by Bev Thomas
‘Let’s make another time,’ he says.
When I open my bag, I see I’ve forgotten my diary. ‘I’ll call you with a date.’
‘Take care,’ he says, as I step outside.
Fourteen
I’m at home when the email comes in from Julie. She’s taking Nicholas to a music event at the South Bank tomorrow. Short notice – but would you like to meet us for coffee afterwards? My heart leaps. I feel a surge of joy. A rush of excitement. I have to stop myself from replying straight away, in case my eagerness scares her off. I type back a reply. Then delete it. I email a more measured version. Thank you. That would be lovely. I look forward to seeing you both. Let me know when and where. Ruth.
It’s a beautiful spring day. We’ve agreed to meet by the ‘beach’, a long trough of sand by the Thames, but I wake with a nervous kind of anxiety. I get dressed, then get changed again. In the end, I change my outfit three times. I want to take a gift for Nicholas, and in the toy shop that morning, I peruse the shelves, agonising over what to choose. I feel nervous about being too ostentatious, and equally nervous about getting something he might not like. Eventually, I settle on a bright yellow plastic digger. My indecision continues as I wrestle over whether to wrap it or not. In the end, I buy tissue paper and a gift bag patterned with brightly coloured cars. My hand is clasped tight around the handle as I walk down the steps towards the river.
The sunny afternoon has brought everyone out and, in the throngs of people, my panic shifts away from the choice of gift, to the fact that we might simply not find each other and meet up at all. I feel a rising concern that I’ll have forgotten what Julie looks like. When I try to picture her sitting in the café that day, I can’t remember her face. I scan the crowds, nothing. Then, from my elevated position on the steps, I see her.
She’s some way off, by the stalls of food, pushing the buggy. She’s wearing a patterned dress and flip flops. There’s a man next to her. Frank, I think, as she stops to hug him. I feel a pang. A pull in my chest for Tom. They have a brief conversation. Then he leans down to kiss Nicholas, before moving off in the other direction.
We sit on a bench on the edge of the big sandpit. It’s awkward at first. Nicholas hides his face in her lap. But as Julie unpacks an assortment of plastic toys to play with in the sand, his shyness is eclipsed by curiosity. There’s a green trowel, a blue rake and a series of multi-coloured cups that fit inside one another. To my great relief, no digger appears. There’s a water tap close to the bench and Nicholas crawls over to fill the cups, waves at me, from the safety of the tap. I wave back and offer to get us coffee and cake from the kiosk.
The sun is dancing on the water and the usually sludge brown of the Thames looks silvery and bright. The place is packed with faces that are uplifted by this unexpected warmth so early in the season. Coats have been discarded, shirt sleeves rolled up and the tables are crowded with ice cream wrappers and cans of cold drink. The fountains are on and a trail of squealing children run in and out in pants and t-shirts. As I carry the tray back, I suddenly see myself carrying cake on paper plates, meeting my grandson in the sunshine. I feel it like a gently rippling wave. This is what it feels like to be normal.
When I hand over the gift bag to Nicholas, his face is a picture of wonder. For a long time, he simply grins and points at the pictures on the bag and makes car noises.
‘Nuts about cars,’ Julie laughs, ‘well, vehicles of any kind,’ she says, as my excitement grows. I reach in for the gift and hand it over. Julie helps him unwrap the tissue paper. Instantly, his face lights up. He looks at his mum, then me, back and forth, like he can’t quite believe his luck.
‘For you. For Nicholas,’ I say, patting his hand.
‘Brrrr,’ he says loudly, as he wheels it along the ground. He squeals when he realises the digger bucket moves up and down and he quickly pushes it into the sand. He scoops and empties, over and over again, making an accompanying creaking noise. Each time, he extends it to its full height, he laughs and claps his hands, as if astonished by his expertise. When he smiles, it’s like watching the opening of a flower. His face is wide open, aflame with joy.
‘Thank you,’ Julie says. ‘What do you say, Nicholas? Thank you. Ta,’ and she presses her hand to her lips. He looks at me, and copies his mum. A small pudgy hand planted clumsily on his mouth. He throws it forwards, showering me with kisses.
