by Erin Green
‘Considering?’ I repeat, my right eyebrow arched and primed for trouble. I’ll give her a chance to quickly correct herself, a moment to gather her insensitive thoughts or swiftly deliver her apology, as necessary.
I slowly stand tall, my chin lifted.
She shuffles on the spot. Blinks rapidly. Her mouth works non-stop and yet fails to produce a complete sentence. She swiftly looks around for parental back-up, but the others have all quickly taken one giant step away from her for fear of association.
‘Well, yes, you know . . . considering.’ She murmurs the final word softly.
My eyebrow lifts higher. I glance down at Luke, who is happily admiring his handiwork.
‘Considering he’s five? Considering he hasn’t used black paint or considering he has Down’s?’ I ask, my voice steely, my manner too.
‘Mummy!’ Tyler arrives and interrupts the drama, his hands instantly reaching for his mother’s neck and today she is very willing to bend down to his level and receive a snotty kiss – unlike other schooldays when her precious make-up can’t possibly be ruined.
I remain statuesque, unmoving, waiting. The crowd collectively release their held breath. I can sense the ripple of relief that Tyler has had perfect timing today; more often than not he’s kept back by his teacher for a naughtiness talk, despite his intelligence.
His mother slowly stands, straightens his shirt collar and exhales.
‘I’m sorry, Dana – I just . . . I didn’t . . . think. Sorry,’ she says stroking the right forearm of my coat as if that makes the world a better place.
I simply stare. Words fail me every time this happens. One day, when they stop looking at Luke as the little one who is different from the rest of the class, they will finally get to see what I see: a vibrant, beautiful, smart young boy who has the world at his feet and can do anything – and I mean absolutely bloody anything – he chooses to put his mind and effort to. And just as well as any other child who attends this school. One day. ‘One day’ has sadly become my mantra for my Luke. One day others will see the shape of his heart before they notice anything else: his features, his speech, his condition. One day they’ll see his continual kindness, happy smiles and laughter, and then they will realise that Down’s syndrome is just an element of his make-up, much like his eye colour, his hair colour and potential shoe size, nothing more.
Simply a child, like any other.
One day.
One day can’t come soon enough for me. Or Luke.
‘Come on, Luke, let’s go home,’ I say, turning away and smiling down at my son’s upturned face. ‘Guess what we’ve got for tea?’
I take his chubby hand in mine and we walk, just as we’ve walked every day: together amongst the crowd.
‘Sausage, egg and chips?’ he asks eagerly.
‘Is that what you want?’ I’ve bought a sliver of fresh fish and vegetables for our tea. I have to monitor his daily nutrition and digestion in order to counteract the biological impacts of his condition. Thankfully, we have a few supplements to rely on when a boy wants chips. ‘OK, you win!’
Luke nods, his dark fringe bouncing above his tiny smiling eyes, his glasses tilting even more.
Carmen
Elliot’s already home by the time I pull into the driveway. I can see his outline through the kitchen’s open blind as he moves about making dinner.
Instantly, my mind quietens and my heart softens.
I undo my seat belt and watch him.
He’ll be listening to his blaring boy music with a thumping bass whilst rhythmically moving – he won’t ever admit to dancing – and conjuring up another of his fabulous meals without effort or fuss. I know he’ll flick the switch on the kettle as soon as I come in the door, plant a kiss on my forehead and make me a hot coffee as I settle at the table and reel off the details of my day at work. He’ll nod, he’ll comment, and if I sound drained, fed-up or overly tired, he’ll ditch the coffee and pour me a glass of white wine from the fridge.
I know all these things, and yet I don’t know if he wishes to marry me. Commit to me. Make a life with me and try for a family.
How do I not know that after eight years? Because we’ve never talked about it. I’ve never dared to question his intentions, and I get the impression he doesn’t wish to ignite the wedding touchpaper prematurely.
