by Sue Watson
‘I loved you then and I love you now, and that’s all there is,’ he says between kisses.
Later I look at his drawing and wonder if he’s been kind. The woman in the picture is beautiful, strong and healthy, she has stretch marks around her tummy and her breasts are small and slightly flatter than she’d like, but I love Peter’s vision of me.
‘I actually like myself,’ I say.
‘At last. My flower in the rubble is finally appreciating her own beauty.’
Chapter Twenty-Nine
After an idyllic weekend with Peter I feel happier than I have for a long time and return to the shop on Monday morning in a positive frame of mind.
I’ve noticed that Anna doesn’t really ask me about Peter much. She knows I went to his home this weekend, but whereas Isobel would ask questions and engage with me as I recount my stay, Anna stays silent. But Isobel’s on holiday, so I don’t have the opportunity to talk to anyone about it. Normally Anna just listens and it must kill her not to ask questions or contribute her own thoughts to mine and Peter’s relationship. I know this is her unspoken protest at my other life, a life she isn’t part of and therefore can’t control, and I fear Margaret’s ghost haunts me still.
Everyone else in the family seems to be welcoming and accepting of Peter, and it’s my dearest wish one day to bring him into the family fold. But while Anna is still rather closed to the idea there’s no point in me pushing him down her throat and attempting more social gatherings. If she’s not happy she will make it clear, she may even say something to me or make a comment to Peter and perhaps ultimately cause a bigger rift. Consequently I only drop his name into the conversation every now and then, a warning shot across her bows that I’m still with him, and whatever her views are on the matter, we are together and happy. It’s an invisible mother–daughter stand-off, where to anyone on the outside of the relationship everything seems fine, but it’s a huge chasm between us and I know we both feel it.
I’ve lived with this for a few weeks now and it’s okay if Anna and I just talk about work and the children, anything but Peter and where we’ve been together. There’s been much excitement in Anna’s world recently as Katie is performing in a dance recital at the school she attends and we’re all really looking forward to it. The performance is on Saturday, I’ve kept the evening free, and this morning I ask Anna what time it starts.
‘Would you like me to drive?’ I say, knowing James is away working in Wales so Anna and I could go together.
She suddenly goes quiet, and I immediately think there may be problems with her and James.
‘Oh, Mum . . . I don’t know how to tell you . . . ’
‘Is everything okay?’ I ask, holding my breath, worrying what she’s going to say.
‘It’s James . . . he’s back early on Saturday and he’d like to see Katie dance.’
‘Well, that’s okay as long as you two don’t mind me playing gooseberry – I’ll come along with you.’
‘That’s the thing . . . I only bought two tickets, I wasn’t sure if you were free . . . ’
‘I kept it free, I always go to the girls’ events,’ I say.
‘I just thought you might be having a weekend with Peter.’
She knew damn well I wasn’t seeing Peter, I’d made a point of telling her that I was keeping Saturday free – I’d told Katie the same.
‘Anna, you know I wouldn’t arrange to see Peter when Katie is dancing.’ I’m hurt to think she’d even suggest this. ‘Can I get another ticket?’
‘No, there aren’t any left. I’m really sorry, Mum. I’ll call round some of the mums and see if they have any spare . . . ’
‘Okay, thanks, I really would like to be there,’ I say, stinging, but trying not to show how hurt I am.
‘I feel really bad. But the thing is James needs to start doing stuff like this with us – as a family, you know?’
This is a low blow from Anna, who is only too aware of my own desire to bring Peter into the family.
‘Yes, I do know, Anna. I know exactly how it feels to want to bring your partner into your life and your family.’
‘It’s not the same, Mum—’
‘STOP telling me it’s not the same. Just because I’m older, it doesn’t mean I can’t feel. It doesn’t mean that I don’t hurt every time we have a family gathering and he isn’t included, or there’s a conversation about James or Richard being your partners, deliberately leaving out the fact that Peter is mine. And now you’re punishing me for having a partner by making it impossible for me to go to Katie’s dance evening, something you know I love to do. Please don’t use my granddaughters to get at me, it’s a cheap shot and I’m disappointed in you. I know you’re bossy and controlling, but I really thought you were kinder than that.’ I storm out in tears of hurt and rage and when I finally pull myself together, I do what I’ve been doing a lot recently: I turn to Peter.
