One Step Closer to You

by Alice Peterson

  Hugo and I exchanged glances. ‘It’s someone who drinks a little bit too much,’ I replied.

  ‘So if I drink too much Ribena, am I an alcoholic?’

  ‘No, sweetheart.’

  He waited, clearly not understanding.

  ‘It’s if you have too much wine or beer, grown-up drinks.’

  ‘Uncle Hugo drinks beer and wine. Are you an alcoholic too?’

  I can’t remember how we poured water over this heated conversation. I think it had something to do with having a biscuit before going back to bed.

  Hugo, Louis and I head into the sitting room that now resembles a bombsite.

  Louis grabs his play sword and swishes it in my direction, exclaiming, ‘You’re dead!’

  I stagger to the floor, clutching my chest in defeat. ‘Right.’ I spring back to life and look at my watch. It’s early afternoon. ‘Let’s tidy this mess up, go for a walk and then do you fancy something to eat?’ I ask Hugo. ‘My treat.’

  ‘Pizza Express!’ shouts Louis, jumping up and down.

  *

  Hugo sticks close to me in the dark. Every now and then I take his arm to steer him along the road and make sure he doesn’t headbutt a lamppost or trip over a toddler. Hugo is six foot four with thick dark hair like mine, and a soft plump tummy held in by a wide leather belt. He makes me, an average five foot six, look like a midget beside him. We often wonder how we came out of the same person, me joking that I need a stepladder to kiss him hello. Though on the podgy side, he’s fit and always challenging himself to climb mountains and ski down black runs. His latest feat was climbing Mount Kilimanjaro. He promises Louis that when’s he older he will take him trekking up a mountain. It’ll be a strictly boys’ holiday, a time to bond.

  Uncle Hugo and Louis are close. When I left Matthew, Hugo became a father figure to his nephew. He doesn’t spoil or indulge Louis to make up for the fact his dad is out of the picture. If Louis believes he can get away with eating a second chocolate marshmallow biscuit, he can think again. ‘I can see more than you realise,’ Uncle Hugo says, wagging a finger.

  ‘Careful. Step here,’ I say.

  ‘Up or down would be helpful.’

  ‘Sorry. Down.’

  *

  Pizza Express is in Belsize Park, close to the cinema with the comfy leather seats. When inside the restaurant, I slow down to allow Hugo to adjust to the darkness. A waiter leads us to a table by the window. It’s packed since it’s still the Christmas holidays. I notice Louis glancing at the next table, watching a dad going through the menu with his son. One of the waitresses comes over with a small pot of pens and crayons and a paper place mat for Louis to colour in.

  ‘Well, I’m guessing they’re not for me,’ Hugo says, already charming her.

  I order apple juice and dough balls for Louis before reading the menu out for Hugo. Hugo can’t read in a dark restaurant. At work he reads from a computer screen, the typeface blown up. It’s clear he’s partially sighted since his eyes are inverted and he has a strong squint. His sight is in the corner of his eyes, so it’s hard for him to look directly at someone sitting opposite him. He tells me that when he is lost in a strange place with no one to guide him he finds it easier to walk in sidesteps. He calls it his sexy crab walk.

  ‘Lasagne,’ Hugo says, stopping me mid-sentence. ‘That’ll do.’

  When we order our food the waitress asks if we would like to see the wine list.

  ‘No,’ says Louis, looking up from his place mat, pen in hand. ‘My mummy is an alcoholic.’

  Oh, Louis!

  ‘Oh right,’ she says, blushing, before she flees from our table as fast as she can.

  *

  As we wait for our food, Louis is zooming his toy police cars around the floor, playing good cop, bad cop. ‘Don’t go too far,’ I call out to him.

  ‘So how was the meeting?’ Hugo asks.

  Without mentioning names I tell Hugo that I saw someone from school there, adding that they didn’t stay for long.

  ‘Maybe he or she didn’t feel comfortable?’ Hugo suggests. ‘Hugs not drugs isn’t for everyone.’

  ‘Excuse me, we’re not all raving hippies.’

  ‘Did this person see you?’

  ‘Think so. Apparently his sister had a heart attack. She died, Hugo. She would have been around our age.’ I chew my nail. ‘He must be going through hell.’