How does he not know that I am desperate for this scenario to change and for us to become Mr and Mrs Cole? Mr and Mrs Elliot Cole – that has a certain ring to it.
Our next-door neighbour Nile pulls into his drive, leaps from his car, sees me sitting here and gives a warm yet awkward wave. I raise my hand to acknowledge it. Even next door got married two summers ago and are expecting a baby in two months . . . we moved into this street years before they did. I watch as Nile unlocks his front door and enters. What made him ask in the end? Did Nessa give him an ultimatum – I doubt it, given her mild-mannered nature – or did he suddenly mature overnight and decide he wanted to commit?
Immature, that’s my mum’s excuse for Elliot each time we discuss it: ‘He hasn’t matured yet, it’s as simple as that,’ she’ll say, sharing her expertise on the male of the species having married one and mothered four. ‘Your father was the same.’ After which she’ll outline how my own father went from Casual Keith to Commitment Keith literally overnight, thanks to maturity. It frequently irks me that my parents dated for only two years before Commitment Keith showed up proposing marriage; I’ve waited four times that long already and still nothing, despite laying the foundations which now stand before me.
I watch Elliot cease moving, glance at his watch and then separate the kitchen blinds to stare out of the window, puzzled by my stationary car.
Wow, he even senses when I’m slightly late home and yet . . .
I give up. I know what I want. I can’t see me waiting much longer for what I’d like, but I can hardly bring myself to say it, to think it, let alone do it. Could following the leap-year tradition deliver the goods?
I climb from my car, collect a box of paperwork from the back seat and make my way into the house.
Every day, I uphold tradition: the silver sixpence, orange blossom and something old, something new, but would this tradition be one step too far? Wouldn’t I be missing out on a special moment? Haven’t I been dreaming, wondering about, expecting that proposal for my entire life?
I sound so old-fashioned but the Leap Year Bride-to-be will never have that unexpected moment of delight knowing her man wanted to commit to her. She’ll never have the assurance that he matured, made a choice, a decision and planned a proposal just for her . . .
My mind pauses mid-flow.
I enter our kitchen, wince at the thrash of music blaring from Elliot’s phone, smell the delicious aroma wafting from the stove and receive a hasty peck on the cheek as Elliot grabs a colander and a boiling saucepan from the hob and begins straining cooked pasta over the sink.
. . . She’ll never have that dream fulfilled of simply being a girl being asked by a boy to share his life.
I remove my coat and watch Elliot dodge the billow of steam from the pasta.
Apart from two gold rings, how different would this scene be if we were married?
It wouldn’t be . . . so why the devil won’t he just ask me?
Dana
‘Please, Mummy . . .’ whines Luke sleepily, as I close his favourite story book after the final page. ‘One morrrrre.’
‘Not one more, not tonight. You need sweet dreams because you’re visiting Grandpops tomorrow to play in the garden and feed his billy-birds.’
‘Billy-birds,’ mumbles Luke, drifting beneath half-closed eyes.
‘Yes, darling, billy-birds,’ I whisper, as I tuck his duvet around his tiny body and make sure his toy elephant is close at hand. Luke rarely falls asleep without clasping the toy’s tatty ear. I check his nightlight i
s correctly switched on, then plant a kiss on Luke’s forehead. ‘Night, night little man. Mummy loves you.’
I creep from the room; tiptoeing isn’t really necessary because once Luke’s down, Luke’s down for the night. There are very few times when he wakes. Even as a tiny baby, he only woke for his night feeds and then went straight back off to sleep, which was a blessing given our circumstances, then and now. I’d be run ragged if he was one of those up-every-fifteen-minutes children who think bedtime is a game. I’ve seen them on the TV being trained by the Supernanny brigade. How parents keep their wits about them on the nine-hundredth time of calmly coaxing their child back into bed, I will never know. I’d crack on the fourth occasion, ranting, raving and pulling my hair out in sheer frustration that my nine, ten and eleven o’clock wind-down time had been absorbed by coaxing my child back into bed.