‘I know it’s only right that James goes,’ I say on the phone, ‘and I understand that she wants him to be part of the girls’ lives, but I can’t help but feel upset and angry about the way she’s excluded me deliberately.’
Peter suggests gently that perhaps I’m being a little oversensitive which makes me feel better because I don’t want to think that Anna is being mean. I’d rather believe she’s being thoughtless and I’m being silly.
‘Look, why don’t I come over and cheer you up on Saturday instead?’ he says. ‘We’ll do something special together and then you can see Katie on Sunday. Perhaps you could ask Anna to take pictures? She could video the whole thing?’
It wouldn’t be the same. I can’t explain to him that I want Katie to know I’m in the audience. It’s about seeing her dance, but more than that it’s about being there for her.
‘Anna can even borrow one of my cameras! I’ve got a great little Leica that would do the job,’ he’s saying. I have to smile, it isn’t about the camera, but I doubt he’d understand, to him it’s just my granddaughter’s dancing show and he probably wonders what all the fuss is about. It’s at times like this I miss Mike.
I call Katie to wish her good luck for Saturday and she says it won’t be the same without me there, which brings a lump to my throat. ‘Yes, but your mum and James will be there and James hasn’t seen you dance, so I reckon it’s his turn,’ I say, trying to sound happy about it. But I just feel wretched.
*
When Peter arrives on Saturday I’m so glad to see him I hug him before he’s even halfway down the drive – I can’t wait to fall into his arms, and feel the world fall away.
‘As you were so upset I’ve booked theatre tickets and a meal at our favourite restaurant this evening to take your mind off everything and cheer you up,’ he says as we walk arm in arm into the house. I’m delighted, it’s a lovely gesture, and the fact he’s gone out of his way to get last-minute tickets and wants to make it special makes me feel loved, which is just what I need right now.
‘It won’t be quite the same as seeing Katie on stage,’ he sighs, ‘but almost.’ I am touched at his thoughtfulness.
‘I’ve been keeping this wine for a special occasion,’ he says, taking it out of his bag and putting it on the kitchen worktop. ‘But then I thought, define a special occasion. It’s been in my cellar for over thirty years . . . and an occasion doesn’t get more special than being here with you. I’ve also booked a taxi to the restaurant and home from the theatre and before we go out we will enjoy a glass of this together.’
When it comes to lovely things, he thinks of everything. He’s also brought with him some croissants, and a pale pink box of pastel macarons.
‘You are such a hedonist, Peter,’ I smile. ‘And I love it. This is just what I need right now: a little TLC laced with wild abandon and expensive wine and these macarons . . . ’
‘Just a little reminder of Paris,’ he says fondly as I gaze at the pastel-coloured discs.
‘My favourite, and they look very special.’
‘They are. Pamela bro
ught them back for us from Paris – she says hello, by the way, and wants us to go over there for dinner as soon as we’re free.’ He rolls his eyes. He always rolls his eyes when he talks about Pamela, but I know it’s done with affection and he loves her dearly. He says her dinner parties are extravagant and I will need to starve for at least a week before we go. I reckon there’s a genetic streak of pleasure-seeking and high-living running through Moreton blood.
‘Lovely, I haven’t seen her since the wedding,’ I say. ‘I’ll look forward to it.’
I’m delighted she’s invited us, especially as I’m feeling rather rejected by my daughter. Here’s someone from Peter’s family who wants to celebrate our relationship and is happy to welcome us as a couple. I know it sounds silly after all these years, but for me Pamela’s overture is extra special having never been welcomed by his parents. Finally I feel accepted by Peter’s family, which is bittersweet, because Peter hasn’t yet been accepted by mine.
