‘So you see,’ I pressed the point home. ‘You say you don’t know me, but what about your own daughter?’
Thomas rubbed his head:
‘No, this isn’t us. Not in the slightest.’
‘She wanted it to be.’
‘Well it was never going to go that way, she didn’t mean any of it. She’s not like that.’
‘Perhaps. But maybe you can see now how I’ve been a bit worried, distracted?’
He didn’t nod, only said, ‘I’ll talk to her. But you do know she is a child, she is not me, Darling, and …’
‘And what?’
‘Well, I married you, didn’t I?’
This, as if – despite me cooling my heels in the spare room each night – it should have been enough.
I awoke as I had the previous morning: alone and troubled.
It was the strangest thing: as my worries about Lola and me declined – pregnant or not, I would look after her – I started having dreams about Stevie and me once again. Always the same: my boy sitting in deep dusk, alone, until I appeared from nowhere to hold him. I hugged him hard, I had known that he was cold. This hug seemed to last an age and it was nearly all of the dream. However it was not all of the dream: at some point I looked up and there it was, this vast hand above us casting not a dusk but its own shadow, its palm facing downwards, ready to press down on us with great force. We did not flinch, we did not run: I always awoke before it could descend. Thomas, now apart from me and in the other room, would never know anything of it. It was only recently that the dream had started coming again. Since we had moved into Littleton Lodge I had hoped the hand had lifted.
Thomas was cold to me, but for the first time ever Lola and I were basking in each other. I could feel us, warming my arms like the afternoon sun. Being me, I had to tone it down, rein myself in a bit; rather than buy the four tops and the good winter skirt she would need, I bought her just one stupid-price thing from the vintage market she would love: a Sixties swing coat, cherry red. She took it, frowned, then her cheeks turned the same colour.
‘Thank you,’ she said.
Though she hurried away, that same night she recorded an old film she thought her dad had mentioned – sometime during their long and serious talk in his study – that I might like, To Kill a Mockingbird. I was certain she had not watched or read it, but I hardly dared speak to thank her, let alone find out.
I had a job to do, I was to get Lola through this – whatever she found that this might be – and to live up to my insistence that ‘everything will be all right’; a pretty clear if open-ended brief.
Jus be careful. Nuh badda wid any obeah, gyal.
No, I had no intention of dabbling in any voodoo – as if I would know how to make a spell with a chicken’s foot. Instead, Lola stayed home from college and as soon as Thomas had gone to work I took her straight to the chemist. We walked in silence up the aisle until I spotted the sign ‘Family Planning’.
‘Here we go. Did you have one in mind?’
‘I don’t … no.’ She looked every bit as grey and drained as she had on her bathroom floor.
‘So,’ I said, eyeing the shelves as if they held a line-up of lovers. I picked up each one with a slowness that made her wince:
‘This is a pretty reliable brand. Oh, but this one is the easiest to use. And this one …’
‘Just … you choose. Please,’ she whispered. ‘Quickly.’
‘OK.’
‘Oh God. Julia.’ It could have been Joanna or Janey or Juliet; her voice was barely audible.
‘Who, where?’
Two girls of about her age were examining the mid-range moisturisers with all the intensity that nuclear physicists might apply to unsplittable atoms.
‘I’ll wait outside.’ Lola dashed off, head down.
I picked up the test I wanted, walked past the future Nobel Laureates (great skin!) out of some perverse and pointless curiosity, then paid and left the shop.
We entered her en suite in silence. More than any other time I had spent with Lola, these minutes mattered.
The light that streamed in through the high side window was dappled with dancing green, the sun shining through an empty absinthe-coloured stem vase – another of Tess’s chic and tragic geegaws.
I explained to her that she had to pass urine straight on to the test stick.
‘What?’
‘Wee on this.’
I left her to complete the test, moving through to the bedroom where my eyes drifted to the drawers, the wardrobe. No, that dolphin book would not be surfacing anytime soon. Rather than risk getting caught searching for it, I perched on the bed, the packaging and instructions clutched in my hands.