I reach the bottom of the staircase and switch off the landing light as a well-meaning phrase from six years ago whispers in my mind: ‘We’re only ever given what we are strong enough to love’ – bloody right. I love what I have and thankfully that love isn’t tested on the nine-hundredth time of kissing him good night.
Within ten minutes, I’ve rearranged the furniture in the lounge, carried in half the contents of my workbench from the garage and am settling down for a couple of hours of floristry work in front of Friday night TV.
It’s not ideal, but I can work like this on occasion when needs must. And tonight – if I’m going to deliver on time tomorrow morning, attend a meeting at midday and present myself in a professional manner with samples of my work at Sunday’s wedding fayre – needs must. I was happy with the two orders I created earlier in the day, I know both customers will be delighted when I deliver early tomorrow.
I carefully lift a piece of soaked oasis from the water bucket, and hold it aloft, allowing the excess water to drain without making a mess on my carpet. This is my downfall – I try to do too much too quickly and then create more work for myself. I’m grateful that my Dutch supplier considers me as important as the high-street florist. My flower orders are tiny in comparison but still, if I order online by four o’clock, my wholesaler guarantees delivery by nine the following morning, travelling through the night from Holland. Their warehouse operates twenty-four hours a day – all high-tech and efficient with robots packaging each delivery on to the lorry, or so the driver tells me. More often than not, he unloads my delivery straight into my workshop, as per the delivery notice, while I walk Luke to school. If I can secure a few orders for this year’s wedding season I’ll be in a better position to plan for next year.
My hands work busily as my eyes flick back and forth towards the TV screen. I’m not really following the weekly serial, as I can never be sure I’ll have time each week to watch the next episode, so I’m simply watching a male chat to a female, the female starts to cry, the male comforts the female, then kisses the female – all very random and pointless given that I don’t understand any backstory or the build-up to their scene together. But it looks intense, it appears pretty positive for them both and, oh yep, there they go, heading towards the bedroom . . . eventful too.
I laugh to myself. I’m sitting here, surrounded by wedding work, taking the mickey out of a storyline where two actors are doing what I would like a piece of in my daily life. Not a huge piece, nothing too intense, but definitely some company, some kissing and, who knows, maybe some sex if he’s the right fella.
I blush.
What am I like?
I’m blushing and there’s no one around to be embarrassed in front of. Oh Dana, get a bloody grip, woman! But the reality is this: it has been so long since . . . well, since there was a man in my life that I’m virtually back to acting like a schoolgirl when a half-decent guy is a metre away. Or not . . . my cheeks are still burning.
My stomach begins to flutter.
What am I going to be like attending this meeting if I feel nervous sitting here alone? Earlier, I’d promised myself not to think about it but now . . . I stare at my hands working on autopilot – they are visibly shaking, causing the white lily bloom to quiver as I wire it.
Don’t think about it, simply do it, Dana.
Polly
‘Tell me you didn’t!’ whines Cody, glaring from under his brows as I peel potatoes at the kitchen sink.
‘I’m sorry, I couldn’t help myself. She did that sultry walk, trying to be all vulnerable and pally-pally towards me. I was having none of it. You said it was over and now, well, there’s no need for her to be hanging about, visiting me at work seeking suggestions for a present, is there?’ I wince as I wait for his answer.
Cody peels himself from the countertop he was leaning against and makes to leave before stopping to answer me.
‘I just wish you hadn’t, that’s all.’
I know he’s annoyed, I’ve stepped on his toes.
‘Help me out here – the girl made you as miserable as sin. She was barely pleasant towards you for the whole time you dated and now, when it’s clearly over, she’s willing to shower you with gifts! Seriously, Cody . . . it’s calculated.’
‘I know, but still. You’d come down hard on any parent who sniped at me that way.’ He raises one eyebrow, reinforcing his tone.
Am I actually getting told off by my son?
Has our relationship crossed a boundary where mutual respect equates to his disapproval of my actions? Bloody hell! When did that happen?