When Peter met my parents I remember being ashamed and hating myself for it, but he told me it was okay. ‘So you don’t want to live your parents’ life, who does?’ he said.
‘Yes, but your parents read books and talk politics, they have interesting friends . . . you must want to be like them?’
‘So why did I call myself Pierre and wish I lived in another country?’ he said. ‘I don’t feel comfortable at home, my parents are bourgeois, they pretend to be liberal but it’s all just an act. They’d be as horrified as the other snobby neighbours if a black family moved into our street – and I hate them for it. At least your parents are honest, working-class folk who don’t put on any airs and graces.’
I remember thinking then that we were both lost, like two children searching for a home, a life. We both went off in different directions searching for the same thing and it makes me wonder if any of us ever really find what we’re looking for. I was one of the lucky ones: I found it with Mike and now I really believe I’ve found what I’ve been looking for again, with Peter, my first love, my second chance.
I put the lovely pale pink box of macarons to the side, admiring the delicate pastel palette of shades, like watercolours. I resist taking one until later – I want to enjoy them on our return with a cup of coffee when we can lie in bed and talk about the play we’ve seen. It’s those times together afterwards that I enjoy when we can dissect the evening, discuss the food, the gallery we visited and just enjoy being alone. I’m still sad about missing Katie, but I tell myself there will be other times.
At about five o’clock I leave Peter downstairs tinkering with his new camera (the one I’m not allowed to touch) and I go upstairs to get ready. I’m just applying my lipstick when the phone rings and I almost fall downstairs to grab it before Peter does because I think it might be Anna calling to see how I am. I can’t imagine anything worse than Anna ringing up contrite about me not being able to go tonight and Peter picking up the phone. Then in the few seconds it takes me to get down the stairs I think of something much worse: what if this is Anna to tell me she’s got me a ticket for tonight after all, and Peter’s booked the theatre, the table, the taxi – what on earth would I say? Who would I have to hurt? I hear Peter on the phone.
‘Hey, hey, calm down,’ he’s saying. I am now walking slowly down the stairs, trying to work out who is on the phone.
‘Anna . . . it’s okay . . . Anna, listen to me . . . ’ he’s saying.
My heart thuds and bounces down the hall. NO. Anna is probably furious that he’s now answering the phone in my house, and just as I’m about to ask him to hand me the phone so I can tell her off he says something that stops me in my tracks.
‘Which hospital is he in?’
Peter’s now nodding and I’m desperate to know what’s going on, but he seems to have this and when I look at him and gesture for him to give me the phone he just mouths, It’s okay.
‘Anna, it’s fine, you go now. Don’t worry about anything, your mum and I can go and watch Katie. Yes, we’ll do that . . . tickets from school reception, yes. Oh, don’t cry – I’m sure everything will be fine . . . yes, we’ll pick up Emma. Does your mum have her friend’s address? Don’t worry, just go – call your mum on her mobile as soon as you know. And Anna . . . life has a way of working things out, you know.’ He puts down the phone and I’m just standing in the hallway, almost unable to speak for fear of what he’s going to tell me.
‘It’s James, he’s fallen from a roof he’s working on in Wales. He’s been taken to a hospital in Cardiff and Anna’s going to be with him. They won’t tell her anything over the phone as she isn’t his next of kin, but his friend is going to drive her there.’
‘Oh God . . . I bet she’s devastated.’
‘Yes, she’s upset but she’s also worried about the girls, and I knew if we could look after that side of things it would free her up to just be on her own and get to James. Whatever happens when she gets there is another issue . . . if he’s in a bad way . . . but I said we would have it all covered here.’
I look at him in disbelief. In this moment of terrible anguish with everything suddenly thrown up in the air, Peter has stepped up. The man who lives alone and by his own admission can be selfishly living a life where he thinks only of himself has just cancelled his plans and taken on this huge family responsibility without question.
