‘What’s this “we” business, Gypsy boy?’ said his wife. ‘We are not having labour pains. I am.’ Her face contorted. ‘My back is killing me.’
‘Kali Carbonicum can be good for lower back pain,’ said Ruth. ‘Your baby could be posterior.’
Clare gave her a look. ‘You mean it’s a pain in the arse?’
‘Yeah.’ Ruth grinned. ‘I can go home and get some drops?’ she added.
‘No, that’s fine,’ said Patrick, a little too quickly.
Ruth shook her head. ‘Men. Jesus. It isn’t you about to push a head the size of a watermelon out your–’
‘I think it’s their decision,’ Claude interjected swiftly. ‘As you are always saying: it is about personal choice.’
‘It’s about informed choice,’ said Ruth. She jabbed a finger onto the tabletop. ‘The system–’
I stood up. ‘Who’s for coffee? My shout.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ said Anselo.
At the counter, we were behind two people. Then we were behind one. Suddenly, Anselo said, ‘Darrell, I have to talk to you.’
Startled, I turned, just as Mario said, ‘Signora! What can I get for you?’
Anselo held up a hand to him. ‘Please. Just – wait–’
He glanced around inside the café. The table tucked in the corner beside the gelato freezer was empty.
‘Give him the order,’ he told me. ‘Then come over here. Before I fucking expire.’
‘Oh! OK.’ So I did.
He was on the edge of the chair, leaning forward, his forearms propped on the table, his fingers knotted together.
‘What’s the–’
‘Don’t,’ he said. ‘Please. Just listen. Or I’ll never get it out.’
He focused on his knotted fingers for a moment. Then he gave a sharp intake of breath.
‘Darrell, I’m pretty sure I love you.’
If he’d been worried about me interrupting, there was no prospect of it now. I’d been robbed of all ability to speak.
‘I was knocked for six by you the first instant we met,’ he went on. ‘You opened the door and I felt as if someone had smacked me round the head. A little voice, clear as fucking day, said: “This is the woman you want to spend the rest of your life with”. I could hardly get two words out. What you must have thought of me.’
His mouth twisted wryly. ‘No, I know what you thought of me. But there was no way I could explain. I couldn’t even figure out what to do. I had Vee, and I didn’t want to hurt her, and I wasn’t even sure if I did leave her that you would–’ He ran his hand over his head again. ‘But that was being unfair to Vee, so I had to decide something …’
He paused, a little breathless, but immediately resumed what was, I suspected, the longest speech he’d made in his life.
‘I was almost there. I’d almost decided. And then–’ His mouth compressed into a grim line ‘–he came along. Mr Arsehole. I was furious. I thought I was angry with you for falling for him. But I was only angry with myself. Because I’d missed my chance. Maybe forever–’
He took a deep breath. My own heart was still pounding so hard, I could hear the blood thumping in my ears.
‘I couldn’t let it end there, though,’ he went on. ‘I had to make a decision once and for all or I’d go fucking mad. So I did. That’s why I came to your place on Saturday. I wanted to tell you, once and for all, how I felt.’
‘But–’ I began. I’m not sure he even heard me.
‘Darrell, I’ve no idea how you feel about me,’ he said. ‘No idea at all. And I know it’s not fair for me to spring this on you. You said it last night – it’s too soon. But–’
I could see him wrestling with himself. Desperation versus discretion, I guessed. I knew how that felt.
‘But please–’ Desperation had won out. The look he gave me was nakedly beseeching. ‘Please put me out of my misery. Is there any hope? Or have I blown my chance yet again?’
‘But–’
‘But what?’ he said warily.
‘Aren’t you getting married?’
‘What? Who on earth told you that?’
‘I thought you had! Or you were trying to–’
He shook his head. ‘No! I ended it with Vee that Friday. The night we saw you.’ He frowned. ‘That’s why I had to leave early, after you’d – come round. She was really upset, wanted us to try again. But I had to tell her there was no chance.’ He became shamefaced. ‘I should have done it much earlier, I know. I just – I didn’t know. I wasn’t sure …’
‘Oh …’
Truly, I did not know what to say. I barely knew what to think.
He slumped back in the chair. ‘I’ve blown it, haven’t I?’
