by Lucy Diamond
The ultrasound was amazing. It took her breath away. Seeing that tiny kidney-bean-shaped body in grainy black-and-white there on a screen and watching its small, jerky movements felt like magic, some kind of miracle. That little bean was her son or daughter. Her actual baby! She and Max had created this brand-new tiny person, and there it was, growing and changing, alive. Until that moment she’d never completely believed in the notion of this creature actually existing – having a smile, a personality, freckles maybe, or long legs and a cute bottom like Max. Now look at it: a bobbing seahorse, a real tiny baby. Her baby. Hello you, she thought. Hello little baby.
Her doubts fell away in a single second. Of course she could look after this baby. She wanted to look after the baby. Why had she even questioned herself?
The words of her New Year fortune-cookie came back to her suddenly: Have courage! Mistakes can become adventures, and she felt tears in her eyes suddenly. Maybe there was some truth in that after all.
‘Would you like me to print you off a picture?’ the nurse asked.
‘Yes, please,’ Saffron said. A picture of her baby. Yes, she would like that very much.
Then her euphoria dimmed slightly as she realized something. Something really important. If she was going to keep the baby – and she was – then she really had to tell Max now. She absolutely had to. Didn’t she?
Chapter Ten
It took two whole terrifying days before Spencer’s concussion subsided and he began sounding more like himself. How Gemma sobbed with thankfulness when she heard him list every player in the top half of the Premier League to the doctor, correctly answer what year it was and name the Prime Minister (then add what a doofus Spencer thought he was. Yep. Her husband was back). This adroit performance, along with the brain scans, reassured the doctors that his head injuries were superficial and that there wouldn’t be any long-lasting problems. So that was the first enormous milestone passed, and one they were all heartily glad to see the back of. Then came another week on tenterhooks as he underwent operations (‘Bolting him back together,’ the consultant had said cheerfully) and all sorts of tests. The good news was that the doctors thought there’d be no permanent physical damage, either. ‘He’s been very lucky,’ the consultant told her.
Lucky? thought Gemma. Well, that was one way to describe it.
Spencer needed to be in hospital for two weeks overall, lying flat on his back and drugged up with morphine and co-codamol the whole time. She, meanwhile, functioned on automatic pilot, making sure the children went to school every day with clean clothes and full stomachs, but spending the rest of the time at her husband’s bedside, holding his hand and doing her best to cheer him up. Her car became a kind of decompression chamber where she’d sit and sob after visits, the only place she could really let go, apart from late at night when Will and Darcey were asleep.
Anyway. He was home now, and even if life wasn’t remotely normal again, she had to stay positive. It could have been worse. Much worse. As it was, he would have to wear an ankle-cast for eight weeks and a back-brace for four months while his fractured vertebrae healed. After all that, he’d still need lots of physio before he could even think about running or playing football. No driving for six weeks. Mild stretches and gentle walks were to be encouraged, but nothing more strenuous. ‘What about sex?’ Spencer asked anxiously. (Of course he did. The subject was uppermost in his mind about 99 per cent of his waking hours, by Gemma’s reckoning.)
‘It’s probably best to give it a few weeks,’ the doctor had replied. ‘You’re due to come back and see us in a fortnight, so we can discuss that then.’
‘A fortnight?’ Spencer had never looked so gutted in the whole time Gemma had known him. In fact he had never been so miserable, full stop.
Once back at home, Gemma had fondly imagined tender nursing scenes where she mopped her husband’s brow and fed him chicken soup, and he in turn gazed lovingly back at her, overcome with gratitude. But the reality was that he spent whole days slumped on the sofa, watching mindless television or locked in battle on the Xbox, glassy-eyed and unresponsive, resisting all Gemma’s efforts at conversation, unless to complain that the sturdy neoprene back-brace was uncomfortable and bringing him out in a rash. He also complained that he was too thirsty, too hot, too bored, too much in pain – everything, in short. Mindful of the doctors’ advice that gentle exercise would help speed the recovery of his back, Gemma tentatively suggested going for walks when the rain cleared, a stroll to The Partridge for lunch, even a spot of gardening. He turned his nose up at everything, though, barking that he wasn’t feeble-minded, he wasn’t a bloody pensioner yet, he didn’t want to go for a fucking walk.
