The Second Child

by Caroline Bond

  With James off climbing, we fell silent. Seagulls and squealing kids filled the void. I felt a long way from home, trapped in a situation of my own making. Beyond the playground there was a flimsy wire fence and, a hundred yards beyond that, the cliff edge and the sea, a piece of site-planning that beggared belief. The signs made it abundantly clear that ‘Children are the responsibility of their parents AT ALL TIMES’. Ashamed as I was, I knew I couldn’t face another two days of it.

  ‘Phil?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Would you mind if we went home early?’

  He turned and looked at me. ‘No, of course not. But why? I thought you wanted to be here.’

  ‘I did. But I’m… I’m finding it a bit…’ He didn’t make me finish my sentence. Didn’t even reproach me for dragging us all there in the first place.

  ‘Yeah, I know what you mean. A bit full-on?’

  ‘Yep. They’re nice people, really nice people, but that’s all we have in common – the RTS – and it’s all anyone ever talks about, and I understand that, but…’

  ‘Hey, no need to convince me. One more night in that sodding chalet would’ve finished me off anyway.’ And he put his arm round me and hugged me close.

  ‘MUMMY!’ James ran up to us, his face a fierce pink from exertion and indignation. ‘You promised you’d watch and you never did!’

  ‘Sorry. I will, this time. Show Mummy how high it is.’

  ‘You have to watch PROPERLY this time!’

  ‘We will, I promise.’

  And he raced off across the grass.

  We watched him climb the tower, the wide expanse of blue sea in the background throwing his bright-yellow T-shirt into relief. He reached the top, checked we were looking, then came hurtling down, bumping against the sides of the slide as he careered around the bends. At the bottom he shot off the end onto the scuffed earth with a spine-jarring bump. I stepped forward, ready to run over and help him up, but he jumped up immediately, waving like a demented thing, and shouted, ‘Again! Again! Watch me do it again.’ And so we did.

  12

  Family Values

  SARAH

  I DON’T tell Phil that Mrs Winter is coming back. There’s no point, not after his performance. He was rude. She’s only doing her job.

  There’s also a part of me that doesn’t want Phil involved. I know he hates having to talk about Lauren, he always has done, but I’m discovering that I don’t. It’s the first time anyone has ever asked what life with Lauren is like and has really wanted an answer. And it feels good to be able to get past the bald facts and dates and to talk honestly; and the more I talk, the more I want to say and the more I remember. The irony is that it’s precisely this that’s forcing me and Phil apart. He doesn’t want to reflect on Lauren’s disability, he never has done. For him, we went there, tried it, declined the T-shirt.

  For her second visit, Mrs Winter arrives just before 2 p.m. with the same mousy woman in tow, the one who took the notes last time. They settle in their places and Mrs Winter glances down at her list. The silent woman smooths open a brand-new notepad, uncaps a pen and sits poised, ready, and we pick up right where we left off, with me not quite telling the truth.

  ‘As I said last time, we’ve never really felt the need to get that involved with support groups and suchlike. We’ve tried as much as possible just to carry on as normal.’

  ‘But given Lauren’s level of disability, it must have had an impact on your lives, on your career?’ A career. Hell, how long is it since I thought about myself as having a career? ‘I gather you’re a linguist.’ I silently thank Mrs Winter for her use of the present tense.

  ‘I did Spanish and French for my degree. I worked for a pharmaceutical company when James was small; we had offices in Paris and Madrid, there was a fair bit of travel.’ The silent woman glances up for a second, as if surprised that I had a life quite so exotic. It’s not the first time I’ve seen someone disconcerted to realise that I once had a life that wasn’t defined and dominated by having a disabled child. ‘Phil really did the lion’s share of the early childcare with James – he’s a very hands-on dad – but the balance shifted when we had Lauren. I went part-time to start with. We needed at least one steady income, and I needed – had to be – at home.’

  ‘You miss it.’ It’s not a question.

  ‘I still do some freelance translation work. It keeps my hand in and it’s flexible.’ But a laptop on a kitchen table and a local-government report on the transport infrastructure in the Rhône Valley isn’t a lunchtime stroll across the Pont Neuf with colleagues so cool that even I felt some of their style rubbing off on me.