My cheeks glow, and my heart swells, and the sudden rush of joy makes me giddy.
For the next hour, he crawls around in the sand, and I kneel down to join him.
‘Why don’t you have a break? Sit back on the bench. I’ll play with him.’ I nod towards the paperback poking out of the top of her bag. ‘You could read for a bit?’ She looks uncertain; then, coaxed by my insistence, and my own recollection about how hard it was to have a break, she nods gratefully and picks up the book.
She’s only a few feet away, and every now and then he crawls over to her and passes her something, to check on her, to feel safe, and to re-orient himself. Though, for the most part, it’s me and him, playing in the sand on a sunny afternoon. He comes back and forth with a green cup, fills up the blue and comes back again, empties both in the well of sand he has made with the digger. He watches solemnly as the water drains away, then repeats the sequence all over again. I remember my own children doing the same. That safety, that certainty of repetition. Perhaps she sees it on my face. ‘Peppa Pig,’ she laughs. ‘We broke our record last night, the same story, eight times in a row.’
I think of Tom Rabbit. How for weeks, it was the only story Tom wanted to read.
‘What?’ she says, as she sees the memory flicker across my face.
I smile and shake my head, turning back to Nicholas.
On it goes, until he directs me to a new patch of sand, a bit further away, where we begin all over again.
‘You’ve got a fan,’ she laughs, as he pats me on the knee. ‘He’s not always so friendly with strangers,’ and then she stops short, looks embarrassed at her choice of word.
I pretend not to notice.
‘The digger seems to have gone down well,’ I say. ‘Tom used to love his cars and diggers. Was never happier than when he was making a traffic jam out in the garden.’
That’s when it happens. Perhaps it’s the combination of my memories mingling with the physicality of this small beautiful boy in front of me. The collision of the past and present. My own nostalgia laced with the feel of him; his sandy hands on my knees, his fingers on mine, and the slosh of water as it spills over my hands. Still, it takes me by surprise. The tears fall like rain. They drop soundlessly down my cheeks. I feel raw, like I have been suddenly unzipped, and opened out onto the sand.
‘Ooh,’ Nicholas says, pointing at the small pock marks in the sand, ‘ooh,’ he says again.
He looks up at me, trying to find the source of the water. His look of curiosity becomes one of concern as he comes over and pats my cheek. Then, he begins to find it funny, watching these small raindrops of water landing in his construction site. He laughs. A gurgle that rises up from his throat and explodes across his face in a rush of laughter. Soon, I am laughing too, as the tears still fall.
Nicholas leans in and scoops up the patches of wet sand with the digger scoop, giggling as he pours them into a separate pile, introducing a new dynamic to his game.
I pat my bag and pockets for a tissue. Julie produces one instantly. ‘Always have tissues at the ready,’ she says. I take it gratefully.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, ‘I—’ but she’s waving away my words.
‘Tom. He seemed a lovely person,’ she says quietly. ‘Gentle. Thoughtful. Something special about him. I wish I’d got the chance to get to know him better.’
I nod, dabbing at my face.
Perhaps it’s an attempt to reduce my own embarrassment, but she talks about the loss of her mother. Her recent unexpected sadness. ‘It was so long ago,’ she says, ‘but I’ve been struck by it, sometimes out of the bl
ue. That missing of her. Like an ache. It floors me sometimes.’
I nod. I don’t need to tell her I know exactly what she means.
‘It’s a funny mix. It’s missing her, but it’s also a sadness about her missing this,’ and she nods towards Nicholas. ‘She would have loved him, and then I feel sad for him, missing out on her, as his grandmother.’
She looks away. I can see she feels she’s said too much.
There is more digging and scooping, then at 4 p.m., she looks at her watch and tells me she’s meeting Frank and Jess in twenty minutes by the steps of the station. I feel apprehensive about saying goodbye. Julie gathers up the toys and then reaches down to put Nicholas into the buggy, manoeuvring the straps carefully around hands that are tightly clenched around his yellow digger. We walk slowly together, past the theatre, then along the main road.
‘I’m glad we met,’ she says suddenly.