He was bad-tempered with the children as well, told them they were too noisy and snapped at them for the slightest thing. A few evenings after he came home Gemma and Darcey were sitting at the kitchen table together, making appliqué birds to sew onto one of Darcey’s T-shirts, when they heard Spencer bollocking Will about something or other. ‘Why doesn’t Daddy like us any more?’ Darcey whispered, anxiety shining in her large brown eyes.
The question pierced right through Gemma’s heart. ‘He does like you – he loves you, sweetheart – he’s just fed up, that’s all. He’ll be better soon,’ she soothed helplessly.
Thirteen-year-old Will was more succinct. ‘Dad’s being a total prick,’ he growled later that evening when she went up to say goodnight. There was a wild fury about him that Gemma hadn’t seen since he was a tantrum-throwing toddler, but she could detect hurt, too.
‘Don’t say that about your dad,’ she replied with automatic loyalty. Upsetting his daughter and calling his son a loser might not be the sort of behaviour that would win Spencer any Dad-of-the-Year awards, but she knew he was like a wounded animal, lashing out at those he loved. ‘Give him a bit of time,’ she said. ‘He’ll be back to normal soon.’
That night in bed she hooked a leg over Spencer’s and rolled closer to him, hoping that some wifely love might go a little way to soothe his tortured mood. Yet for the first time ever in the history of their relationship he shuffled away, muttering that he had a terrible headache. She lay there stunned, unable to believe her ears. Usually she only had to raise an eyebrow at her husband for him to leap on her with lusty enthusiasm. Through illness, hangovers, broken nights’ sleep when the children were tiny, he’d never once turned her down.
‘It will get better, Spence,’ she whispered into the darkness, feeling desperately sorry for him. ‘I promise it will.’
But no answer came. And the words seemed to echo around her head, as if mocking her naivety.
Gemma felt conflicted about leaving Spencer the following Monday to go and have lunch with her dad, as was their custom, but her mother-in-law came over instead and she knew he’d be waited on hand and foot in her absence. Besides, she was dying for a big old squeeze from her dad. The two of them had always been close, but even more so after Karen, Gemma’s mum, flaked out and left the family for Carlos, the Ibizan waiter she’d fallen for on holiday, back when Gemma was eight.
Left to bring up his daughter and three sons single-handedly, Barry Pepper had valiantly done everything in his capacity to fill the space of two parents. He’d mastered the vagaries of the washing machine and the never-ending filthy sports kits; he’d shepherded them all to school on time, in just about the right uniform; he’d learned to cook from scratch; bought a bouncy Labrador, Sultan (‘Sultan Pepper, it’s a joke – do you get it?’); and even mastered an epic roast dinner by the time the first Christmas came round. Of course Gemma missed her mum – who drifted back to the UK periodically with an enviable tan and new tattoos – especially when it came to embarrassing things like needing a bra and her first period, but Barry coped admirably, roping in his sister Jan whenever womanly advice was required. As for boyfriends, when Gemma started dating and bringing boys back home, having three big brothers and an over-protective father in the police force didn’t half sort the wheat from the chaff.
/> Her dad still lived in Stowmarket, where he’d been a policeman for years until a knee injury forced him into early retirement. Now he was his own boss, working as a double-glazing fitter, and he and Gemma had got into the very nice habit of having lunch every Monday. They would go to the pub together – always the same table in The White Horse – and eat pie and chips, her with a Coke, him with half a bitter, and catch up on the world. Gemma would do anything for her dad, and vice versa.
It wasn’t until she rang the doorbell of 93 Partington Road, the house she’d grown up in, that she was struck by the feeling that something looked different. After closer consideration, she realized that the living-room windows had been cleaned – a rare enough occurrence for this to be instantly noticeable – and the small front garden had been smartened up, too, so that the dustbin was now tidily in one corner rather than blocking the path. There was also an ornamental blue pot of winter pansies beside the door.
Gemma stared at those winter pansies suspiciously. Her dad’s taste in plants was for wild and rangy specimens – big bristling shrubs, sweet peas romping up a bamboo wigwam, blowsy scented red roses with velvety petals. He was not a man who would ever have voluntarily bought a pot of prissy winter pansies, let alone display it proudly outside his own home. So where had it come from?
