by kendra Smith
‘Ooh, watch my ribs. Little tender still.’
Her dad grimaced. ‘Sorry love.’ And as she pulled away she inhaled a smell of slightly damp clothes. She must ask if he ever did get the tumble drier fixed. A scratching at her knees told her the puppy was not going to be ignored.
‘And who’s this little one?’
‘Ah,’ her dad said, kneeling down and picking up the fluff ball in his arms, ‘this is Pickle. He’s a seven-month rescue Jackapoo and I just couldn’t say no, not after Billie died. There was an advert in the local paper from the rescue centre.’ Her dad stroked the little pup’s forehead and cradled him in his arms. ‘But I couldn’t leave him behind, and so we’ve been on an adventure on the trains, haven’t we Pickle?’
As if by answer, Pickle started to lick his face. He put Pickle down on the floor and she helped him take off his coat.
‘Come on, Dad, let’s get you in.’
She stroked the coat in her hands, felt the thin fibres between her fingers and noticed that the hem was down in places. Had her dad always looked this old? She glanced at her dad and she felt a rush of love. She also felt that she must get him to the hairdressers to sort out his fluffy hairdo. Since their mum had died he’d been coping on his own, he’d had to – those memories were quite strong, memories of the phone calls, the questions he used to ask, What temperature should I put the wash on, love? She did remember all of that. His new friends in the Dales who had instantly become new Old Friends – his words – who’d rallied round after Mum had died.
‘Hungry?’
‘Starving,’ he said, bending down to pull a nearby trainer out of Pickle’s mouth.
He followed her to the large kitchen table and as she watched the scene unfold, she felt that her heart might burst: this is what family was about. Lulu shrieked and stood up and gave him an enormous hug, Simon held out his hand which he shook vigorously, James embraced him warmly – ‘Good to see you, Eric’ – as Izzy and Jake leapt up, their teenage personas left at the table as they both said ‘Grandad!’ in unison as he took one under each arm like he used to do when they were five – this was a memory embedded in her mind for life.
They’d been at a park when the twins were toddlers eating ice cream on a bench. Her dad had been picking dandelions, then blowing them, as the twins watched, in rapture, as the seeds floated upwards to heaven. Where do they go Grandad? They go to the moon and they plant themselves there. For about a year after that whenever Izzy saw the moon she’d say, ‘I wonder how Grandad’s dandelions are doing?’ He would often sit with them like that, a twin under each arm, tell them stories, or read, or tickle them under their arms.
Her dad eased himself into the seat next to James, as he carefully moved aside and reset his place, squeezed her dad’s shoulder affectionately and poured wine into his glass.
‘Now, Simon, tell us all about yourself and if you’re good enough for our Lulu here?’ Eric sat back and folded his arms, never one to worry about social pleasantries. Just then, Pickle leapt up into his lap. ‘Easy, Pickle, I don’t know if you’re allowed at the table.’ He shot Victoria a guilty look. How could she say no? She glanced at Simon, who looked a bit seasick. Then Eric suddenly let out a snort.
‘Only joking, lad! I think it’s a terrific idea. Tell you what, why don’t we take a walk with Pickle after lunch,’ he said as he rubbed the pup’s belly, ‘and we can have a good old chat?’
‘Mushroom risotto?’ Victoria passed the bowl to him.
‘Risotto, pet? No thanks,’ he said shaking his head. ‘None of that muck for me. You can give it to Pickle later when nobody eats it. Where’s the roast beef?’ He glanced at the dishes on the table.
Jake stifled a smirk as Izzy glanced at Victoria with wide eyes.
‘Dad!’ Lulu giggled.
‘Dad, Izzy is part-time vegetarian now,’ Victoria explained, frowning at him.
‘Bloody ridiculous,’ he laughed, but he took the bowl and spooned a little onto his plate. ‘Bit like being part-time pregnant, isn’t it?’
A wave of emotion suddenly hit Victoria. Part-time pregnant. It unleashed something inside her brain. Images flashed across – a cot, blankets, the baby mobile – tiny blue butterflies suspended on a pink glittery cord; her staring up at it, because she was lying on the floor. Why had she been on the floor? These weren’t happy memories from Izzy and Jake, no. Where were they from? Victoria’s hands shook as she placed the bowl back on the table. Her memory wasn’t helping her now. It wasn’t helping her at all.
