After Ever After

by Rowan Coleman

  Instead, after what seemed like for ever, she pulled me on to her lap and held me close to her chest, and told me, ‘Mummy’s never coming back, darling, she’s gone for ever. A bad person hurt her and she can’t come back … not because she doesn’t love you or doesn’t want to – she just can’t. She’s gone to be with her dad, Grampy. They’ll have a rare old time together, won’t they? Laughing and joking all day long, I shouldn’t wonder, and looking down on you to make sure you’re all right.’ She took my chin between the rough skin of her thumb and forefinger and looked me in the eyes.

  ‘It’s just you and Daddy now, love, and you’ve got to be a good girl for Daddy. A good, big, grown-up girl for Daddy, and look after him like your mum would if she was here, okay?’

  That moment when I realised that Mum wasn’t coming back, that she really wasn’t ever coming back, was the first time that I knew I should cry. I cried for a long time. I cried for my mummy and I cried for myself.

  ‘But Nan, who will look after me?’ I sobbed into her shoulder.

  ‘I’ll look after you, darling,’ Nan told me. ‘I’ll always look after you, never you fret.’ But losing her daughter had broken my nanna’s heart, and she was dead by Christmas.

  It was after that that Dad stopped being a TV dad and started being my dependent. For the next nine years we lived on whatever I could conjure up out of tins, or eventually a second-hand microwave, and although I did all his washing and ironing, all of my best efforts couldn’t keep him in his job and he was on disability after only a few years. I washed the floors and windows, took the neighbours hand-me-downs and when, at the age of eleven, my period started I asked the lady in the chemist’s if she would tell me what to do. She’d taken me in the back and given me a cup of tea and talked it through with me. I didn’t feel sorry for myself because by then I’d forgotten what it was like to have my mum. It wasn’t until the day I left my dad’s flat for good that I felt free again. Free at last to miss her.

  I draw Ella’s curtains and creep out of her nursery, adeptly jumping the creaking floorboard with a new professionalism that I am quietly proud of, and retreat back into my room, picking up the phone.

  ‘Starbrite Records, Human Resources Department, Camille speaking, how may I help you?’

  I laugh at the way Camille rattles off this unwieldy greeting with cheery sing-song efficiency. I affect a terrible accent.

  ‘Oh hi, it’s Madonna here, I’m ringing to see where my pay cheque is – I have to buy Rocco some new diapers!’

  ‘Oh hi, Kits, what’s up?’ Camille has never been fooled by me, and for five of the most nerve-wracking moments of my life she once had me believe I was discussing UK tax law with Jennifer Lopez, and she’s not even signed to Starbrite.

  ‘Not bad, quite good actually. You’ll never guess what I’m doing tonight!’ I tell her, and I’m still listening to her hysteria five minutes later.

  ‘Oh my God, I can’t wait to see this! I can’t wait! Book me my ticket now, front and centre!’

  I roll my eyes. ‘Well, don’t get too excited, I haven’t even auditioned yet, and I’m only going to be in the chorus and maybe help sweep up a bit.’

  Camille giggles. ‘Oh, bless you and your efforts to get involved in small-town life!’

  Her city slicker comment smarts, but I hide it well.

  ‘Well, it’s not so bad here. I’ve got a new friend called Clare. She’s lovely, you’d like her and, well, it’s not so bad.’ I think of the surfeit of street cafés and estate agents that the high street bristles with. ‘Almost cosmopolitan, and if Fergus and I could spend a bit of time together it might even be perfect. Pros and cons, I suppose,’ I sigh.

  ‘Well, speaking as one who only ever sees her boyfriend when he’s on a London stopover, I think absence makes the heart grow fonder.’

  I consider her relationship with Alex: in the four years they’ve been together it’s been a non-stop whirlwind of romance and sex, so why isn’t it like that with Fergus and me? Why is it that pretty much every time he walks in the front door my libido picks up its briefcase and hops on the love train to London? For a heartbeat I feel the hot panic that rises in my chest whenever I allow myself to consider the possibility that I may never feel that way about Fergus again.

  ‘Yeah, well, that’s because you’re not so knackered you can’t even muster the energy to sleep,’ I say. ‘Do you think I should get done up in sexy underwear and flounce about on the bed or something?’

