From the Outside

by Clare Johnston

  ‘Look. You’re hormonally charged and emotionally vulnerable right now. Ben is with Emily, and you need to take control of your feelings or else you’re going to get hurt. You will find someone to spend your life with and build a family together, but now is not the time for that.’

  ‘I know, I’ve told myself that over and over. But I can’t stand being alone and I don’t want to let Ben go.’

  ‘You’re not letting him go,’ Rosa insisted. ‘Just distancing yourself a little, for both your sakes. Do you think you can do that?’

  ‘Yes,’ Sarah said, resolve now finding its way through. ‘You’re right. I need to learn to cope on my own. I just never thought I’d have to I suppose.’

  ‘It won’t be forever,’ Rosa assured her.

  CHAPTER seventeen

  MY MOTHER, ANNA, was the shining light in our lives; always attentive, always interested, always kind.

  Like Ben, in whom she saw a kindred spirit, she loved to paint and when we were boys, she would sit us down in front of a puzzle for half an hour and sketch us. She wore such a pure expression of love on her face as she drew her boys that, as an adult, I feared no one would ever look at me with such affection again.

  Ben and I shared an unbearable grief when she died, but, typically, we chose to deal with it separately.

  For months she had complained of stomach pains and bloating and, despite numerous tests, was told countless times it was only IBS. By the time they figured out it was cancer, it was too late. In the end, she was so riddled with disease they couldn’t even tell us where it started out. She died two months after the diagnosis. She had gone into hospital for some palliative chemo treatment and never came out. We didn’t get to say goodbye, and my father was devastated that she had died alone. When Ben and I arrived at the hospital we found him sitting beside her body in a room off the ward muttering over and over again: ‘I was just a few minutes too late, my love. Just a few minutes.’

  He had heard her voice calling out to him in the night and rushed to the hospital, only to find she had gone. He never really forgave himself for that.

  In life, I wrestled with my own memories of Mum and my insecurities about her close relationship with Ben which came to a head one painful day when I heard her say something that I spent the rest of my life trying to erase from my mind.

  She was staying in hospital after investigative surgery. Ben was sitting by her bedside, holding her hand and reading to her. I had stepped out from behind the curtains surrounding her bed to get some water. I had only taken a couple of steps down the ward when a kindly nurse passed by and offered to refill the jug for me and return it to us. I thanked her and quickly headed back towards my mum’s cubicle.

  The curtains were slightly ajar and I could see her gently stroking Ben’s cheek as he smiled lovingly back at her. ‘You’ve always been special to me, Ben,’ she said. ‘You’re such a talented boy. I don’t want you ever to forget that. You’ll outshine all of us.’

  My body went cold, and the only sound I could hear were my ears ringing with hurt and hate. Why did she have to say that to him? What did she mean ‘special’? Weren’t we the same to her? Why did they always have to have these private little chats? My head was spinning. I thought about confronting her there and then and asking the questions I’d been desperate to for years: Is Ben your favourite? What did I do so wrong and what did he do so right? Deep down I knew I was being irrational, but I just couldn’t crush the overwhelming sense of rejection. I rushed out of the hospital, brushing past my father at the main entrance.

  ‘Harry?’ he called after me.

  ‘I have to go,’ was the best reply I could manage.

  Emily let out a long sigh through puffed cheeks as she and Ben took stock of the piles of boxes they were going to have to work their way through that afternoon. Along with Sarah, they had taken the decision to sell John’s home and now had the arduous task of clearing it out and redecorating before letting the estate agent loose.

  Standing in the doorway of the attic on a chilly Sunday afternoon in January, Ben began to appreciate the size of the job that lay ahead. Not only were they selling Dad’s property, but they were selling Ben’s flat too. The plan was to buy a new house together, just a few streets along from where Sarah lived in Stockbridge. They would then rent Emily’s New Town flat out to bring in some extra income each month. Effectively that meant they had three properties to prepare in the next couple of months. And this was where it all started.

