‘Yes.’ Isla nodded. She had plenty of names, plenty of numbers, but she knew that wouldn’t help in the early hours when her mind ran riot and she felt like crumbling.
‘Is there anything that is worrying you right now?’ The nurse sat on the chair next to the bed and folded her hands on her lap, like a friend settling down for a cuppa.
Isla placed her little finger in her daughter’s mouth; her bottle would be along any minute. ‘I was thinking about something last night before I fell asleep.’
‘Uh-huh?’ The nurse leant forward.
‘How...’
‘How what, hen?’ she prompted.
‘How will she know I’m her mum? How... How will she know it’s me if... if she doesn’t know what I look like? If she can never see me?’ Isla swallowed the tears that threatened again and focused on her daughter’s closed lids where fully functioning eyes would have been had she stayed nestled inside the noisy womb for just a little bit longer.
The nurse gave a small laugh as the door behind them creaked open. She placed her finger over her lips. ‘Ssssshhh...’ she whispered, indicating to the person hovering in the doorway to wait, before turning back to Isla on the bed and instructing: ‘Close your eyes. Tight.’
She did as she was told.
‘Who just arrived?’
‘What?’ Isla was confused.
‘Come on, without looking and without our guest making a sound,’ the nurse spoke in the direction of the door, turning it into an instruction, ‘who is it standing in the doorway?’
Isla cocked her head, concentrated and smiled, inhaling the scent that had arrived with the visitor. ‘It’s... it’s my boyfriend. It’s Duncan.’
‘How do you know?’ the nurse whispered, looking from the man in the doorway back to her patient.
Isla beamed. ‘I... I can feel it’s him. I can feel him...’
‘Exactly,’ the nurse whispered as she tiptoed from the room.
*
Duncan stepped forward and rested his large hand on Isla’s shoulder. She placed her cheek against the back of it and opened her eyes, something her wee girl would never be able to do.
‘Didn’t know if you’d be coming in.’ She smiled.
Duncan’s voice was gruff with emotion. ‘Of course! I love you, Isla, and I love our daughter – and who knows what’s gonna happen? Not you, not me, but that’s got to be the best start, right?’
2
May 1992
‘Have you got any matches, Dunc?’
‘My arse your face?’ Duncan laughed into his beer and elbowed his mate Harry in the ribs.
‘Charming! I cannot imagine talking in front of my mother-in-law like that!’ Isla’s mum, Mary, tutted and then winked at him, to show she got the joke, all was well.
‘And anyways, I’m not your son-in-law, not officially, though not for lack of asking! I think she’s trying me out, to see if I’m good enough for weddin’. We are still actually living in sin, in case you hadn’t noticed,’ Duncan announced loudly, playing to the crowd of one, as Harry felt his face colour.
‘Oh, I have noticed, Duncan McGuire, and for the love of god, I don’t need reminding!’ Mary patted her bleached hair and went to rifle in the kitchen drawer; she was in need of a box of matches to light the candles on her granddaughter’s Princess Belle birthday cake.
‘Try Euan. He smokes, you know, in secret!’ Duncan shouted after her. His mate snorted into his pint and sprayed the living-room carpet with the sticky foam. They might have been old enough to drink and for one of them to be a dad, but they were still teenage boys at heart when a rude joke and the chance to make the other snort laughter into their beer was the mark of a good time.
‘Does he indeed?’ Mary narrowed her eyes towards the garden where her fourteen-year-old son stood by the edge of the bouncy castle, his job to ensure that no toddler fell out, got injured or trampled on.
She stepped through the back door of the kitchen and marched across the hard mud and balding grass, where Mitzy the Staffie wore away any new growth with her frantic digging, and the football constantly being kicked around the small space finished the job. Euan stood with his back to the house, one hand leaning on the inflated wall. Mary tapped her son on the shoulder; he reeled around to face her. Both were taken by surprise, he by the sudden appearance of his irate mother and she by the tears that filled the eyes of her teenage boy.
‘What on earth’s the matter, love?’ she cooed, as her previous spike of anger and desire to interrogate him evaporated.
‘Nothing.’ He drew breath sharply, embarrassed, and swiped at his face with the back of his sleeve.
