Neil under the cover with her, where he curled up and went to sleep on her lap, which helped as much as anything anyone could ever say. Then he drove them back carefully all the way to Cornwall, and Polly stared out at the glorious frosty winter day, watching the leaves drift across the road and wishing with all her heart that this had never happened, that she could undo it all, that she didn’t have to remember the look of awkward, terrified kindness on Carmel’s face.
Chapter Sixteen
Ooh, those are beautiful,” said old Mrs. Larson a few days later. Polly was looking critically at her Christmas twists: little branches shaped like holly and made of raisin and cinnamon pastry, with a mincemeat filling. They were delicious; incredibly rich but very easy to make. She was going to make plenty for Reuben’s family to keep them going, and a bunch more for the wretched Christmas fair that was coming up on Saturday, but for now she had gathered a little boxful together and was heading off to visit her mum. It had to be done.
She was going to take Kerensa with her; she’d be a good distraction. Well, normally she was a good distraction, talking nineteen to the dozen and cheering everybody up, though at the moment, of course, she was very turned in on herself and secretly googling things like “intra DNA tests” and crying about Jeremy Kyle. Reuben, in his usual busy, distracted state, either didn’t notice or insisted everything was going to be tremendous and fine, which didn’t help matters in the slightest. Plus Kerensa was genuinely huge now, huffing around the place constantly uncomfortable.
They pulled up in front of Doreen’s neat little council terrace, where Polly had grown up. The houses were a mixture of local authority and bought. You could always tell the bo
ught, of course; they painted their front doors. Despite everything, it had been a happy place to grow up. Doreen hadn’t minded Polly running in and out of the house; playing endless games of skipping at the neighbors’ and watching Top of the Pops at her friends’ on summer evenings; buying ice creams from the van and making toast. It was a happy place for Polly; it had taken a long time for her to realize it was a sad place for her mother, that she had had different hopes.
Doreen had been so proud of Polly for going to university—and so disappointed when she had downgraded her office job to work in a bakery, of all things. It didn’t matter how much Polly explained that she was miles happier now, that she felt incredibly lucky to work in the lovely environment that she did, with the lovely people she knew. As far as Doreen was concerned, it was inexplicable; living in a lighthouse was a ridiculous idea, and all in all, given how much she had sacrificed to raise Polly all by herself, the fact that she would throw it all away on some cakes, an American without a proper job and a bird was a source of some sadness.
Polly sighed. Where she’d grown up didn’t bring her down, but Doreen could.
“Let’s get her drunk,” said Kerensa, who had admired Polly’s ring, then gotten slightly upset. Reuben bought her lots of jewelry, and currently she couldn’t bear to wear any of it. “Seriously. Get her drunk. Then she’ll talk.”
“You just want to infect people with the stuff you can’t do,” said Polly.
Doreen very rarely drank. She didn’t approve and thought that Polly and Kerensa’s cheerful Pinot Grigio habit (when Kerensa wasn’t pregnant) was a sign of weak character.
“Pretend it’s fruit juice or spritzer or something. It’s the only way.” Kerensa looked sadly at the two bottles she’d insisted they buy. “I wish I could get drunk. Get drunk and think about something bloody else.”