‘Anselo, I–’
Outside the café, there erupted a Godalmighty commotion. Yelling. Clattering. Swearing. Both of us wheeled around to see Patrick stalking in, grim-faced and tense.
‘Where’s the nearest fucking doctor around here?’ he demanded of Mario.
‘It’s OK!’ Ruth was in the doorway. ‘Claude’s gone to get him!’
Without a word, Patrick pushed past her and strode back outside.
‘What the hell’s going on?’
Anselo and I rushed up to Ruth. There was serious yelling coming from outside.
‘She’s having the baby!’ Ruth was wide-eyed. ‘Right now! I could see the goddamn head!’
‘Surely, it’s not supposed to be that quick.’ Anselo looked aghast.
‘You wanna tell the baby that?’
‘What should we do?’ I asked her.
‘Keep out of the way, I guess.’ Ruth, for the first time ever, seemed at a loss. ‘I dunno. Let’s go back outside at least. Be there if they need us.’
Clare was on her knees, bent over a chair, clutching onto it for grim death. She was yelling at the top of her lungs. Swear words, mainly. The air around her was blue.
Michael and Simon had backed right off and were perched gingerly on the low wall that bounded the disused patch of grass next door.
Patrick was striding to and fro, hands on his hips, face taut and anxious. At one point, he bent down and touched Clare lightly on the shoulder.
‘Don’t touch me!’ she bellowed.
He lifted his hand like a shot. ‘OK, OK!’
Then he yelled, ‘Where the hell’s that doctor?’
‘Here he comes,’ said Ruth.
Alastair came running up, Claude jogging behind.
‘We’ve called an ambulance,’ he told us breathlessly.
Alastair bent down and inspected the situation. ‘Right,’ he said to Clare. ‘I’d like to move you inside.’
‘I’m not going anywhere!’ she yelled at him.
‘All right. OK–’
Suddenly, she doubled over and gave an almighty bellow. ‘Fuck!’ she said through gritted teeth. ‘It’s coming!’
And my God, it was. Alastair barely had time to roll up his sleeves before, accompanied by one long, deafening yell from his mother, the Baby King shot into the world and was caught by the doctor’s waiting arms.
The baby was startlingly big, and covered with ooze and blood. Claude’s legs folded like a marionette beneath him and he sank to the ground, completely out for the count.
‘Shit!’ Ruth’s quick reflexes managed to prevent his head smacking like a dropped pumpkin onto the concrete. But she was too slight to move his dead weight.
‘Tex!’ she yelled. ‘Help!’
Simon came too, and he and Michael took an arm each and dragged Claude over to where no one would tread on him.
Alastair was still on his knees, looking slightly amazed. Gently, he massaged the baby’s chest. ‘Come on, you.’ And there it was. That unmistakable newborn cry.
Clare was collapsed on the chair, panting. ‘Fuck,’ she gasped, ‘I can’t move.’
‘Here–’ As Alastair deftly shifted the baby, Patrick gently, tenderly helped Clare off her knees, and sat her on the ground. He dropped down next t
o her, and buried his face in her neck.
‘My heroine,’ he said and kissed her sweaty cheek. ‘What a fucking star.’
Alastair saw Mario and Vincente in the doorway. ‘Clean dishtowels! Now!’
In a trice, they were back, and Alastair wiped the baby in one striped cloth, and wrapped him best he could in another. With a smile, he placed the baby in the lap of its exhausted mother.
‘It’s a boy,’ he smiled. ‘Congratulations.’
‘Oh …’ Clare gazed down at the little face. ‘My God … Where did you come from?’
Then she grimaced. ‘Fuck! Why’s it still hurting?’ she demanded of Alastair.
‘I’m afraid you still need to pass the placenta. And I should clamp that cord.’
‘Jesus Christ!’ Clare bent her head to the baby. ‘Good thing you’re worth it.’
Alastair dashed back to his surgery, and brought back a sterile clamp and a scalpel. ‘Would you like to cut the cord?’ he asked Patrick.
Patrick’s face was answer enough. ‘Wimp,’ said his wife.
‘Too right!’ he said. ‘It took all my courage just to watch you shove him out!’
Alastair cut the cord. ‘Here,’ he said to Patrick. ‘All yours.’
Patrick took his son and cradled him as if he were made of eggshells.