  ‘We’ll have to work our way through the suitcases and boxes in the attic first and divide the stuff into three piles; things we’re keeping, things we’re throwing and things we’re giving away.’ Emily said, with the tone of authority she usually reserved for the gallery.

  Ben had been dreading the clear-out on a number of counts, but primarily because he knew each decision he had to take would be a difficult one. He wanted to hold on to everything that belonged to Mum and Dad; every memory, every trace of them. But he couldn’t. He’d used the excuse of looking after baby Harry to put the task off, but after Sarah had sat him down several days before and told him she needed to learn to cope on her own – he no longer had a reason to delay the unavoidable.

  He wondered if she’d noticed the hurt on his face when she’d said: ‘You’ve been such an amazing help to me, Ben, and I’m so grateful but, if you don’t mind, I think it would be a good idea if you came over just a little bit less. It’s not that I don’t love having you here. I do. And it’s great for little Harry to see you so much… and you are and always will be a huge part of his life… but… you need to be with Emily, and I need to figure out some kind of life for myself. A way forward where I’m not leaning on you too much.’

  Had he been imagining their bond? He’d looked forward to every visit – to holding his nephew, to sharing time with Sarah, and now she was turning him away after everything he had done for her. He just couldn’t make any sense of it.

  ‘Wakey, wakey,’ Emily was calling as she headed for a set of boxes at the back of the attic space, forcing Ben to abandon his thoughts. They began working their way through our parents’ belongings, having agreed they could only hold on to about 10 per cent of what was actually there.

  Ben was surprised at how easy it was to throw the old trinkets, books, clothes and ornaments away, but he quickly realised that objects held no value for him when there was no memory attached. It was the photos and little reminders of their family life together – the wooden carving he’d made in art class, the ‘Player of the Year’ rugby trophy I’d been awarded at 15 – that he really treasured and he longed to take those boxes home so he could spend time looking through them and remembering.

  As they worked through the afternoon, a huge weight was lifted from Ben’s shoulders once he realised they were getting to the end of their task. As Emily sifted through the final two boxes, Ben went downstairs to assess how much there was to clear out from the main living rooms. Dad had lived fairly minimally and, like Ben, hated clutter. It became apparent – to Ben’s relief – that they had tackled the lion’s share of the work and there was very little to sort through in the downstairs cupboards. The last remaining area to check was a little writing cabinet next to Dad’s favourite chair. There was nothing on the surface and only a few pens, the phone, a notebook, writing paper and a reading glass in the upper drawers. As he opened the door to a little cupboard underneath, Ben found a collection of photo albums. He pulled the front one out and ran his hands over its smooth black leather cover. Inside he found pages of old newspaper cuttings, many of them on my sporting successes with the school rugby team, but also a couple of pieces Ben had long forgotten about that showed him collecting top prize at a nationwide junior art competition, two years in a row. Ben chuckled at how gangly and awkward he had looked, collecting his little silver plate in his oversized school uniform.

  What he found carefully arranged in the pages towards the back of the album, surprised Ben even more. Dad had compiled a
series of clippings detailing both of his sons’ achievements over the years. Admittedly, there were many more pages dedicated to my accomplishments; pictures of me receiving my OBE at Buckingham Palace; countless newspaper articles about the successful entrepreneur with a giving heart. But among them also were some ten or so drawings and sketches Ben had done as a schoolboy – which Dad had even made notes on.

  ‘Wild Poppies at Selkirk, August, 1987. Fluffy the neighbour’s cat, October 1988, Chateau de Pressac, Saint-Emilion, July 1990,’ and so they went on, until Ben reached a page where Dad had simply written, ‘Anna, 1990’. It was a portrait Ben had drawn of our mother on her birthday. She smiled naturally and elegantly, looking straight into the eye of the beholder, her long hair neatly swept back from her face, her faint laughter lines only serving to frame her perfectly-appointed features. That Dad had kept any of his paintings took Ben by surprise, but that he had so carefully recorded them and kept them all these years, took his breath away. He felt he hadn’t really known Dad at all. Now, holding this album in his hands, he finally had the sense of who John Melville was. Yes, he had been a tough parent, but above everything he had cared deeply and equally for both his sons. And, yet again, Ben was struck by the thought it had taken the death of a loved one for him to truly understand them, as though life blinds us to what is there right in front of our eyes if we only took the time to look.