A minute trickled away. Two.
I rose, knocked on the bathroom door and entered, took the stick and sat on the edge of the bath as she quivered on the loo seat. We did not speak.
I checked the phone display; another minute or so to go. But within a few more seconds the dye had given a clear answer and I knew what I had to tell her:
‘Oh, Lola,’ I said. ‘I’m so sorry.’
She sort of fell forward, but I was there to catch her.
‘You won’t be alone in this, Lola,’ I said, rubbing her hair, knowing this time she would not advert-flick it away. ‘I’ll be there at every step. And of course, I’m afraid we’ll need to contact Will’s parents …’
‘God, no, please …’
‘Shh, hush now,’ I heard my voice ringing rich and wise over hers. ‘Everything will be all right.’
Trust can be amazing when it’s real.
The next day, I leaned closer to my husband as I cleared away breakfast things, and tried to explain what I meant. ‘I know. I do understand now.’
‘Do you though?’
I understood. Lola had been a different girl since our kitchen talk and now seemed utterly transformed after our bathroom lock-in. She did not answer me back any longer, did not snipe. It was peculiar and pleasing. I wondered whether our shared discovery might even have brought her some bright speck of relief.
‘More than you could imagine, Thomas. Look, to be honest, there is actually something that you don’t know.’
‘So, you’re ready to talk to me. The real deal? Because any more lies and …’
‘I know. Listen, have you heard of sorrel?’
Red Flowers
Sorrel is a drink enjoyed in Jamaica and all over the Caribbean. It’s a dark red-pink holiday drink, you know: a good times, celebratory drink. It’s made from sepals of the roselle, or sorrel flower, or Hibiscus sabdariffa, which always sounded to me just like ‘Hibiscus sadandrealfear’. I didn’t know how it was made when I was a child, only that my parents said if you did it right the ice gasped and the glass turned red, misted up and turned cold. I can only remember having it on some Saturday mornings, whenever Uncle Malcolm came to visit.
This was when it was just three of us, before my little sister, Jade, was born. I’m sorry, I know, I should have said. Yes, I know. But we’re not really sisters now any more, so …
Anyway. I knew even then that Uncle Malcolm was not my real uncle; he was white for a start, and a neighbour, a fat, spectacled, freckly neighbour. A big man, someone of some standing, a councillor ‘they’ said, or soon to be one. Also big because he had this vast round head that loomed above his shoulders and always put me in mind of a moon. He’d tried sorrel at ours one Christmas, and he insisted on coming back for more.
‘Good stuff,’ he used to say. ‘Good colour, ain’t it?’
We had not long moved from Basingstoke to Elm Forest, a few miles away. Dad had gone from being a junior someone in Planning to the step above; not senior, but a someone. We were going places, but in this smaller town, we needed friends more than ever.
So we only gave sorrel, then, to this particular neighbour. He would thank us with a pocketful of fruit from his garden, fruit that was always too old or too young: sour plums, powdery apples, granite peaches, rotting cherrie
s. We said nothing, thanked him, gave him more sorrel. My parents were so pleased to have impressed this man on the up with a drink from Home that they made fresh batches of this festive drink whenever they knew he was coming, be it March or May, never mind if a little Christmas magic was murdered: Malcolm was pleased.
Uncle Malcolm used to want to teach me things. I was about five. Four. He would make me go into this room, a cupboard really, that led off of the kitchen, and he would … No, it’s OK, I’m fine, I have to tell you now or I won’t be able … My parents were in the habit of going to town on Saturday mornings, whatever else might be going on. When Uncle Malcolm popped his huge head around the door my hard-pressed parents would jump at his offer of sitting with me. They always said they would get twice as much done and so they left me in his care. Within minutes of them disappearing up the drive, he would say:
‘Come and speak with your old uncle.’