Clare saw that her husband was crying. ‘Soppy git,’ she grinned. ‘What shall we call him? How about Tom?’
I jumped as if I’d been stung. But after the first shock faded, I realised there had been no grief bomb. I did the mental equivalent of patting myself down to check for injury. There was none. I was, for the first time in forever, intact.
‘Tom King,’ said Patrick. ‘Good name.’
‘Oh my God!’ Clare suddenly exclaimed. She had been drying off her son’s small crop of matted hair. ‘He’s ginger!’
Patrick peered. ‘So he is!’
‘That’s your fault,’ Clare accused.
‘Mine?’ said Patrick, bewildered. ‘I’m dark.’
‘Hidden ginger! It’s rampant in your family.’
Then she grimaced again. ‘Ow! Fuck! How long is this hell going to last!’
Up the street came the wail of an ambulance. It screeched to a halt.
‘Hmph.’ Michael was behind me. ‘Like déjà vu all over again.’
I hugged him quickly. The last time an ambulance pulled up at the café it had been to take Michael to hospital. I didn’t need to say how glad I was that he was with us today.
The ambulance crew helped a truculent, swearing Clare onto a stretcher. Claude was still on the ground, but conscious now. His head was in Ruth’s lap. He didn’t seem in a hurry to move.
‘He’s fine,’ Ruth said, when one of the ambulance crew came over. She ran her fingers through Claude’s hair and smiled down. ‘I’ll look after him.’
He stared up at her. ‘You’re so lovely,’ he murmured.
‘Yeah? Boy, you have got it bad.’
Patrick still had the baby in his arms. He was about to join Clare in the back of the ambulance.
‘Come on,’ I took hold of Anselo’s hand. ‘Let’s go say hello.’
Patrick couldn’t stop grinning. ‘Look!’ he said as we approached. ‘Will you fucking look at this!’
Anselo and I peered down at the red, wrinkled little face. I still had Anselo’s hand in mine. I squeezed it. ‘Wow.’
‘Yeah,’ Anselo agreed. ‘Wow.’
‘By the way,’ Patrick said to Anselo, as he readied to climb in the back of the ambulance, ‘you’re godfather.’
Anselo’s face was a picture. ‘What?’
‘Godfather,’ repeated Patrick. ‘You.’ And the ambulance door closed.
Anselo blinked as it pulled away. ‘Wow!’
I vowed to thank Patrick later. That was a very good thing to have done.
Anselo then, to his apparent surprise, found that we were still holding hands. He gazed at me with a slightly manic look in his eye.
‘Darrell–’ he began.
But I needed no encouragement. We launched ourselves at each other, and kissed and kissed until I had absolutely no idea where I was. It was bliss. Delicious and passionate and perfectly right. I was so happy, I could hardly stand it.
‘You’re laughing!’ he murmured against my mouth. ‘Have you any idea how wound up I’ve been about this? And for how long?’
‘I’m sorry,’ I told him. ‘How could I not have known? It was completely bloody obvious that it was you all along. What a retard I am.’
I kissed him again. It was even better. In fact, it was astonishing. All other recent kisses paled against it.
‘Wow,’ I said, after what was really a very long time.
‘Yeah,’ Anselo agreed. ‘Wow.’
‘Do you mind if I do this?’ I asked him. And I ran my hand up under his shirt.
‘Jesus,’ he breathed. ‘You can do it, but you’ll have to deal with the consequences.’
‘I might suggest Simon takes a second trip to Greenwich this afternoon–’
He kissed me again, and said, ‘I’m sure I love you. And I’m warning you now that I may want to marry you. And have a ton of babies.’
‘I dunno.’ I made a face. ‘Today’s kind of put me off.’
‘You’ll soon forget,’ he grinned. ‘Just think about how cute he was. And that’s despite Patrick being an ugly spud, really. We’d have beautiful babies.’
‘Would you settle for a dog in the meantime?’
‘Sure. Why not? I’ve always liked black Labradors.’
A black Labrador? Close enough …
‘Hey! You two!’
Ruth was waving to us from the café doorway. ‘Mario’s cracked opened the prosecco! If you can stop face-sucking for a half second, let’s celebrate!’
‘To the bambino!’ Mario was first to raise his glass.