‘Gems! Hello, my love, come in,’ he said, answering the door just then. Barry Pepper was tubby and balding these days, more Danny DeVito than Ryan Gosling, but had the kindest face of anyone she knew, and gave the best hugs ever. As he put his arms around her now, she felt the comforting flannel of his shirt against her and breathed in his usual soapy scent, feeling a million times better already. God, she needed this.
Then she froze. A woman with streaky blonde hair and a sage-green fleece had appeared behind Barry and was giving Gemma a toothy smile. In an instant Gemma knew how the pansies by the door had materialized.
‘Hello,’ said the woman eagerly. ‘I’ve been dying to meet you. I’ve heard all about you!’
‘Hi,’ said Gemma, extricating herself from her dad’s embrace. Her first feeling was of dismay. Not today, she thought, trying not to sigh. I just wanted him to myself today.
‘Ah.’ Barry looked slightly shifty. ‘My two favourite girls. Gemma, this is Judy. Judy, my daughter Gemma.’
Gemma tried to catch her dad’s eye. And Judy is . . . ? But he seemed in a hurry to find his jacket all of a sudden, and turned away to unhook it from the peg. That was when Gemma noticed the new coat rack up on the wall, and that someone had changed the pictures around. Instead of the faded old map of Stowmarket that had hung above the hall radiator for as long as she could remember, there was now a bland print of brightly coloured anemones in a clip-frame. As for the small black-and-white wedding photo of her parents that had stood on the small wooden table forever, that had vanished too, replaced by a brass bowl holding an arrangement of pine cones. What the hell . . . ?
Judy was advancing, hand outstretched, teeth exposed in another smile. ‘Lovely to meet you after all this time.’
‘You too,’ Gemma replied reluctantly, shaking Judy’s hand in a very British sort of way. Bang went her heart-to-heart with her dad then, she thought. She’d been looking forward to the chance to unburden some of her thoughts to him, have a moan, have a cry, even. Knowing Dad, he’d have her laughing by the time they’d scraped their plates clean; he’d be taking the mickey out of her parallel parking, or doing impressions of her brother Luke’s new girlfriend. She hadn’t counted on having to share him with fleece-wearing Judy.
She tried to get a grip. Her dad was a grown man, he didn’t need to live his life around Gemma or ask her permission for a new girlfriend. After a deep breath, she plastered on her best bright smile. ‘Are we ready then, Dad? Judy, are you joining us for lunch?’
Judy’s face lit up. ‘I’d love to,’ she said, pulling on a big red Puffa jacket and stuffing her feet into Uggs. ‘What a treat!’
It wasn’t as if Barry had been single the entire time since Gemma’s mum had abandoned them for her new life in the sun. When Gemma and her brothers left home, they had made a concerted effort to force their dad out on the dating scene, signing him up to a dating agency and scouring lonely-hearts columns on his behalf. There had been relationships with Marjorie (two months – dreary old drip), Aisling (bawdy and fun, but not settling-down material – three months) and one very nice lady called Venetia whom they all adored, right until she vanished with a load of Barry’s valuables, never to be seen again.
And now there was Judy.
‘So,’ Gemma said conversationally, as she and her dad waited to order at the bar. Judy was already sitting down, flicking through a newspaper someone had left behind. ‘Where did you two meet then?’
He beamed. ‘I did her windows for her, first few weeks of January. We got chatting and . . . that was that.’ He fiddled with a Carlsberg beer mat, spinning it between finger and thumb. ‘The thing was, I was sitting at home on New Year’s Eve, on me tod, and . . .’
Guilt stabbed Gemma. ‘I did say you were welcome at ours, Dad!’
‘I know you did, love. And I was very grateful. Didn’t want to get in your way, though, did I? Didn’t want to cramp anybody’s style.’ Spin, spin went the beer mat. ‘But anyway, I made a resolution this year that I needed to start again, to find a new wife.’
‘A new wife?’ Gemma spluttered on the unexpected word.
‘Well, not immediately, obviously. But I do miss having someone to come home to, you know. I don’t want to be on my own any more. Judy’s a nice woman – we’ve had a few evenings out together. I like her.’
‘Hello, Barry. Hello there, Gemma. What can I get you both today?’ asked Kev, the pub landlord just then. He raised a bushy eyebrow. ‘And is that your lady friend I see over there in the corner again?’ he asked, followed by a wink at Gemma.