‘Peter, I’m so touched . . . you bought theatre tickets and booked a restaurant and—’
‘Yes, but who cares about that when something like this happens? I’ll take my camera and try and film some of it for Anna . . . she won’t want to miss it. Now hurry up and get ready – I told Anna we’d get to Katie’s dance event early.’
The old laid-back Peter is cool about this. I love him.
So as I finish getting ready, he calls and cancels everything then puts the cork back in the wine, packs a couple of cameras and we head out for an unexpected evening of dance. But tonight is about so much more than seeing my lovely granddaughter shine on stage; this is about Peter discovering that he can be the man he always wanted to be. And who knows, these might be his first steps on the rocky road to becoming part of our family.
Chapter Thirty
We arrive early and Peter asks for permission to film the performance. I positively glow when he explains that he’s Katie’s grandmother’s partner and a professional photographer. We take our seats just as the curtain goes up, and as soon as Katie appears on stage I can tell she’s scanning the crowd for her mum. Her eyes are darting everywhere and she eventually sees me. I give a little smile and it’s good to see the relief on her face – it’s not her mum but I am the next best thing. I’m so glad we’re able to be here and grateful to Peter for being so understanding. To see a child looking round from the stage for family who isn’t there is one of the most heartbreaking sights.
The children give a wonderful performance in a way only kids can: they are energetic, funny, talented and they are ours, so we’re totally biased. I did wonder if Peter would be bored; after all, it is amateur in its purest sense to someone who isn’t watching their own child on stage. But Peter genuinely seems to enjoy it, he’s videoing while tapping his hand to the music, and sharing this special evening with him is wonderful. I’m showing off my lovely, talented granddaughter and when she takes her bow and Peter shouts ‘Bravo’ and stands up to film a close-up, my eyes fill with tears.
‘We should have bought her flowers,’ he whispers to me as they bring the curtain down.
‘She’s a twelve-year-old at a dance school recital, not Darcey Bussell,’ I laugh.
Later, as we wait outside in the cold for the girls to come out, Peter goes back to his car to pack away the camera. I see him wandering back down the road to where I’m standing waiting with some of the mums and suddenly notice him climbing over a garden fence. It’s dark and he’s gone into someone’s front garden, which concerns me. A lot. What the hell is he doing? I am quite disturbed by this until a few minutes later he emerges, carrying a bunch of flowers, cl
early stolen.
‘What are you doing?’ I ask quietly so as not to alert the other parents.
‘I got them for Katie. I used to steal flowers from people’s gardens for you and you never seemed to mind.’
‘That’s because I didn’t know,’ I say. ‘All those blue hydrangea?’
He nods. ‘Yes, the woman three doors down had a lovely garden.’
I giggle at this, remembering the reckless, daring Peter I once knew, and watching him arranging the stolen flowers I see the spark there still.
Eventually Katie comes running out to meet us. She’s on a high and dying to talk about the evening and as Peter hands the flowers to her she stops talking and looks at him with genuine gratitude.
‘Ah, thank you, Peter!’ she says, the sheer delight on her face saying it all, and then she hugs him and I think I might just burst with happiness. She clutches her ‘bouquet’ to her chest like an old film star as we walk back to the car and she tells me all about the gossip and the drama of the evening. I gently explain where her mum is and at that moment Anna texts and says James is going to be okay, to our great relief.
As we collect Emma, she is at first a little confused about the strange car waiting outside for her.
‘Oh, it’s Peter . . . Peter’s here,’ she says in a sing-song voice, climbing into the back. ‘Thank God, you can help me with the project I’m doing for photography this weekend . . . ’
He seems pleased with this and as we drive off I touch his knee and he winks at me.
As soon as we get home, Anna rings me on my mobile. She says all is fine, James is under observation and should be out tomorrow. She asks about the dance recital and I put Katie on who’s talking nineteen to the dozen.
‘And Peter videoed it for you, Mum, so you can see it all – isn’t that cool? He’s got the most amazing camera and he says he got everything – me and Em are going to watch it now, and you can see it tomorrow.’