‘To us!’ was Ruth’s toast.
‘And all who sail in us!’ added Michael. ‘The ship of loons!’
‘To Michael!’ I said, to his acute embarrassment. ‘And to his excellent daughter who told him it was about fucking time!’
‘Why don’t you broadcast it to the world, Darrell?’ he said. ‘Go on. Don’t you worry about me.’
‘Oh, lighten up, Tex,’ said Ruth. ‘You know we would have found out that you ponied up sooner or later. Correction. Only sooner. There’s no later when I’m involved. Your daughter sounds OK by the way. Can’t wait to meet her.’
‘To Darrell’s upcoming book!’ said Claude quickly, as Michael turned a dangerous shade of red. ‘My mother will be thrilled.’
‘To Darrell!’ said Simon. ‘May she be head girl forever!’
‘What are you on about?’
He blinked at me. ‘Darrell was head girl, wasn’t she? Or am I mixing her up with Angela Brazil?’
Bewildered, I looked to Anselo for help. He only shrugged.
‘Simon,’ I said firmly. ‘Explain!’
‘Oh. Right. They were your mother’s favourite books. About a girls’ school. What was it called again?’ He snapped his fingers. ‘Malory Towers! Enid Blyton! The head girl was called Darrell.’
‘My mother named me after a character in an Enid Blyton book?’
‘Yes!’ He saw my face. ‘She was a good character. Strong-willed, clever, courageous, all that fine plucky British stuff.’
‘Good grief …’
‘She had a sister called Felicity, as I recall.’
‘Ick!’ I shuddered. ‘I’m glad she didn’t name me that.’
Anselo was chuckling. The bastard.
‘Why didn’t you ever ask her?’
‘Too chicken,’ I replied. ‘You’d know something about that,’ I added tartly.
He wrapped his arm around my shoulder and kissed me on the temple. ‘I love you, Darrell the head girl.’
‘Oh my God,’ I said to no one in particular. ‘And I really thought I would never be happy again.’
EPILOGUE
‘You
know,’ I said to the top of Anselo’s head. ‘We really are having a mad amount of sex.’
‘Mm …’
‘I mean, it’s OK at this kind of time. But I really don’t think there are any more errands you can send Tyso on during the day.’
Anselo finally lifted his head from where it was nestled between my breasts. ‘And the kitchen bench is due for demolition tomorrow,’ he grinned at me. ‘So unless you want to perch on the oven–’
I thought about it. ‘No. Those gas elements are too pointy.’ I tweaked his ear. ‘You’re getting heavy, by the way.’
With considerable reluctance, Anselo rolled off me and flopped on to his back. He hooked one arm behind his head and stared at the ceiling.
I spooned against him and rested one arm over his perfect chest. ‘Don’t get me wrong,’ I murmured. ‘I’m not complaining.’
There was no reply. I propped myself up on one elbow. ‘What’s up?’
His eyes darted to me and then away again.
‘What’s up?’ I said, more gently. Confessions could only ever be elicited from Anselo through patient coaxing.
He sighed. ‘Fuck it,’ he said. ‘I swore I’d never ask this question. But I can’t not ask it. I’m too fucking paranoid and insecure.’
‘Do you want to know if you’re better in bed than you-know-who?’
‘No!’ His head jerked up off the pillow, rigid with outrage. ‘No, I bloody don’t! That wasn’t what I was going to ask at all!’
‘Sorry–’ I made an apologetic face. ‘Jumped the gun.’
Still affronted, he lowered his head back down. Then he muttered quickly, ‘So– Am I?’
I smiled. ‘Much better. And I’m not just saying that because I adore you. With you, it’s – transporting.’
‘You make me sound like a Ford Transit,’ he muttered.
But he let me kiss him.
‘What did you want to ask me if it wasn’t that?’ I murmured when I’d finished.
‘I wanted to ask–’ He paused, and blew out a quick, nerve-girding breath. ‘Would he have approved? Of me? Your husband, I mean.’
My goodness. What a question. No wonder he had to work up the courage to ask.
‘He would have,’ I nodded. ‘But he’d say you need to lighten up a bit. Have more faith in yourself, and don’t take everything so seriously. Tom had no problem ever being happy–’
The Sweet Second Life of Darrell Kincaid Page 33