‘Well, it sure doesn’t look like nothing.’
Euan shook his head. ‘I just wish...’
‘You just wish what?’ She placed her hand on his arm.
‘I just wish she could see, for one day, like the other kids. It’s so unfair, Mum.’ He looked back towards the bouncy castle where Imogen jumped high in the air, squealing as she landed, arms and legs entangled with the other children’s. They were all of them clambering and giggling, each trying to stand on the wobbly base before being pulled back down by other grabbing hands in search of stability, rendered weak by the hilarity of the absurd situation in which they found themselves.
‘She’s having the time of her little life.’ Mary smiled.
‘Aye, but she just asked me what her dress is like,’ Euan said, swallowing hard, ‘and I didn’t know what to say, because every description I could think of was a colour or a comparison, all useless to her. She doesn’t know pink, she doesn’t know marshmallow. I find it hard...’
‘What’s going on?’ Isla shouted. Neither of them had heard her approach. ‘Why are you upset? Is she hurt?’ Without waiting for her little brother’s reply, she placed her hands on her hips and began shouting into the melee, ‘Imogen! Imi! Come out this minute before you get your head kicked in by one of those boys! I mean it, come off now!’
‘She’s fine, Isla! She’s having the time of her life!’ Mary tried to placate her, placing her hand on her daughter’s forearm. This was Isla’s stock response: to remove Imogen from any potential danger, to cushion her from life, keep her safe.
‘She’s under a ton of kids!’ Isla pointed at the jumble of arms and legs. ‘How do you know she’s having the time of her life? She might be suffocating! Imogen, I mean it, come out right now!’ she screamed. She looked at her mother. ‘Have you seen the size of that Gary Bridewell? He could squash her or knock her out!’
Gradually, heeding the instruction, the birthday girl wiggled free from the crush, a froth of pale pink tulle and netting gathered around her, and made her way to the edge of the castle. ‘What’s up, Mum?’ She tilted her head to one side, laughing every time a child behind her jumped, sending her teetering this way and that like a drunk.
‘I... I... don’t want you to get hurt,’ Isla explained.
‘I’m not hurt. It’s brilliant!’ Imogen exclaimed, before hurling herself back into the throng, unaware and uncaring that some of the children she bounced and fought with were twice her age and size. Her giggles could be heard above the yells.
Isla retrieved the large bowl of sweets that she had plonked on the floor and began handing them out. She caught sight of her little brother’s face. ‘What’s up then, Euan? Are you okay?’
Mary ruffled his hair. ‘He’s just having a moment, wishing that Imi could see her dress.’
‘Ah, you lovely thing.’ Isla smiled at him. ‘It’s funny, isn’t it, how it’s the little things that get you? I was washing her hair in the bath the other day...’ Isla pictured the moment: herself elbow-deep in suds as she massaged the foam into her little girl’s scalp, then ducking as her daughter splashed in the bath, showering her in bubbles. ‘Imogen asked me to describe the bubbles. I did my best and then we got talking, so I asked her what she thought about the world, and she told me it was big and noisy... and she’s right, it is... and then she told me she thought i
t was the colour of laughing and happy. How great is that? Big and noisy and the colour of happy! Really, that’s all you need, anything else is just detail.’
She winked at her kind little brother before returning her attention to her daughter, diving in and out of the gang of children littering the floor of the bouncy castle.
‘Imogen’s fine, you know.’ Mary placed her hand on her daughter’s arm. ‘You have to let her be.’
‘I know.’ Isla rummaged in the bowl of sweets. ‘I can’t help it, though. I feel afraid for her. I want to wrap her up and hold her tight, for ever.’
‘All mums feel that way.’ Mary looked at Euan, her sensitive, secret smoker of a son.
‘Yes, but I have better reason than most, don’t I?’ Isla held her mum’s gaze.
‘It’s a reason, aye, but whether it’s better or stronger than anyone else’s, I don’t know. But I do know that you have to let her have the freedom to fly. Only then will she come home to roost. You have to have more faith, Isla. For goodness’ sake, let her be! And then do us all a favour and marry that boy of yours.’
‘Imi’s being mean! She just shoved me!’ Duncan’s wee cousin yelled.