We would sit at the kitchen table and he would ask me about my life, my friends, the games we played, my favourite things to do at nursery. I’d go:
‘We wet the sand with water and put it into buckets …’
Then at some point, always the same thing would happen.
‘Hmm …’ he would begin. ‘You’re not really from round here are you, you funny lot?’
Then he would ask me a question:
‘So, what is the name of that big town ten miles away? They tell you that already?’
‘No, Uncle.’
‘What? Right, let me teach you a thing or two.’
Now this normally calm man, who walked as if he had weights in his shoes, would fly into a fussing sort of rage and he would take me by the hand and lead me into the wide dark cupboard at the back of the kitchen, which I later learned was a form of pantry. It smelled musty and had a sort of milking stool or farmer’s seat inside. Uncle Malcolm would sit his powerful arse on this stool – break, I would pray, right under his bottom. Please do, crack in two! But it never did break, Thomas, and he was ready as ever to reap whatever he reckoned I had sown. Shaking with some peculiar rage, he would, he would – no, it’s OK, I can do this – pull me across his lap and spank my bare bottom until my wailing grew loud enough to rattle the tins on the shelves.
Afterwards, he would go back to our kitchen, into our fridge and give me a catch-your-death cold glass of sorrel.
‘Be quiet now,’ he would say. ‘There’s a good little thing. Here, have some of this, see? Better? Your favourite.’
I would drink down that sweet red juice as quickly as I could, to get to the point when he said:
‘Now. I won’t tell your Mummy you were so naughty, so you can stop crying. I won’t tell. Now go and play.’
Every visit he did this, for as long as I could remember, up until this one time … He wanted to … No, I’m fine … He wanted to show me what a kiss was. It was not a kiss and I fainted and … but I don’t want to trouble you with all that right now. You get the picture, anyway. No, I’m all right, promise.
So. I did not tell my mum because I was convinced she would smack me twice as hard for cheeking our neighbour, this esteemed friend, the councillor. And anyway, what would ‘they’ say? Not everyone got to be friends with Malcolm Fletcher and many of those who did, council workers with their sights set high like my dad, would consider life far sweeter for it.
But I was forced to tell my mum what Uncle Malcolm had done years after, once knowledge slithered into my garden, aged thirteen or so; certainly when Dad was no longer with us.
I think the first thing she said was ‘Hush your mout’’, but it was fast and quiet. Yes, really. She certainly told me ‘they’ said he was just a likkle bit of a pervert and that ‘they’ knew not to mind him. But she then squeezed me hard and I think I remember that her eyes were wet and wide. I hushed my mout’.
So that’s it. That’s what happened. That’s also the reason I might serve you goat or plantain, but never bloody sorrel. So then a few weeks ago with Lola … I know you know. Thank you for being so generous.
Thank you, but I really am sorry.
Yes, that’s right. Uncle Malcolm is that same BNB bloke from the telly, Malcolm Fletcher. I tried to take him to court, when I was older, but they stopped me. I let their knives and punches stop me, but I shouldn’t have, I should have fought on.
No, hear me out. It’s OK now, really. Calm yourself, my croaking raven … What? Oh nothing. Just saying all’s well that ends well, my darling.
Don’t worry about me, and thank you. So. Anyway. New subject: there’s this party we’ve been invited to. My friend, Carla Moore …’
Lola
DONE LIST 8
I have to get rid of it. This pregnancy is making me fat, already; it feels unbearable to me. I am so glad I haven’t had any ‘morning’ sickness since, though, that just hurt so much. But I can’t lie – I could probably do with losing a bit more food in a tTechnicolor yodel. I am getting huge.
I was right to tell Darling. She is taking care of everything and helping us to get a plan together.
For a while, to be honest, I suspected that Darling was simply trying to fatten me up. All those hours spent in the kitchen preparing food for us. The endless piles of her traditional Caribbean chicken and whatnot, the constant offers of snacks, refreshments and so on. Stupidly, I thought she was jealous of my dancer’s figure, trying to ruin me because she was green. Then I realised: she really was just trying to be nice.