22 Lulu
We’re sitting by the fire in the lounge and Dad is in a big armchair with Pickle on his lap. Simon has left to get some work done at home and whispered that my dad was lovely – protective, but lovely, he’d joked as he got in the car – after they took Pickle for a walk earlier, he also said he thought it would be good for me and Victoria to spend some time with Dad alone; James is in the study and the kids are watching something on Netflix.
It’s five o’clock and Victoria has just placed a tray with a pot of Earl Grey tea and some slightly burnt-looking brownies on it, on the small coffee table in between the sofa and the chairs. She’s sitting on the sofa with me, her feet tucked up under her. Pickle is fast asleep; and Dad’s stroking the pup’s forehead methodically.
‘So girls, you bloody gave me a fright,’ I can see he is trying to be brave, but his voice breaks a little. ‘Lulu here told me not to come down, said everyone needed to get back to normal first?’ He’s screwing up his eyes, looking at us both. It’s the same look he used to give us when we hid the biscuit tin under our beds.
‘How are your ribs, pet?’ He looks over at Victoria.
‘Much better.’
‘I could kill that woman.’ He suddenly says.
‘Who?’
‘The other driver!’
‘Wasn’t her fault, Dad,’ Victoria leans across the coffee table and adds milk to her cup.
I drop my teaspoon onto the saucer with a clatter. ‘The police told us she swerved to avoid a deer in the road, Dad,’ I say.
‘Actually, the police were on the phone the other day,’ Victoria continues. ‘She was from the Isle of Wight, here for the day, I can’t remember the details, but she has admitted it was totally her fault; I need to call the insurance company in the morning, it’s all a bit foggy, really – James has been dealing with the police. There’s paperwork I must sign.’ She attempts a weak smile as my heart hurts for her.
‘You need to be careful, pet. The doctors told you no more stress, right?’
‘Well that’s pretty hard when your husband’s frosty, your kids have gone from ten to sixteen overnight and you don’t recognise your “best friend” – thank God I’ve got you both.’ She pulls her dress down over her knee. Is she about to cry? How awful must it be to wake up in a semi nightmare? Yet my inner critic is telling me that some of it is her own making. If James is off with her, then maybe it’s up to me to tell her why? That she wasn’t being the best wife, that they had grown apart, that she became more interested in kitchen appliances, one-upmanship at the gym, endless ‘appointments’ and that new friend Zoe.
‘Lulu?’ My dad’s voice is soft. ‘Can you remember much of the accident?’
The fire crackles in the grate and a log falls off. ‘Not much,’ I lie.
‘More than me, though, sis. I think if I could understand more about the accident, remember what happened, it might trigger something. Maybe I’d be able to recall more? I don’t know.’ Victoria sounds exhausted. She shifts on the sofa and pulls a cushion across herself and hugs it. It’s as if she’s wrung out from her 1950’s housewife performance.
I can feel my cheeks flush. ‘Hey, Vicky, it was all a bit of a blur – I mean, I remember noise, the screeching, then suddenly a bang. But I didn’t take the full impact because I was in the passenger seat.’
‘I’m glad I’m here,’ Dad says adjusting Pickle in his lap. ‘Seeing you both in the flesh has reassured me a bit.’ He strokes
Pickle’s tummy and then looks up at us. ‘Girls, you know that you both mean the world to me, especially after your mum died, I’ve been quite lonely, no, no, don’t say anything,’ he puts his hand up to stop us interrupting. ‘All my neighbours have been great, and especially my walking group, it feels like home now, it’s just that you can’t replace your family – do you know what I mean?’
I open my mouth to say something, but he looks over at me and I let him carry on. ‘And I’ll tell you what, after I came off the phone to Lulu about the accident I was beside myself.’ He takes a deep breath. ‘But I want you both to promise me something?’
Victoria puts her cup and saucer down and leans back. She looks pale.
‘What?’ I ask.