Gary Bridewell laughed loudly. ‘Shove her back, twice as hard!’ was his advice.
Mary reached in and grabbed her granddaughter by the arm. ‘Be nice, Imi. Remember, you catch more flies with honey than you do with vinegar!’ Her gran patted her head.
Euan bent close, enabling him to whisper conspiratorially. Imogen could smell his soap, a sweet scent that clung to his skin and surrounded him in a slightly sickly aura. ‘Aye, what your gran says is true enough, Imogen, but don’t forget that when you come across a nasty wee wasp, sometimes you have to swat the irritatin’ bastard!’ He chuckled before wrapping her in a fierce, but brief hug. Imogen smiled, happy to be held in this warm embrace, and equally embarrassed by her uncle’s use of a curse. She wriggled free and made her way back into the centre of the fray.
‘Ow!’ Gary Bridewell, the great lump of a lad, jumped from the bouncy castle, holding his hand over his face. A thin trickle of blood seeped from beneath his cupped palm.
‘Good god, Gary! What have you done?’ Isla rushed forward and prised the boy’s fingers from his face.
‘Imogen kicked me in the head!’ he wailed.
Isla looked at her mum and laughed.
3
Present Day
Imogen sidled on to a padded bench in Café Chocolat and placed her handbag in the space beside her, along with her cane. She slid the screen on her mobile phone and held it up to her ear. She had a new message. The text-to-voice app spoke its robotic tone in her ear: Your appointment for next Thursday with Dr Randolph is confirmed for four p.m. We look forward to seeing you then.
‘Who are you talking to?’
Imogen looked up at the sound of Jenny’s voice. It was slightly laboured, out of breath, as if she had been rushing. Imogen closed her phone. ‘No one, I was listening to a text. Have you been running?’
‘No, just didn’t want to be late so I legged it up the escalator,’ Jenny huffed as she sat down opposite her friend.
‘You smell nice.’ Imogen inhaled the scent, liking the earthy notes that danced up her nose like fragrant music.
‘Do you know, you are the only one who ever notices? And, yes, it’s new, Beyoncé’s Heat.’
‘Ooh, hoping to get Shay a bit hot under the collar?’
‘That’ll be the day.’ Jenny sighed. ‘The actual Beyoncé could prance around the front room naked, but if the footie’s on, I wouldn’t fancy her chances much. Unless she’d brought a kebab with her, of course, that might just swing it.’
The two girls laughed.
‘You’re not still replaying Logan’s message, are you?’ Jenny sighed.
‘No!’ Imogen answered, a little more indignant than she should have been, embarrassed by the fact that she had done just that earlier in the day. ‘I’m so over him. You’re right, anyone who doesn’t want to be with me is not someone I want to be with.’
‘That’s ma girl.’ Jenny sounded proud of her.
‘In fact, I’ve started to feel angry. I can’t even think of that word he used without getting mad.’
‘What word?’ Jenny teased.
‘You know the one.’ Imogen smiled, refusing to rise to the bait.
‘Oh, you mean when he said, I think it’s best we go our separate ways, I can’t cope with the...’
‘Liability!’ the two girls said together then giggled in unison at this admission made by Imogen weeks ago. ‘I mean, for god’s sake, Jen, there’s him calling me that and it’s him who still lives under his mother’s roof, with her wiping his nose for him every five minutes!’
‘You’re better off without him, mate, bloke’s an arsehole.’
Yes, but an arsehole I quite liked, and an arsehole who left me because he couldn’t cope... Imogen decided to keep this to herself.
‘What’ll we have?’
Imogen listened as her friend flexed the stiff cardboard of the menu.
‘Usual for me, hot chocolate.’
‘With fresh cream and extra marshmallows?’ Jenny asked, smiling. ‘Of course. You all right, honey? You look a bit... I don’t know, nervous.’ Her friend knew Imogen back to front and inside out, could tell from her body language or the slightest nuance of her behaviour when something was amiss.
‘I guess I am a bit,’ she confirmed.