‘Sorry.’
Cody nods an acknowledgement, much like Fraser’s manner of receiving a sentiment when delivered, good or bad. And since when did Cody become a replica of his father? He’s always been my double!
‘You forget she has a nice side too.’
‘Mmmm, pity I didn’t see any of it during the – how long was it? – eight months that she messed you about for.’
Cody shrugs, as if the hurt had been water off a duck’s back. I know it wasn’t.
‘I’ll be upstairs . . . shout when dinner’s done,’ he says, ending our conversation.
I continue to peel the potatoes, my fingers nimbly rotating each one.
A shout upstairs, a quick conversation over dinner and a slam of the front door will be the routine as he leaves for another Friday night out, going God knows where, to see God knows who for a few beers. Only to return when I’m tucked up in bed, though Fraser will still be up, watching late-night TV. I’ll lie beneath a warm duvet listening to the murmured chatter of two males downstairs, much like I listened to the sounds of the TV drifting up through the floorboards when I was little. And then the arguments, which increased as I neared school-leaving age – not about Helen pushing her unspoken-curfew time, which she often did when she was out with Marc, but my parents’ marriage unravelling. Is that the circle of life, lying in the darkness, listening to your family, from childhood to adulthood, in various situations?
I rinse the peeled potatoes and grab a saucepan.
I assume this is how mothering feels once your children truly find their independence. This is the reality of letting go and allowing my son to build his own life. I can’t choose his friends any more, needless to say I shouldn’t try to choose his girlfriends . . . but still, I couldn’t sleep at night if I thought he hadn’t learnt his lessons regarding that young lady.
I load the stove with various pans, putting a light under each gas burner.
He’ll be twenty in just over a week, and being one of ‘those mothers’ was never my intention. I’ll need to be careful in future. Having to apologise to my son isn’t something that I wish to repeat too often. I couldn’t name a single incident before where I’ve felt it was necessary to apologise. Was that his maturity, or the weight of my mistake in saying what I had to Lola?
‘Your dad’s on the phone, Polly,’ says Fraser, bringing my ringing mobile to me from the lounge. ‘Are you OK?’
‘Yep, fine.’ I tap the screen
and accept the call. Fraser peers at me before returning to the lounge. ‘Hi, Dad, are we still OK for tomorrow?’
I mentally change hats, from concerned mother to dutiful daughter, and buzz about the kitchen, bringing together our evening meal whilst chatting to my dad about his pet dog, Fido.
Carmen
‘How does this sound, Elliot?’
Elliot mutes his TV drama and waits while I adopt my announcement voice and read the scribbled notes which I’m preparing for a business proposal. This is our usual routine most nights, him lying on the sofa, me across the way in the armchair.
‘Thank you so much for attending. As you all know, I’m Carmen Smith, owner of The Wedding Boutique. I’m creating a new venture, bringing several wedding services together. My hope is that we’ll be able to cater for all areas of wedding preparation in one place rather than expecting our couples to go in search of suppliers and goods offered in various locations.’ I pause and look up to check he’s listening. Elliot is looking up at me. ‘OK so far?’
‘OK apart from the owner part. I think “proprietor” sounds more sophisticated.’
Fair dos, I’ll change that later.
I continue to read aloud.
‘I’m currently in discussion to take over the property adjoining this and the new shop would become a one-stop wedding centre enabling an entire wedding to be booked in one visit, dependent upon availability, of course . . .’ I wait for Elliot’s feedback.
He nods.
‘No other changes?’
‘No.’
I’m not convinced.
‘Just the one change, then?’
‘I’d say so but, hey, you know these people better than me. Are they having difficulties in securing wedding bookings or not? They might be making a decent living doing what they’re already doing.’
‘But if we bring the services together under one roof, it will make the planning process so much easier for everyone!’
Silence descends while I wait for his opinion.
‘You done?’ he asks, indicating the TV with the remote control.