  ‘When you next see him, talk to him.’

  I nod. ‘By the way, how did your date go last night?’

  ‘I don’t think we’ll be heading down the aisle any time soon.’

  ‘No snap, crackle and pop?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘Oh bollocks. This one sounded so promising, too.’

  Hugo has joined an online dating agency. He tried to persuade me to join a single-parent dating website too, but right now I’m happy being on my own. The idea of meeting strangers in pubs doesn’t appeal anymore. Besides, there’s a lot to be said for being on your own. I feel in control when it’s just me; I can do what I like, see who I like, wear my yoga pants most of the time and eat ice cream out of a tub in front of the new series of Strictly Come Dancing. My last relationship, with a lawyer called David, ended nine months ago. He was six years older than me and on paper every woman’s dream: good-looking in that male model catalogue way, old-fashioned in that he liked to pick up the tab in restaurants, he didn’t like football (hurray), was a good listener (rare) and was refreshingly honest about how much he wanted to marry and settle down, when most blokes can’t even commit to a second date. I met David in an art gallery. I was gazing at a sculpture of a man’s head by Picasso when I became aware of a tall dark stranger watching me. ‘I’m glad I don’t have such a large nose,’ he said, guessing why I was smiling, before introducing himself. We went out for dinner that night and to my surprise Louis and a recovering alcoholic didn’t put him off. As our relationship progressed he was positively supportive, suggesting he gave up booze too. David could not have been more different from Matthew. I told myself that it didn’t matter that my pulse didn’t race when we were together or that my head wasn’t intoxicated by thoughts of him when we were apart. Those kind of relationships spelt trouble. And for a time I did enjoy feeling safe and part of a couple. Our relationship lasted a year. Mum only met him twice but was bitterly disappointed when we broke up. Janey was infuriated when I kept on saying he was too perfect, especially when her last date had quibbled over the bill, saying he hadn’t eaten any garlic bread. Hugo liked him, but knew there wasn’t enough spark. Another factor against us was that David wasn’t a natural with kids. He and Louis didn’t hit it off as I’d hoped. I could tell David was irritated if Louis cut into his weekend paper time or spilt juice over his paperwork. When David began to talk about holidays and us moving in together I knew, from my reaction, that I had to break up with him. The pressure of more commitment was keeping me awake at night. I knew I was lying to myself and to David, pretending my caution was Louis. I wasn’t ready because I wasn’t in love with him.

  ‘She kept on saying “poor you”,’ Hugo says, bringing me back to his date. ‘She didn’t get the fact that when you’re born blind it’s all I have ever known so there is no need to feel sorry for me. I only wish I’d been able to see the price of the wine she was merrily ordering. It was literally poor me by the end of the night.’

  Hugo tells all his stories on air. He’s a journalist and radio presenter. When he left university he did work experience for the BBC, longing to break into broadcasting or journalism and began working for them on the production side soon afterwards. He moved to the other side of the microphone five years ago, when he began writing a blog about being partially sighted and it received so many hits that he was given his own midweek show on Radio 2 called How I See It. Hugo is honest about everything, from the barbecue fluid left in the fridge that he almost mistook for fruit juice to how he gets around on the tube and buses, to films and books, political views and most popular of all, the s
ingle scene in London.

  My mind drifts to Ben again. I wonder if he takes Emily out for meals. I’ve never seen him out and about, or bumped into him at the supermarket. I’d say he’s about forty, but then again beards can age people.

  ‘Polly?’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘You’re still thinking about that guy from school, aren’t you?’

  I’m wondering why he left so abruptly.

  ‘Maybe he’ll go to another meeting,’ Hugo says. ‘It can be pretty daunting first time.’

  *

  Back at home, later that evening, I say goodnight to Louis. He’s been unusually quiet since we left Pizza Express. His pilot costume now hangs on one side of his wardrobe, next to his clown suit. Fido the toy dog is under the duvet covers with him. It was one of Uncle Hugo’s toys, so ancient now that Fido’s fur is threadbare and he’s missing an eye. ‘He’s half blind,’ Hugo had said. ‘Rather apt, don’t you think?’

  ‘We thank our lucky stars for Uncle Hugo, don’t we?’ I say. ‘What was the best thing you did today?’