  ‘And Phil’s job?’

  ‘He works for a utility company. We’re lucky, it’s a very secure job.’

  ‘And do you have much support, from your families or from friends?’

  ‘My mum died before we were married. My dad’s always been there for us, but the person who’s the biggest help has been my sister, Ali.’ Saying it out loud makes me realise how much it’s true.

  ‘And Phil’s family?’

  ‘They’re not in the picture. Never have been. His dad died last November, but they’re weren’t close, and his mum has lived in Spain for years.’ And it would make no difference if she lived round the corner; she’s not grandma material, which is no surprise, given that she wasn’t mother material, either. Mrs Winter is looking at me quizzically and I sense her putting another minus in Phil’s column, assuming his poor performance as a son influences his performance as a dad. She’s wrong, because Phil is, without question, a man who loves and values his family, precisely because he grew up in one that was so inadequate. ‘Phil’s a very good dad. He loves having kids. Family is important to him, very important.’ I’m pleased to see the woman make a note.

  Mrs Winter merely nods and moves on. ‘You seem to cope very well.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I say, politely. Of course we cope – sometimes well, sometimes barely – what other option is there?

  ‘And James? How’s he dealt with it all?’

  This one is easy to answer. ‘He’s been fab. Always has been. He just rolls with it. That’s his nature. He’s probably missed out a bit. It’s inevitable, because no matter how hard you try, there’s never enough time, and things are more complicated with Lauren, especially now she’s older. But he’s fine. I’m… we’re very proud of him.’

  ‘We would like to have a word with him, if that’s okay? The sibling perspective? We were hoping maybe to speak to him today? If he’s back in time.’

  ‘Oh, okay.’ It hadn’t occurred to me that they’d want to speak to James.

  ‘And Lauren. We must, of course, meet the young lady herself.’

  Mrs Winter gets both her wishes. I’m just signing off the notes from our session when James comes home and heads, as always, straight to the kitchen. I interrupt him just as reaches for the biscuit tin. ‘They’d like a word with you.’

  ‘Me? Why?’

  ‘As her big brother.’ He shrugs and, with obvious ill ease, goes through to the front room, four chocolate digestives clamped in his fist. Someone shuts the door. Five minutes… ten, fifteen, twenty. Against every expectation, James must be talking to Mrs Winter, but about what? He’s still not out by the time Lauren arrives home. Their cosy chat finally breaks up as I wheel her in through the front door. James flips Lauren’s hat off onto the floor, drops a swift kiss on the top of her head, then bounds upstairs out of range.

  Mrs Winter steps forward, looking awkward, as everyone always does when they meet Lauren for the first time. ‘Hello, Lauren. How was your day at school?’ A reasonable question, but she seems to expect an actual answer.

  The last fifteen minutes of the visit are excruciating, as Mrs Winter makes a concerted effort to engage with a mortally unresponsive Lauren. I admire her efforts, I really do, it shows commitment and a degree of preparation, but no matter how many smiley-face charts and symbol cards Mrs Winter draws out of her bag, she
will not get an answer to… what makes Lauren happy, what makes her sad and what makes her feel safe? Nor can Lauren… say how she feels about what is currently going on. At last Mrs Winter admits defeat and gets up from the floor.

  I think we’re finished – but not quite.

  Mrs Winter addresses the silent woman. ‘Hannah, it’s fine if you want to get off now.’ ‘Hannah’ gathers together her stuff and slides out, self-effacing to the end. To be honest, I’d forgotten that she was still sitting there. Mrs Winter walks through to the hall with me. ‘Thank you. I appreciate that this whole process must be quite onerous for you and your family, but it is necessary. When they’re found, the other family, they’ll go through an identical process. They’ll have to provide the same access to medical and school records, and suchlike. And of course someone will talk to them about the more general details of the other young lady’s life, just as we’ve done. That way, before you meet, you’ll at least have an insight into each other.’ She shakes my hand. ‘And it was good to meet Lauren and James.’ On the doorstep she pauses. ‘He is, as you said, a fine young man.’

  It takes three lots of shouting and a trip upstairs to get the ‘fine young man’ down for dinner. There are times when I want rip his headphones off and hurl them out of the window. He ambles down and pulls up a chair. ‘Sorry. I didn’t hear ya.’