That said, I can still hang on to a few of my doubts, if I want – they’re mine, after all. Although I’ve mentioned them to Dad, obviously. He gave me a bit of a talking to when she told him about the BNB stuff, but he got that it wasn’t really anything to do with me, that I was just wary of her. I do still worry. Most of all, I worry that she doesn’t love him that much. I can’t help it. I told him a while back that she might still be in love with Stevie’s dad, that he had to watch out for himself.
Maybe I do want to grow up to be a proper bitch, after all.
Or maybe that’s just my hormones talking.
They say that you are scarred by the traumas in your early life. No wonder my life is such a car crash.
It was the most terrible accident Blewthorpe had ever seen, they said.
We were in the high street, very near to where we used to live. I wanted sweets, badly, but Mum had said no, not now, later blahblah. I was so angry, stupid, and was running across the road to the newsagents before she knew it and she ran after me. I got to the other side, I’m fast. But she ran straight after me, slower, right in front of a speeding lorry. Like AT always says, there are no such things as accidents, but I hate it when she says that – I take it personally. Does that mean I wanted Mum to die? That I was in fact angry with her and did not actually want the sherbert lollies or whatever sugary shit it was that really does not matter now? Maybe AT thinks that, maybe not. Maybe I wanted it, maybe not. But however you dress it up, I do believe that I killed my own mother.
Something terrible: I envy Stevie. He can never get pregnant, for a start, and his crazy sad little life is on 4D fast-forward. Every moment counts, I hear them saying, and it’s true, there is good reason to cram all that stuff in. I talked about this with him when we were watching TV. I said something like:
‘You’re a pretty busy kid, Stevie, aren’t you?’
He shrugged. ‘I think so.’
‘What’s your doctor like, is he nice? Or is it a her?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘What do you mean? You practically live there, silly.’
‘But you don’t go in, you silly-silly. You wait and Mum goes in and out, then you get ice cream.’
‘What, you wait outside?’
‘Yes, in the car. Until it’s time for ice cream.’
‘Oh right,’ I said. ‘Of course.’
What he did not realise, of course, cannot realise, is that Darling must have been sparing him all those horrible medical conversations. He has no idea that he will die young. If he were my
boy, I think I would just give him the ice cream too.
Lola Waite – you’ll have it all one day; all the love and all the ice cream. Lola Waite. Lola waiting.
Will called me, out of the blue! I honestly thought we would never speak again, but we did. It wasn’t great. He didn’t ask about me and he sounded a bit fucked up, slurry. He just said:
‘Hi, babes. Can I have your postcode?’
‘What, Will?’
‘I need your postcode and I’ve forgotten the house number.’
So I told him our address. He hung up really soon afterwards, which was a bit weird. I’ve been wondering if it means he wants to send me something, maybe an apology. No flowers or card or anything have arrived as yet. But even though I want to keep hating him, I can’t help hoping.
Achievements
Spent more hours in my room than anyone ever (other than every spotty Dovington perve with working WiFi). Trying to google my way out of this baby hell already.
All googled out. No choice but to totally trust Darling. My achievement? I have stopped myself from asking her what happens now ten times a day. We did talk for a bit earlier – she is still coming up with something. I’ve stayed in my room for the rest of the night. #actualnetflixactualchill
Also, finally asked Darling about Stevie’s dad. We never see the guy! Think she told me everything, hard to be sure. She didn’t sound that in love, to be fair. She swore he was all right, but I told her he sounded like a dick.
Actually wrote the word ‘Blewthorpe’ without throwing up. Kudos, AT, missing you already! Maybe there is something to this looking back lark, after all.
Tried all this evening to work out what this feeling is that I’m feeling right now and it’s not easy because my body’s fucked and my mind keeps skipping all over the place and nothing feels settled at all but I think I’ve worked it out.
Darling Page 18