‘It certainly is,’ Barry replied, an air of pride about him as he began reeling off their order.
Gemma tried to wrest back control of her feelings. Of course she was pleased for her dad that he’d met someone and seemed happy. And of course she didn’t want him to be lonely, to see out the rest of his New Year’s Eves alone. All the same . . . a wife, he’d said. A wife. It seemed such a monumental word to use. Her dad had this habit of falling for unsuitable women – her mum being a prime example. The last thing she wanted was for him to be hurt all over again. She sighed, wondering if her brothers knew about Judy yet. Had they already met her? Mind you, they were boys; they wouldn’t feel the same way she did. Sam, Luke and David would just be glad that they were off the hook when it came to making sure Dad was okay all the time.
‘Thanks, Kev,’ her dad said at that moment, and Gemma realized there were three drinks now waiting on the bar.
‘Lovely,’ she said, grabbing some cutlery and her Coke. ‘Thanks, Dad.’
‘You’re welcome, sweetheart. I’ve been looking forward to you and Judy meeting each other. I know you’re going to get on like a house on fire.’
Chapter Eleven
Two months after her mum’s death Caitlin had finally made the first few baby-steps towards dealing with her loss. She had stopped wallowing in bed for hours on end. She had accepted some work from Saffron, the friendly woman she’d met at New Year, and was actually loving the experience. She had booked a haircut, shaved her legs, done an enormous amount of washing, including all her bedding, and thrown every last takeaway menu into the paper-recycling box. She hoped the lady from Golden Dragon wasn’t missing her phone calls too much.
Even more remarkably, she had actually begun sorting through Jane’s belongings, one room at a time, in order to clear the cottage and get it on the local estate agent’s books. How poignant the little details of a life seemed, when that person had gone. All those unopened bags of sugar Jane would never decant into the small crackle-glazed pot, to be used, two spoonfuls at a time, in her milky coffees. All those packets of twenty-denier natural-tan tights unworn in a drawer. The bags
of dusty bulbs for the garden, the neatly labelled envelopes of seeds she’d never planted. Candles never lit. Letters never replied to. All those empty spaces at the end of last year’s calendar that she hadn’t lived quite long enough to fill.
Jane had been a kind mum, a solid pillar of a person that you could lean against, confident she would bear your weight. When Caitlin was much younger and had argued with Nichola, her best friend in primary school, her mum had emptied out the dressing-up box and ransacked her own wardrobe, suggesting they both put on beautiful outfits and have a princesses’ picnic in the garden. Adorned in one of Jane’s pink silk nighties, which hung around her ankles, beads, a flowery hat and some enormous red high heels, Caitlin had never felt more loved as her mum poured them Ribena from her best china teapot and they ate cucumber sandwiches on the old tartan travelling rug, ‘just like real princesses’.
Another time, when Caitlin had split up with computer programmer Jeremy, she’d come back to Larkmead for the weekend, drooping with heartbreak, and Jane had known exactly what to do: drive them both out to Aldeburgh to sit on the beach with fish and chips. ‘There’s nothing like the sea to blow away your troubles,’ she said, putting an arm around Caitlin, as they sat together on the shingle. ‘Puts everything in perspective, doesn’t it?’
And every year, on June 1st, Jane had always baked a Victoria sponge with real strawberries, and she and Steve had drunk champagne and hugged each other, then Caitlin. ‘Just because,’ she said with a smile, when Caitlin had first asked her why this was. ‘Sometimes it’s good to celebrate your family, and think about how lucky you are.’
Her mum hadn’t been keen on Flynn, though, she thought now, as she filled boxes with stacks of well-thumbed Mills & Boons and all manner of gory crime novels. ‘Well, he’s very good-looking, I’ll give him that,’ she’d said the first time they met, but Caitlin knew that ‘good-looking’ wasn’t up there with ‘kind’, ‘funny’, ‘loyal’ or any of the other attributes Jane had valued in Steve. So there’s a silver lining to me dying, eh, chick? she imagined Jane saying now. You got to find out what a nasty piece of work that Flynn was, right? Look on the bright side! You could have been stuck with him for years yet, if I hadn’t gone and popped my clogs!