  Camille snorts laughter down the phone. ‘Look, this is you and Fergus we’re talking about here. One of the world’s definitive romantic couples – like Rome and Juliet! Anthony and Cleopatra. Cathy and Heathcliff. You don’t need sex tips already, do you?’

  I open and close my mouth.

  ‘Didn’t pretty much all of those couples end horribly, usually in a violent death?’ I ask her, perturbed.

  ‘Oh yeah, but you know what I mean. You and Fergus, you’re solid.’

  ‘Yeah, of course we are. We just need some time together.’ I’m not sure that that’s all we need, but it’s pretty near the truth.

  ‘Well then, get the old bag to sit for you.’ I can hear Camille begin to tap at her keyboard. My old boss must be within reach of her radar.

  ‘I suppose I could, it’s just that after last time … listen, how’s Dora? I spoke to her a few days ago and she had some bloke in the sack. Have you seen her?’

  ‘Ahhhhhh. That makes a lot of sense. No, no I haven’t. She’s got all pally with those NA birds, and she wouldn’t say but I guessed she was seeing some bloke.’

  ‘Well, she told me it was as boring as watching paint dry, so he must have done something pretty good to impress her. That’s good then, I guess she’s getting herself together. Maybe her NA friends are the people she needs to be around at the moment.’ I look at myself in the wardrobe mirror, hoping to see the soft and curvy person Gareth described, but his vision of me has lost its magic and all I can see is that I’ve burnt the bridge of my nose and look indelibly embarrassed.

  ‘Maybe, maybe.’ Camille sounds dubious. ‘It’s just not like Dora to ditch her friends for a man. I miss her.’

  I turn away from my unsatisfactory reflection, look out of the bedroom window and see the entirely satisfactory expanse of lawn that is spreading over my garden. Gareth sees me and waves, beckoning for me to come down.

  ‘Camille, I’ve got to go. Come and see me. Come and see me soon! I’ve got grass we can lie on!’ I say. Hanging up the phone, I lean out of the window.

  ‘It looks great!’ I call out.

  Gareth shades his eyes and regards me. ‘Yeah, it does, doesn’t it!’ He laughs with boyish delight. ‘See where I’ve created the beds – gorgeous, all curvy and soft, just like a good garden should be.’ I smile lamely. Somehow, now he’s applied that term to a flowerbed it’s lost its charm. Oh well. ‘And tomorrow we’ll need to water it if it hasn’t rained by tonight. In the meantime don’t you walk on it, okay?’

  I shake my head. ‘Are you off then?’ I look at my watch, it’s not quite five.

  ‘Yeah, stuff to do, but I’ll see you later!’ I watch him disappear into the house and then a few minutes later hear the front door close. At least he’s learnt not to slam it.

  I don’t mind him going early, but I feel sorry that he won’t be here when Clare gets here. I’d half sort of promised her he would be, and now I’ve let her down. I’ll just have to find another way to get them together.

  Chapter Eleven

  I’m spinning Ella around and around and around.

  ‘Clever girl!’ I tell her, kissing her much more than she thinks is appropriate, which is not at all. She screws up her face and bats my affection away with her fists. I laugh and plonk her down on the floor.

  ‘Go on then – do it again for Daddy.’ Fergus crouches over the other side of the room and reaches out his hands.

  ‘Come on then, come on, clever!’ Ella grins at her daddy and then begins to crawl – for
ward! She looks a bit clumsy, her arms and legs aren’t exactly co-ordinated, but yes, she is defiantly going forward.

  ‘I’m so glad she isn’t a lost cause,’ I say to Fergus. ‘I mean, of course, I’d still love it if she never crawled forward, it’s just that bloody Calista is about to sit her GCSEs and she’s only two and a half.

  ‘Is she really?’ Fergus looks impressed.

  ‘No.’ I say. ‘But whenever I go down there it’s “Calista was doing handstands by three months, blah blah blah blah”.’ I stick my fingers down my throat and mimic vomiting.

  ‘Careful, Kits, you want to be holding on to that anger and resentment, it’ll help you get into character.’ Fergus grins and Ella finally reaches him; he lifts her high above his head, pretending to drop her until she’s hysterical. I laugh with delight; he seems more like his old self this evening, light-hearted and actually here in spirit as well as body. It’s a shame it happens to be the evening I’m going out.