‘I did a lot of thinking on the train on the way down – well, when Pickle wasn’t eating the seat covers or darting under someone’s seat – and I want you both to promise me that you’ll live your lives, no regrets? When your mum and I moved to Yorkshire from here ten years ago it was because she had always wanted to live there, to go back home. And although we only had one year together before she died, I am so glad we did. The community there, the Dales, the walks we’ve had, the weather,’ he laughs, ‘all of it; we did that together. She got her dream. And now, I have a fantastic circle of friends. I do feel at home there. We’d always have wondered “what if” if we hadn’t gone.’
Victoria’s voice is croaky: ‘My biggest regret is what I’ve done, you know, between me and James. I don’t know what I can do to sort it out.’
‘Well, I don’t want to pry, love, but if you think it’s worth fixing, then you need to do just that. And, just remember Vicky love, it’s up to James to fix things too.’ He frowns at Victoria, who nods. Just then, Izzy bursts into the room, clutching her phone. She looks startled.
‘I didn’t think anyone was in here,’ she sniffs.
‘Iz, what’s wrong?’ Victoria asks.
She glances at her phone and puts it in her back pocket and shrugs, moving away. ‘Iz?’ she says to her mother, with a touch of sarcasm. ‘Oh nothing, just some stupid kid at school. It’s fine.’ She beams at us, but the smile doesn’t reach her eyes, then she turns abruptly and walks out of the room.
‘I need to go see her,’ Victoria sighs deeply and gets up, following Izzy out the room.
Poor Victoria. It’s all such a mess. Imagine waking up and losing six years of your life? I want to help her, but they need to fix their marriage. Somehow the gap just widened. One minute they were the perfect couple hosting children’s birthday parties and cuddling when nobody was looking, the next thing, life had moved on and her lens changed. Everything wasn’t quite right; she seemed bored, frustrated. Then they lost the baby… And then the attention started to be focused on herself. She became busy, busy, busy.
And there’s that little voice asking me who I am anymore. Don’t waste your life. Is that what I’m doing? My chest feels like there’s a band tightening across it. Married. Do I feel like I’d give anything to be with Simon? Do I feel that – maybe in some dark part of my soul – I’m running away to Simon, like he’s a safe island, rather than facing conflict? But surely that’s what a marriage is about, about shared experiences? About being a team? Answering those questions is going to take some time. The only problem is – I glance at Dad to see he’s fallen asleep – with a wedding less than two weeks away, I’m not sure I have much time left.
23 Victoria
Victoria sighed as she headed up the stairs to see Izzy. She’d heard her bedroom door slam shut. Don’t have any regrets. The problem was, she couldn’t actually remember what she had regrets about. Her last memories of her family were smiling faces, toothpaste on a tie, sunshine, ripping Christmas paper off presents, Disneyworld, Paddington movies and finding popcorn in her bra. And now? Nobody was speaking to her. Not properly anyway. Not if you don’t count ‘I’m going out’ or ‘The marmalade’s finished’. And somehow her kids just didn’t speak to her either – not really. Was that because of something she’d done – something before the accident – or was it, as she was learning, because it was a Teenager Commandment? One of the many she was slowly getting used to.
Thou shalt be surly to your parents, thou shalt ask for something precisely two seconds before you need it, thou shalt leave about 489 wet towels on the floor at any one time, thou shalt dress like you just woke up in your clothes (Jake) or change outfits at least fifty times a day (Izzy), thou shalt never look away from your phone, lest the dragon of death descend on you and thou shalt certainly not actually talk to your parents – always WhatsApp (she knew what this was now) them instead, especially if they are in the same house.
She knocked on Izzy’s door gently.
‘Go away.’
‘Darling, let me come in.’
‘All you’ll do is lecture me. Give me some kind of bloody TED talk.’
‘Honey, let me in so I can at least sit with you, I know you’re upset.’
‘No shit, Sherlock,’ came the reply.
She’s just sad, that’s all, Victoria reminded herself. She’s a teenager now. Victoria stood a little taller and then twisted the door handle. It turned in her hand. It was open after all.