  ‘Mum?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Why doesn’t Dad visit me?’

  I take a deep breath. Understandably, Louis is beginning to ask more questions, especially when we go out and see families together in parks and restaurants. ‘Daddy has to work out his problems,’ I say. ‘He has many problems, it has nothing …’

  He pushes my hand away from his cheek and for a second the angry look in his eyes reminds me of his father.

  ‘What problems? Where is he?’

  ‘He had to go away …’

  ‘Where?’

  I have no idea. ‘Louis, he …’

  ‘Doesn’t he want to see me in my pilot costume?’

  ‘No, I mean yes …’ I wish I knew the right thing to say. How much should you tell a five-year-old? ‘He can’t come home, Louis.’

  ‘Where is his house? We can go and see him.’

  I shake my head.

  ‘Louis, your dad has problems,’ I repeat, adding before he can interrupt, ‘things I can’t explain to you, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t love you.’

  *

  Later that night, I sit down on my rocking chair in the corner of my bedroom. It’s my favourite spot in the house, my thinking spot. From the window I can see the communal gardens and the larger neighbouring houses with their bay windows. Often I try to imagine what each family is like behind closed doors.

  As I rock back and forth, I vow that one day, when Louis is old enough, I will tell him the truth about his father. I feel guilty that I’m raising him as a single mum, but at the same time, if Matthew never showed up again I’d be relieved. Finally I’ve reached the stage where I don’t look over my shoulder all the time; I feel safe at night. I’m lonely, but then everyone gets lonely, right? But at last I sleep without worrying about creaks and night-time noises. I don’t have nightmares that he might be outside, watching us.

  I don’t blame anyone for the choices I made. I had to fix myself. I’ve made a start, and want nothing and no one to threaten the life Louis and I now have.

  But I can’t stop Louis from asking questions.

  My parents kept too many secrets. I can see my mother now, buttoning up her lips whenever I asked anything personal. She kept my Aunt Vivienne a secret for years.

  When the right time comes, I will tell Louis about my past and what has led us here.

  5

  1991

  It’s Sunday, the day before Hugo goes to a special boarding school for the blind. Hugo is seven. I’m nearly eleven years old.

  Hugo and I walk down to the boathouse with Dad, dressed in our bright yellow life jackets. Dad is going to take us out in the boat before lunch. Mum is cooking a special good-luck meal: roast chicken with oven chips, Hugo’s favourite.

  We live in Norfolk, in a house by a river and lake. We moved here six months ago, to be close to his school. I was sad to leave London, but Mum and Dad reassured me that London isn’t going anywhere and that I can always visit my old friends. ‘Dad has a new job in Norwich,’ Mum explained. He works in an insurance company. ‘It’s a fresh start for all of us.’

  When Mum and Dad drove Hugo and me to our new home for the first time I felt carsick as we bumped along a narrow winding road. ‘Are we nearly there?’ I kept on asking. Our house was in the middle of nowhere! Granny Sue wondered why we’d wanted to live so far out in the sticks, but Mum and Dad fell in love with the house and were keen for us to have a garden to play in and room to explore.

  Except Mum is always worried when we go outside to play. ‘Don’t play in the woods, there might be adders,’ she says. Or it’s, ‘Don’t go too near the water, you might fall in and drown.’

  As we approach the old boathouse I breathe in the smell of bracken and seaweedy water. Dad helps Hugo onto the boat. It’s old, wooden and rocks gently from side to side when Hugo clambers in. I follow and Dad asks me to be a good girl and fix one of the oars into the rowlock. When we’re ready, Dad uses one oar to push us out of the boathouse and into the open space.

  Hugo always looks so happy when he’s out on the water. He stretches his podgy arms, the sun beating down on his round dimpled face. I lean over the boat, trail my fingers in the water. Hugo copies me.

  ‘You know what Mum says, Hugo,’ I tease. ‘There might be huge pike and we all know pike have very sharp teeth.’ Hugo sits up straight, puts his hands on his lap.

  ‘We’re nearly at the sunken boat now,’ I tell him.

  ‘How did it sink, Papa?’ he asks.

  It doesn’t matter how many times we’ve heard this story, Hugo and I still love it.