  ‘What, as a cowgirl? Will you give her her tea?’ I ask him. Fergus nods and carries her away to the kitchen just as Canterbury Cathedral rings out its tinny bells.

  ‘Are you ready then?’ Clare says as I open the door to her. She has blow-dried her hair and put on just enough make-up to intensify the green of her eyes.

  ‘Wow! You look fabulous,’ I say as I take in the cut of her top and skirt. Gareth was wrong – Clare is not solid and square at all. In fact, when she’s not covered from head to foot in a man’s outsize roll-neck jumper she’s got a lovely figure, the sort of figure that Gareth would compare to the contours of a newly created flowerbed.

  ‘Hefty, my arse,’ I mumble as I lead Clare and Ted to Fergus and Ella.

  ‘Pardon?’ she says.

  ‘I mean, hefty, my arse, isn’t it?’ I say stupidly. ‘In these trousers. I wish was all got-up like you now.’

  As we enter the kitchen, Fergus is gingerly dabbing carrot and wholewheat pasta from around Ella’s mouth as if it is radioactive material.

  ‘She’s not very keen on lumps,’ I tell Clare, ‘but I’m not too worried because for about three months she wasn’t very keen on food, so it’s progress at least.’

  Clare smiles shyly at Fergus.

  ‘Hi,’ she says like a schoolgirl, making me feel the seven years older than her that I am.

  ‘Sorry, Clare, how rude. Fergus, Clare. Clare, Fergus.’

  Fergus reaches out a hand to her and drops a kiss on her cheek. He’s the sort of man to kiss anyone in passing, but Clare’s cheeks grow rosy and she lowers her eyes as she composes herself.

  ‘Um, this is Ted. He looks like a right terror, but he’s not so bad. Oh, who am I kidding, he’s terrible, he was born with all that hair so I haven’t been able to tell if he’s got 666 tattooed behind one ear or not!’ She laughs but Fergus looks uneasy. ‘He’s had his tea and he had a poo this afternoon, so hopefully you shouldn’t have to worry about that.’

  I can see from the look on Fergus’s face that the thought hadn’t even occurred to him until that moment.

  Clare continues, ‘He’s not slept all day so he should go down to sleep and hopefully stay that way, but I must warn you that he has the superhuman ability to go for twenty-four hours without sleep if he thinks there’s something more interesting to do, and he’s not really used to men, so you might qualify.’ By the time she’s finished her speech, all her schoolgirl bashfulness has gone and instead she’s the smart and sassy single mum that I have begun to know and like. In that one moment, though, I can see exactly how Clare was led up the alley by Jamie – she’s just like I used to be. The kind of person whose years of toughly constructed defences can be swept away by some pretty eyes and the promise of some longed-for romance.

  She hands Ted over to Fergus, who smiles at him matily and ruffles his blond curls.

  ‘All right there, mate? We’ll be all right, won’t we, eh? Blokes together, we can watch the footy.’ Ted pokes Fergus’s chin curiously but generally seems quite happy. Meanwhile a highchair-bound Ella bangs her still full bowl jealously against the table, sending orange lumpy mush everywhere. Just as I reach for a cloth the doorbell chimes.

  ‘Ah, that’ll be Mr Crawley. I’d better go.’ A brief look of panic passes over Fergus’s face.

  ‘You will be all right, won’t you?’ I say anxiously. ‘Because if you think it’s too much, then I won’t go …’

  ‘I’ll be fine.’ Fergus puts Ted down in a patch of mush. ‘Oh. Bugger.’

  ‘He’s got his jammys in his bag,’ Clare says helpfully. The doorbell chimes again. Fergus reaches across the mayhem and kisses me.

  ‘Just go! I’ll be fine, I promise!’

  I gingerly kiss my sticky baby and we head out into the refreshingly cool air of the night.

  The moment we close the door Clare grabs my arms a little too tightly.

  ‘He’s fucking gorgeous, you lucky cow!’ she giggles. ‘You are married to a fucking gorgeous man. You have a fucking gorgeous gardener. You bastard, how did you do it?’ I smile and try to look modest, but the combination of her appreciation of my husband and his determination to manage with those babies has started a small warm glow in my tummy. Maybe when I get back home tonight my libido will have taken up residence again.