And perhaps it’s this comment, this small opening, that gives me the confidence to ask.
‘I was wondering,’ I say, my voice is tentative, ‘you said his birthday was coming up. I wondered, if I might send him something. For his birthday? Something in the post?’
There’s a beat. Suddenly, I feel embarrassed, intrusive, ‘Or perhaps I can give you something – next – another time.’ I feel clumsy. Like the words are too big in my mouth. Like I’ve been too eager. As I look down, I feel her hand on my arm.
‘That’s really kind of you. Of course,’ she says. ‘Let me give you my address.’
I don’t know why I do it. Instead of entering it on my phone, I flip open my wallet and take out the photo. ‘I’ll put it on the back of this,’ I say.
Perhaps it’s what she said about her own mother, and my own need to step into her shadow and show how much Nicholas means to me. Perhaps it’s also something about the accidental nature of our meeting; the fragile nature of our burgeoning relationship that means it feels too formal to simply type the address into my phone. Perhaps I want to imbue everything about our contact with a sense of ceremony and of secrecy. But perhaps too, it’s an affectation, borne out of my own need to assume a false sense of connectedness to a child I have met only twice. It may be any, or all, of these things. Either way, it is something I will come to regret. A small act that will come to haunt me.
‘Ah,’ she says, smiling over at the picture, ‘I’m glad you like that one, one of my favourites.’
I write the address down, and pop the photo back in my wallet.
She stops some way from the station steps. ‘Thanks for this afternoon,’ she says, ‘and for the digger!’ and she reaches in to give me a warm hug.
As I kneel in front of Nicholas, he lurches forwards into my arms, and I feel his soft peachy cheek against mine. As they walk away, I look up and see Frank by the steps, staring at me.
A few days later, the text comes through. It was lovely to see you on Saturday. Thought you might like to know that the digger is like a new member of the family. She’s attached some pictures. There’s one with the digger perched next to Nicholas’s bowl on the high chair. One clasped with it in his hand, mouth wide open as he’s asleep in a car, and the last one – tucked up in his cot, the digger on his pillow. His sweet round face. Hair plastered across his cheek, fast asleep.
The second text comes in the next day.
We’re having a lunch for Nicholas’s birthday on Friday 16th 1–4 at the café on Balham Common. There’s a little garden at the back. Just a small gathering. A few friends …
She mentions other babies from her antenatal class. That she’ll totally understand if I have other plans. I don’t think I even read the rest. My eyes glaze over, as I stare down at the text, charged with a kind of energy and happiness I haven’t felt since Tom disappeared. I’d like to say that I gave it more thought. But I didn’t. I texted back straight away. Thank you. I’d love to come.
Afterwards, I would wonder about my decision not to tell David. I can put it down to the tenuous nature of the new relationship with Julie and our grandson. That there was something dreamlike about it, like a mirage, and that if I spoke the words out loud, it would be like getting too close, and the beautiful oasis might suddenly and inexplicably disappear. I wonder also if it was something selfish, too. Something tight and withholding. Like a child refusing to share, and wanting to keep a present all to himself, for as long as possible. This delicious gift that I want to keep unwrapping all by myself. The joy of having something that belongs to me. I flip open my purse and peer at the smiley boy in the picture. His fish-patterned shorts. Waving a sandy hand to the camera.
It’s only after I have replied that it occurs to me it’s a Friday. That given it’s on the other side of London, I’ll have to reschedule most of my patients that day. While I’m not sure what other appointments I have, I know I’ll have to cancel Dan’s regular slot at four o’clock and, prior to that, Hayley’s first session back after her holiday.
I feel an instant stab of guilt. Apart from when I took extended leave, I can probably count on one hand the number of times I’ve cancelled patients. A funeral … ill health … a tribunal. All sudden and unavoidable reasons. Emergencies. Did this constitute an emergency?