  Sarah willed the cashier to speed up rather than muck around trying to find a suitable bag for her flowers while baby Harry yelled and wriggled in his buggy.

  ‘Don’t worry about the bag. I can carry the flowers like that,’ she snapped.

  ‘Not at all,’ the cashier said, as if doing her a favour. ‘It won’t take a minute to fetch a carrier for you.’

  As Sarah jiggled the buggy hoping Harry would fall asleep, she looked back apologetically at the row of customers waiting behind her. Just when she thought she couldn’t wait another second, a cheerful assistant arrived triumphantly waving a flower bag.

  ‘Hoo, bloody, rah,’ Sarah thought as she tucked her purse back in her handbag and headed towards the exit. But, as the glass doors opened in front of her and she prepared to head out into the frosty morning, she saw a familiar face staring back at her.

  ‘Paul,’ she gasped.

  ‘Don’t look so happy to see me,’ he quipped, holding his hands up in a surrender gesture.

  ‘Well, you’re not exactly top of my Christmas card list.’ She attempted to move past him with the buggy but he deliberately stepped in front of her to block her path.

  ‘How have you been?’ he asked.

  ‘Fine. I have to get home, Paul. Harry needs a feed.’

  ‘I’ll walk with you.’

  ‘Please don’t,’ she was pushing the buggy down the street as fast as she could without posing a safety risk.

  ‘I’m sorry about what happened with your father-in-law, but I was only trying to see what I thought was my son. I didn’t mean for anyone to get hurt.’

  ‘John didn’t get hurt, Paul. He died.’ Sarah kept her eyes focused on the pavement in front as she walked.

  ‘Look, I realise it’s been terrible for you but I just want you to know that it’s been really difficult for me too. First fearing that I wouldn’t get to see my son and then finding out that he’s not even mine in the first place. But what happened in the hospital was just.. I’m truly sorry. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it.’

  Sarah looked up at him briefly and noticed that he appeared slightly thinner in the face – and his already receding hair line had withered even further. She wondered if he had indeed suffered through all this. She’d never even given that a second thought.

  ‘I’m not the monster you think I am, Sarah.’ He put his hand out to gently touch her arm, his eyes pleading with her. She thought he might even be fighting back tears.

  Behind the sharp suit and polished shoes, she realised the real Paul Davis was far less together on the inside.

  She wondered if he felt as alone as she did.

  ‘Can I please just take you for a coffee to explain myself?’

  ‘It’s not a good idea, Paul. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Sarah. You never have to see me again after today, but I’ve barely slept these past couple of months after all that’s gone on. There are things I need you to hear. Five minutes is all I ask.’ He was staring with such intent that she realised he wasn’t going to go away without a scene.

  ‘Five minutes, Paul. That’s all I can give you.’

  The five-minute coffee had turned into two hours as Sarah listened to Paul Davis pour his heart out to her, little Harry fast asleep in her arms. He had been in love with her for years, he told her, and when they finally got together at that conference he even hoped she would leave me to be with him. He was crushed then, when she’d simply sent him an email telling him to forget it had ever happened. He told her he’d been hugely concerned for her when I died, and then there was a ray of hope when he found out from a colleague she was pregnant. Putting two and two together, he knew the timing was right. He had never intended to upset her, but he couldn’t just forget about what might be his only child. In shutting him out she had made him fight for his own rights – he’d had no choice.

  He’d hoped right until Dad’s death at the hospital that it could all be sorted out amicably, but he realised in that horrendous moment that things had gone horribly wrong. The final blow had been in finding out that the baby wasn’t his. He’d been terribly depressed, had taken time off work and had barely seen friends or family. He was so alone. It was so good to see her. She was still so beautiful. He hoped she didn’t feel as alone as he did. Was there anything he could do to help?