  ‘Well, it all happened about a hundred years ago. Two lovers …’

  ‘Kissy kissy,’ says Hugo, nudging me.

  ‘Behave, or I won’t finish the story,’ says Dad. ‘Two lovers weren’t allowed to be together. Their families hated one another.’

  ‘Why?’ we ask.

  ‘They just did, OK! Otherwise we’ll never finish the story. They couldn’t see one another in daylight so they decided to meet every night in the boat, when the clock struck twelve and their parents were in bed, fast asleep. So they’d meet down at the boathouse. It was very romantic, the lake was beautiful in the moonlight, but one evening there was a terrible storm. The girl was anxious, said maybe they should go back inside. “Where is your sense of adventure?” the boy asked, encouraging her into the boat. There was thunder and lightning, it was a wild night, the small wooden boat rocking from side to side. She begged him to stop, but he was determined to prove he was brave, that nothing could stand in the way of their being together. Well of course they lost an oar and hit a submerged tree trunk, just here,’ Dad says, as we row up to the sunken boat and look down into the murky water. It’s spooky. Even the seats are still there. I imagine the girl with long red hair, splayed out in the water, weeds coming out of her mouth.

  ‘And they drowned,’ Dad says. ‘And that was the end of them.’

  I shiver each time I hear the story.

  ‘They haunt the lake, but in a good way,’ Dad continues, ‘reminding us never to take foolish risks.’

  I stare at the murky water, wondering what other secrets lies beneath it.

  *

  The following morning, Dad, Mum, Hugo and I eat breakfast. Dad has taken the day off to drive Hugo to his new school. He knows Mum will be too upset to travel home alone. Besides, he wants to say goodbye too. ‘Please can I come,’ I try again, pushing my porridge away, lumps sticking in my throat.

  Mum butters her toast. ‘You have school.’

  I hold back the tears and look beseechingly at Dad.

  ‘No, Polly,’ she snaps. ‘We’ve talked about this.’

  ‘Dad?’

  I try one last time.

  ‘Best do as your mum says.’

  Why doesn’t he ever stand up to her?

  ‘Please can she come,’ says a small voice from across the table.


  *

  Later that morning we’re on our way to Hugo’s school in Dad’s old bottle-green BMW. We play car games and Dad sings his favourite song, ‘Meet me in St Louis’. It always makes Hugo and me laugh, especially when he sings the words, ‘hoochee koochee’ and ‘tootsie-wootsie’.

  When we reach the gates of Hugo’s school, Mum orders Dad to stop the car. I hold Hugo’s hand until Mum unbuckles his seatbelt and sits him on her knee in the front, stroking and hugging him.

  Slowly we approach a tall grey stone building with wide, open green space on either side of the driveway. The school looks like a castle with turrets and lots of narrow windows. We approach a courtyard with a fountain, cupids spraying water. Dad turns off the engine. I notice a tall wiry man with a moustache and dressed in a suit walking down some steep stone steps and approaching our car. ‘Wait,’ Mum says. Hugo’s hands are clasped around her neck.

  Nervously I step outside and look up at the imposing building, already feeling scared for my brother. I can’t imagine living here. I bet this place is haunted. Dad opens the boot and lifts out Hugo’s trunk, packed with all his new clothes to start his new life. He shakes the tall man’s hand. Dad tells me this is Mr Barry, the headmaster.

  Mr Barry shakes my hand too, welcoming me to the school. He smells of cigar smoke. ‘Hello, Hugo,’ he says. Hugo rushes back to Mum. ‘I don’t want to go,’ he says, suddenly tiny and fragile, lost in her arms.

  When Mr Barry tries to prise them apart, Hugo lashes out at him, hitting his arm.

  ‘Hugo,’ my father says tearfully, taking him to one side, ‘you’re going to be fine. You’ll be so happy here, and it’s only a few days until we’ll see you at the weekend.’

  Tears are streaming down Hugo’s face; his eyes are red and crumpled. I rush to the backseat of the car and pick up Fido, Hugo’s favourite toy dog. I thrust it into his hands, ‘Whenever you feel sad, think of us in the boat,’ I say, before Dad tells me to give my brother one last hug and then we must go.

  ‘Matron will help him settle in,’ assures Mr Barry. ‘We’ll take great care of him.’