Izzy was sitting cross-legged on her bed on top of her quilt. It was one that they’d created together. It was a patchwork of all of Izzy’s old T-shirts. When she’d been about seven – this memory had stuck like glue – Victoria had been doing a clear-out and Izzy had come in the room and found her putting all her T-shirts, glittery tops and tights into a bin bag for charity. Izzy had gone mad. So rather than tell her she’d outgrown them, Victoria had found another way of keeping them. They’d sat and selected all the clothes which really meant something to Izzy and sent them off to a wonderful woman who offered this service on Facebook. Two weeks later, a beautiful quilt, lined with soft velvet, had arrived in the post. Izzy had adored it.
Victoria sat down on the bed next to her and reached out for her hand, the one that didn’t have her phone clamped to it.
‘Grandad’s fallen asleep downstairs, he looks quite peaceful with Pickle on his lap.’
Her daughter pulled her plait. ‘He’s a cute puppy. It’s been really good to see Grandad.’ She leant back on her headboard and looked down at her lap, her long eyelashes fluttering.
‘Izzy, what’s been upsetting you? You seem a bit more moody lately. And we saw Mrs Brown recently and she’s worried about your grades. You have important exams next year.’ Was this the right thing to say?
She glanced up at Victoria and pulled a face. ‘Doh! Yes, they’re GCSEs!’
‘Yes, yes, I know. And are you moody because you’re worried about them?’
‘Mum! Really? Haven’t you heard of periods? I mean, look!’ She pointed to her forehead and Victoria peered at it looking for clues, but all she saw was Izzy’s dark fringe. Had she had a tattoo there, perhaps? If she had, she reminded herself to be very calm about it, teenagers were experimenting that’s all. She had read that on her Get Up To Speed With Teens website recently.
‘Darling, what?’
Izzy swept her fringe off her forehead. ‘Spots! Zits! Bloody everywhere!’
‘Please stop swearing Izzy.’
‘Is that all you can say? I am covered in spots and you’re worried about a bit of swearing?’
‘No, it’s just that you don’t need to get this upset. I can’t see anything.’
‘Because I’ve covered it in concealer, doh!’ She shrugged. ‘Don’t you get it?’
Victoria stared at her daughter, with her long dark plait hanging over her shoulder, her face covered in make-up and wanted to take the anger and hurt away. Spot-face. Poor, poor girl. And, of course, she was moody because of PMT! Good God, how could she not remember these things. Because in her mind she was still her little ‘itsy-bitsy’ Izzy. There were years missing. Who had gone with her to fit her first bra? She certainly hoped it hadn’t been James. When would her memory return to normal? And then a thought st
ruck her – will it ever be normal? Maybe she’d lost six years of her life, never to get them back?
‘Izzy I’m sorry, I do “get it”, if you’ve got your period, you’ll get break-outs, be moody – do you want to talk about it?’
‘What? Like discuss it again? We’ve done that, Mum! Remember the books, the lift-the-flap question-and-answer one you got out the library for me when I was twelve? No, thank you, I’m on it. Don’t worry.’ She folded her arms.
‘OK, but is there anything else you want to discuss?’
‘Like what?’
‘Anything, you know, bothering you, things you need to get off your chest? I just want you to be happy, you know?’
‘Really? Coz last time I looked, I don’t know, it was sort of like you couldn’t really be bothered. There was always something else you were in the middle of. You just want me to be happy to make life easier for you.’
‘Izzy, that’s not—’
‘Sorry, Mum.’ Izzy shifted on the bed and looked at her. ‘I mean, you did stuff for us, but you were sort of absent.’
Absent? Now that hurt. ‘Look, I’m sorry, Izzy. I need to do better. I will do better, I promise. I just, well, you seem a bit withdrawn, not yourself.’
‘Yeah, Mu-u-m, coz the “myself” you remember was like ten and a half and used to wear Frozen underpants. Well, Mum, newsflash: she grew up.’
Victoria took a deep breath. This was much harder than she’d imagined. Her website had warned her, but still. ‘And, um, Izzy – I don’t want you to have any secrets.’
‘Ha! What like you don’t! Everyone’s got secrets Mum, get real.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Seriously? You, Aunty Lulu – we all have.’ She folded her arms. ‘Look, I’m really tired.’
It was Izzy’s cue that she’d had enough mum-daughter time. But Victoria was determined. ‘Just ask me anything, Izzy, and we can sort it.’