  ‘I guessed.’ He and Phil set about dispatching the meal as if it’s some sort of eating time-trial. I sit alongside Lauren and help her, choosing my moment to bring up the subject of Mrs Winter. I decide sooner rather than later. ‘Mrs Winter came back today with a last few questions.’

  Phil pauses. ‘Did she?’

  ‘Yeah. She wanted to meet Lauren. And she spoke to James.’

  At this, Phil puts down his knife and fork. ‘About what?’ Phil looks at me and I look at James. No one fills in the gap.

  ‘What did you talk about?’ I ask.

  James ploughs through his lasagne. ‘Just stuff?’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Just stuff. Lauren. You guys.’

  ‘And?’ Phil is as curious as I am.

  ‘That’s all really.’ It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask James why it took the best part of an hour to say ‘just stuff’, but I know that kind of pressure is never going to yield results, so I keep my counsel. He mops up the last of the béchamel sauce with a lump of bread and shoves his plate away, sated, at least for the next forty-five minutes. ‘Oh, and I told them about when we went to Florida.’ That throws both of us.

  ‘The trip to Disney? Why on earth did you tell them about that?’ Phil asks.

  ‘I dunno… cos it was great.’ James pushes back his chair. ‘Thanks, Mum, I’ll do the dishwasher later.’ And he beats his retreat.

  PHIL

  So… when asked what it’s like having a severely disabled sister, my son chose to talk about the one and only time we flew halfway around the world to spend money we didn’t really have, on a holiday we couldn’t really afford. I’m proud of him. I bet she was fishing for signs of neglect, expecting him to tell her all about how ignored and jealous and frustrated he feels. Well, tough. James is as loved as Lauren, and he knows it, and growing up with her hasn’t been one long trauma that has left him with psychological problems. Go stuff that in your report, Mrs Winter!

  And he was right about the holiday. It was great. Two weeks, in Florida, at Easter, peak season, peak prices, peak crowds.

  It started at Manchester airport and went from there.

  There were heaps of dirty snow piled on the side of the M62 as we drove over. It was March and still bitterly cold. As the doors slid open to the Departure Lounge a wall of noise, heat and human traffic hit us. The queues for the check-in desks were long; they doubled back on themselves, creating a mesh of irritated, suitcase-anchored people. Deep-breath time. I was about to plunge in to try and find our queue, when out of the sea of people emerged a tiny woman in a red uniform with a name-badge. She smiled brightly with her shiny red lips and invited us to follow her.

  What happened next set the tone of the rest of the holiday.

  She guided us towards the correct check-in desk, but instead of directing us to join the back of the queue, she unclipped one of the barrier ropes and waved us through, securing the rope behind us. The waiting passengers watched as we were escorted to the front. After a firm hand gesture to the couple next in line, she beckoned us forward, indifferent to the man’s silent but obvious indignation. I didn’t look behind us as we stepped up and checked in. When I explained to James that we were getting priority because Lauren was disabled, he grinned like the Cheshire Cat. Suzanne – she of ‘shiny red efficiency’ – then steered us towards Security, where we were directed into the empty Business Class channel. This shamelessly, and very visibly, bypassed all the other passengers who were standing patiently and sullenly in the long, snaking line. James was bug-eyed with glee as sailed past them.

  And it so continued for the rest of the trip. We were first onto the plane, first to be offered a welcome drink. They were lovely throughout the flight, making a fuss of James as much as Lauren. And when we landed at Orlando they couldn’t have been more helpful. The transfer was straightforward. The apartment at the resort was big and spacious. Everything went so smoothly. And the parks! The Magic of Disney. Never mind flying elephants and wizards; it was the facilities, the accessibility, the special consideration that we were shown that were the real revelation. Everywhere we went we were treated with politeness and enthusiasm. It was evangelical… and I loved it, my cynicism swept away on a tide of goodwill and good service. Spiderman, wave pools, monster ice creams, fireworks, flat surfaces, adapted trains, singing princesses, talking trees, clean changing rooms, polar bears, sunshine, cold beers and frozen margaritas, tired kids and a happy wife. It was a glorious, fantastic, happy, cripplingly expensive two weeks. A once-in-a-lifetime holiday… a lifetime ago.