  He talked and talked, and she listened and listened, lulled by his pain, his loneliness mirroring her own.

  How I would have loved to step in, to take her aside and say to Sarah: ‘Don’t you see what he’s doing? He’s manipulating you.’ But sitting in the café that day, she could only hear the sound of her own sorrow.

  Emily had just suggested to Ben that they call it a night and head to bed when the phone rang.

  ‘Who would it be at this time?’ she said, curtly answering: ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hi Emily, it’s Sarah. Sorry to call so late.’

  ‘That’s alright,’ Emily replied, softening slightly. ‘Is everything okay? We’ve not heard from you in a few days.’

  ‘I’m fine, Emily, thanks. We’ve been out visiting friends. I just wanted to have a quick word with Ben, if that’s alright?’

  ‘Of course, he’s right here.’

  Emily mouthed ‘Sarah’ to a curious Ben before handing him the phone. She couldn’t help but notice how quickly he moved to take the call when usually he would make his displeasure obvious if anyone dared phone after 10pm. Clearly Sarah was an exception she thought, sighing to herself before heading upstairs to bed.

  ‘Hi Sarah. How you doing?’ Ben said cheerily.

  ‘Fine, thanks. Sorry for calling so late. I just wanted to let you know that Harry is going to be christened on April 5th at Morningside Parish. Bob’s doing the honours.’

  ‘We’re keeping him busy,’ Ben joked, before pausing momentarily. ‘Isn’t April 5th…’

  ‘The anniversary of Harry’s death. Yes, I know, it was the only date Bob could do in April and, when I thought about it, I realised it could be a positive symbol.’

  ‘I guess so,’ said Ben, scratching his head. In truth, he didn’t really know how he felt about it. Ordinarily, he supposed, they should be spending the first anniversary of my death quietly but then he figured this is perhaps what I would have wanted.

  ‘We’d be happy to come,’ he tried to sound enthusiastic.

  ‘That’s great, but I also have something else to ask you,’ she paused for what seemed like dramatic effect. ‘Would you like to be Harry’s godfather as well as his uncle?’

  ‘Yes…I’d love to,’ Ben readily accepted. He had wondered if she would ask him an
d Emily to be godparents. It had seemed like an obvious thing to do considering their involvement in little Harry’s life.

  ‘I’ve asked my friend Rosa to be godmother,’ Sarah quickly added.

  ‘Oh,’ Ben replied cautiously. It was, whether Sarah realised it or not, a bit of a slap in the face to Emily who had sat with baby Harry many nights, allowing Sarah the ‘me time’ she had considered so vital. Now it was he who would have to break it to Emily that she’d been overlooked in favour of a friend Sarah hardly saw anymore.

  ‘Rosa’s been very good to me over the years and I’m godmother to her little girl, Esther,’ she added, sensing his disapproval.

  ‘I see. Well, whatever you think is best.’ Ben said unconvincingly, trying to bring the conversation to a close.

  ‘Ben,’ she faltered again. ‘I also wanted to ask if you’d come over on Sunday – you and Emily.’ She sounded nervous now, almost breathless as she added: ‘There’s someone I think you should get to know.’

  ‘That sounds ominous,’ Ben half joked, assuming that she was talking about a boyfriend. It just hadn’t entered his head that Sarah would start dating again so quickly. Or maybe it was just a friend?

  ‘Is it someone I’ve met?’ he asked, looking for clues.

  ‘Look, I’d better go,’ she said. ‘Harry’s crying. See you on Sunday.

  Come over at five.’

  Ben felt distinctly unnerved as he ended the call. He could have just been imagining it, but it had sounded as though Sarah deliberately cut the call short to avoid answering his question. This started Ben thinking about who it could be. As he racked his brains, trying to come up with a shortlist of possibilities, Emily wandered back into the room. Now changed into her pyjamas and dressing gown she was busy searching for her book to take to bed when she noticed Ben standing in a daze in the middle of the living room.