  ‘Yeah, well, I was five years older than you are now when I met him, so don’t write yourself off yet, okay?’

  Clare smiles but seems a bit downhearted. ‘He wasn’t there then, Gareth? I thought it’d be too late for him to be hanging about, but I did my make-up and everything. I feel a bit stupid now.’

  Mr Crawley opens the rear passenger door to his four-wheel drive as if he is our chauffeur.

  ‘Ladies, your carriage awaits. Ready for an evening of music, song and Mrs Ponsenby’s wailing, I hope?’ he enquires pleasantly.

  ‘Yes!’ we chorus with a giggle.

  ‘Good, I’m going to put on some opera and warm up the old tonsils a bit. I hope you don’t mind.’

  ‘Not a bit,’ I say, and as Mr Crawley begins to join in with an Italian opera in a home counties accent I lean closer to Clare. ‘You’re not stupid,’ I whisper as I slide next to her. ‘Anyway, he mentioned you today, specifically, without any prompting, I might add.’

  Clare twists in her seat and stares at me. ‘Never! Did he? What did he say?’

  I catch the reflected light from her shining eyes and wonder if my little white lie was entirely wise.

  ‘He said he thought you had lovely eyes,’ my mouth says before my brain kicks in.

  Clare deflates a little. ‘Oh, that’s what everyone says to fat people. Lovely eyes, nice hair, ’cos it’s the only part of your body that can’t put on weight.’

  I stand at the crossroads of honesty and deceit and decide to take the more trodden path. If anyone needs some shiny-eyed moments in her life, it’s Clare, even if they’re not entirely based on fact.

  ‘Yeah, but then he said he thought you were really pretty!’ I nudge her with my shoulder and nod in affirmation. Clare’s face is a picture of delight, and for the rest of the journey she stares out of the window lost in dreams.

  We enter the town hall and the murmur of the Berkhamsted Players gradually grows louder as we approach the hall the auditions are to be held in. Clare and I follow Mr Crawley in, feeling like it’s our first day at school.

  The conversation in the hall may dip slightly as we enter, or the implicit lull might be in my imagination, but whether it is or not I feel like I have about fifty pairs of eyes trained right on me, going, ‘That top with those trousers and those hips?’

  ‘Right, ladies, first things first.’ Mr Crawley looks around the hall. ‘Let’s get you down on the list now, both of you, for singing and any other …’

  ‘Clare! Clare Brown as I live and breathe.’ A booming voice cuts through the air and seems to knock Clare physically off balance. ‘What are you doing here, my love? I thought you’d be treading the boards by now? West End, Broadway, that was your plan, wasn’t it?’ In the
time it takes for this man to finish his sentence Clare regresses by about, I’d say, approximately ten years.

  ‘Hello, sir,’ she says with weary resignation, avoiding his eyes and turning the toe of her boot in a little. ‘How are you?’ I fully expect her to produce an excuse as to why her homework is late any second.

  ‘Ah, Bill, glad you could come on board again,’ Mr Crawley says a little cautiously as he stretches his hand out and shakes Bill’s enormous hands. ‘Kitty, this is Bill Edwards, retired music teacher and sometime musical director of the Players, though I must say, Bill, I rather thought that after last year’s “episode” you wouldn’t be showing your face again?’

  Bill Edwards laughs thunderously and tosses a long, steely grey ponytail, yellowing at the ends with nicotine and slicked back with some kind of gel that may be grease, over his shoulder. It’s the kind of capricious gesture that I had hitherto only ever attributed to supermodels and ponies. He must be well over six foot in height, and possibly as many feet around the middle. His booming laugh descends, and he gives a low, gravelly chuckle as he remembers the ‘episode’ in question.

  ‘Ah yes, Ian, a woman scorned and all that, but never let it be said that Bill Edwards has not stood in the face of a woman’s wrath and lived to tell the tale!’ He finishes with an Olivier-style flourish and then bends his head towards mine. ‘Anyway, her husband forgave her and last time I saw him in the pub he told me he was glad I’d taught her a new trick or two!’