‘Oh, god, what have you done? What madness are you embarking on now? This isn’t another bloody holiday you’ve booked, is it? Or some stupid stunt? The last time you looked like this you were about to go abseiling for that charity day! I nearly shat myself just thinking about it. And watching you was worse!’
Imogen laughed. ‘No. Nothing like that. And I still don’t know what all the fuss was about, I wasn’t even scared!’
‘That, mate, was because you couldn’t see that you were one hundred and fifty feet from the ground with just a wee bit of rope keeping you from going splat!’ Jenny shuddered at the memory.
‘You might be right.’ There was a pause while Imogen considered how best to continue. ‘I do want to tell you something...’ She swallowed nervously.
‘Oh, for god’s sake, spit it out, the suspense is killing me!’ Jenny banged the table. Imogen jumped and the old couple on the next table looked up.
‘I want to have a baby.’
‘You what?’ Jenny thought she might have misheard.
‘I want to be a mum, Jen. I really do. I want to have a baby.’ Imogen smiled and listened out for her friend’s response.
There was a silent interlude while Jenny processed her friend’s words and Imogen sat waiting. If they hadn’t been best friends, it might have been awkward.
‘For real?’ Jenny needed it confirming.
Imogen nodded.
‘Fucking hell, I think I preferred you jumping out of buildings on a bit of chewing gum!’
Both girls laughed with relief at the joke that broke the tension and at the mental image it created.
‘It’s true, Jen. I want this more than anything.’ Imogen’s voice was low and serious-sounding.
‘How long have you felt like this?’
Imogen shrugged. How long had she had the desire, the need, to hold her baby in her arms? ‘Always, really. I always thought I’d be a mum, eventually.’
Jenny exhaled, letting out a deep breath. She drummed her fingertips on the table top. ‘Well, yes, eventually. But... how can I put this? You don’t have a fella, and the last time I checked, they were quite important in the whole process.’
‘So that’s where I’ve been going wrong!’ Imogen laughed. ‘I know. But there are ways around it.’
‘Oh, god, not Immaculate Conception? Have you been listening to Father Frank?’
Imogen chuckled again. ‘No! But there are clinics. I’m going to see a doctor next Thursday, to talk about IUI.’
‘God, you’re serious?’
&
nbsp; ‘Yes!’ Imogen felt her smile slip; she wanted support, reassurance, not to have to convince her mate that this wasn’t some kind of wind-up.
‘Christ, Imi. I think this might be madness.’ Jen’s tone was level.
‘Don’t say that.’
‘I’ve known you since we were five and I’ve never lied to you and I’m not about to start. I don’t know how you’d cope with a baby and I worry that it’ll be too much for you.’
‘For god’s sake, do you know me at all? When have I not coped? When have I ever failed at anything I’ve tried to do?’ Imogen thought of the day she and Jenny had waited patiently in line for their turn at archery on a school trip. She recalled the way the ranger had gently placed his hand on her arm, saying: Are you sure you’re wanting a go? his tone part condescending, part concerned. Imogen had turned her head towards him. ’Course I’m wanting a go! she’d yelled. Whaddya think I’m standing in the queue for? She smiled at the memory. ‘I do the things that everyone else does without a second thought – and you have always supported me, always told me that the last thing people notice about me is that I can’t see – and now you’re giving me this crap?’ She felt her bottom lip start to tremble.
Jenny was silent. ‘That’s because I’ve always thought you can do anything, but this?’ Imogen heard her friend’s voice change direction, as if she was speaking to the floor.
‘...this is something much bigger than going bungee jumping or flying off on holiday on your own!’
‘Do you think I don’t know that?’ Imogen fought to keep the tears from her voice.
The waitress padded over. Imogen heard the flip of her pad and the scratch of her pen on the paper. ‘What’ll it be, ladies?’
‘I’ll take a tea.’ Jenny smiled at her.
‘And for you, darlin’?’ the kindly woman asked as she scribbled.
Imogen shook her head. ‘Nothing for me, thanks. I have to go.’ She felt her cheeks flush and a horrible hot, swarmy feeling wash over her.
‘I thought you were having a hot chocolate?’ Jenny sighed.
Imogen bent to the right and felt for her cane and her bag. ‘I don’t feel like it, Jen.’
Stories From The Heart Page 13