My actions and emotions that day have something of the furtive excitedness of a teenage crush. My focus is one-dimensional. All I am concerned about is clearing my path to my destination. My reasoning is measured and pragmatic. I conclude that there is enough time to reschedule. That I can offer him something sooner. That the inconvenience will be minimal. All this is true. But even Stephanie would now be able to tell me that such rational thinking has no place in our therapeutic realm. Any doubts are lost and buried under my pressing thoughts about first birthdays. My memory of the twins’ first birthday at home. The relief when my mother was admitted into hospital and couldn’t come; the first of her many rehab programmes. My mind drifts on to the fervent questions about what to buy for Nicholas’s present. It takes a huge act of will not to send another text to press Julie for ideas.
Later that evening, I’m at my desk and I’m on the Missing Persons website. I check on Tom’s profile. Nothing. I scan the others. Then I come to rest on Denis Watson. I click onto his website. Perhaps it’s the energy the family put into updating the website that pulls me in, their rigorous posting of pictures and updates. A life unfolding. There’s a new picture. Denis’s best friend – the one, I remember, who got married last year. His wife Sarah has had a baby. There’s picture of a man with a baby curled up on his chest, tiny, like a brooch. My eyes fill with tears.
When I’m back in the office, I write to Hayley and draft a letter to Dan but then I decide to call him as well. On the second ring of his mobile, he picks up. I explain the need to alter one of his forthcoming sessions. ‘An unexpected appointment out of the office.’
There’s a pause.
‘No problem,’ he says.
He sounds good. Jaunty even. When I offer up several alternative sessions, he opts for the soonest. I’m pleased. Coming sooner than he was due to come assuages my guilt. He’s getting more, not less, is what I think. I confirm the date in the drafted letter and put it in the post tray. I’m ashamed to say, I think no more about it.
Fifteen
Tom’s adolescence marked the moment when things broke down entirely in his relationship with David. Looking back, I can see it was on the cards, and while I was unable to recognise it at the time, I played my own part in the downward spiral. The more I smothered any hint of Tom’s anxiety, the more irritated David became, and the more Tom withdrew. Equally, while Tom still had a tendency to fret unnecessarily about things, he was expressing a new exasperation in David, and in us as parents. The frustration about his life had a different energy about it. In a way, I saw it as a good sign, something that was appropriate to his age and perhaps simply linked to the stress of impending exams.
There was one row I remember particularly well. It was during one of my mother’s visits from Taos. It was the trip when she
told us that she’d got married. ‘Married?’
‘To Ted,’ she nodded. ‘An arrangement,’ she added matter-of-factly. ‘My visa. Now I can stay and carry on with my work.’ My calling, was what she had said. She was now working at the rehab centre. She also chaired a couple of AA groups in town, ‘twice a day,’ she said. ‘Sometimes more. We meet in cafés. And sometimes, we sit in the desert. Under that big wide Taos sky,’ she gushed. ‘We offer what people need. Whatever helps. Sometimes it’s just about being there for people.’ She was excited, breathless with her evangelical desire to convert others to her abstinent ways. I had to look away.
The row between Tom and David was sparked by an item in the news about two young men climbing El Capitan, the famous rock in Yosemite in California. The men, both in their twenties, were planning to scale Dawn Wall, the sheerest side of the rock face. Their plan prompted news coverage about previous attempts to climb the rock and the twenty-one or more casualties it had produced over the years. David had no time for such risk-taking. Citing the worry for friends and family, ‘ultimately, it’s selfish,’ he concluded, ‘one of them will probably die – I mean, what’s the point?’
Tom was incensed. His face hardened. ‘If you think it’s selfish – you just don’t get it. Don’t understand it at all.’
My mother rarely listened in on conversations that didn’t focus on her, but that day, she glanced up at the sharpness in Tom’s voice. David looked back at his son in surprise. We were all in the kitchen, and I held back, stopping myself from getting involved. Carolyn was assembling vegetables for a stir fry.
‘I’ve read up about them,’ Tom said. ‘They’ve been climbing for years. They’ve planned for this particular climb for four years. Four years,’ he repeated. ‘Can you imagine that level of commitment? Of planning. Of dedication—’ His voice tailed off. That’s when I saw it on his face. Envy. Aspiration. The desire to have that passion. Something similarly all-consuming in his own life, and with it, the simple admiration for those who do.