  Sarah has been clearing the table while I’ve been wandering around the sunlit theme parks of the past. As she piles cutlery onto a plate, she pushes her hair away from her forehead with the back of her hand, a gesture that is so familiar it reminds me of how rarely I properly look at her any more. Under the harsh light in the kitchen I can see how tired she is. I stand up and reach out to take the plates from her, which seems to startle her. We have a brief, bizarre tug of war before she relinquishes them: ‘Let me finish off.’ She sits back down heavily, and absent-mindedly pushes crumbs across the tabletop with her fingers while I tidy up. Neither of us mentions the return visit of Mrs Winter, my utter ignorance of it, or the sucking of our children into this unstoppable exposé of our lives.

  Her silent unhappiness is tangible and it troubles me. I dry my hands on a tea towel for longer than necessary, searching for something to say to make it better, but there’s nothing. We are in limbo. Instead I step behind her and tentatively rest my hands on her shoulders, attempting to gauge whether she wants my inadequate, inarticulate comfort. After a second she leans back, connecting with my touch. I press my fingertips into the base of her neck, trying to ease tension that’s locked inside her body, but beneath her soft skin the muscles are rigid and unyielding. I knead at the knots in her neck and she tilts her head back further, letting it rest against my stomach, her eyes closed. In those few moments the house echoes our family back to us: Lauren’s endless TV, James’s music and the silence between me and my wife.

  13

  The Concert

  SARAH

  PHIL AND I agree that the concert is important. James insists that it’s not. ‘I’m only playing backing on a few of the numbers. Not many of the sixth-form parents are going. It’s not a big deal.’ He’s toasting four slices of bread for a pre-tea snack as we have this debate, his back to me.

  ‘But we want to come and support you.’

  ‘There’s no need. It’s mainly singing.’

  ‘James?’

  ‘You really don’t have to bother, not with everything else that’s going on a
t the minute.’

  ‘We’d like to,’ I say firmly. Phil and I have agreed that we must make more of an effort with James. We need to do something to prove we’re still thinking about him, that we’re still interested in what’s going on in his life.

  James reaches for the peanut butter. ‘Okay. But I warn you, Dad’ll be bored.’

  *

  On the night of the concert we arrive with all the other parents, most of us ill at ease at being back in school with the Head doing the rounds. Phil and I lurk near the far wall, safely out of his orbit. We clutch our plastic cups of weak tea and study the frankly disturbing artwork on display; there seems to be a bias towards broken-necked girls with waterfall hair and big tear-filled eyes. Some of the kids are running front-of-house, selling late tickets and trying to flog cheap biscuits and crisps. They’re not getting many takers. There’s an air of slight hysteria in the foyer, a curious blend of parental discomfort and student excitement. The sudden appearance of a handful of teenage girls in black leotards and glittery green face-paint ups the atmosphere even further. At last the theatre doors open and we troop in and take our places. Phil’s knees press against the seat in front of him as he studies the programme morosely. ‘This is going to be two and a half hours of our lives that we’re never getting back. Oh, good, it looks like there’s a lot of dancing.’I ignore him.

  PHIL

  The concert is, as expected, painful. Endless renditions of warbling pop ballads, fake emotion from teenage divas basted in fake tan. When James isn’t on the stage I drift off, alternating between worrying and sitting blankly, letting the off-key noise roll over me. When he is performing I ignore everyone else and focus on him. He keeps his head dipped low over his guitar, concentrating hard on his playing. He resolutely avoids looking at the audience or at his fellow performers. Even at the end of his numbers he barely raises his head to acknowledge the polite applause from the parents and the screeching of the kids in the auditorium. The most excruciating point comes when James has to back a duet between a tall blond lad, who is obviously very popular, judging by the catcalls, and a strikingly pretty black girl. His discomfort is visible in the hunch of his shoulders. I told Sarah we shouldn’t have insisted on coming. But if I thought the singing was bad, the dancing is worse. It consists of a group of barely clad girls writhing on the floor and striking disturbing poses. It feels wrong to look, and rude to look away.