The Missing Pieces of Sophie McCarthy

by B M Carroll

  ‘Who’s Hannah?’

  ‘My new assistant.’

  ‘Is she good?’

  Sophie thinks about it. ‘Yes, she is … She’s obliging, and I feel quite grateful for that, given that Jane was so hostile all the time.’

  Jane is the one who walked out earlier in the week. Sophie told me all about it. Good riddance, in my opinion.

  She joins me at the table and sighs appreciatively as she picks up her cup. ‘I needed this. Thanks, Dad.’

  ‘Your fridge is empty … Will I run down to the shops for you?’

  ‘Less temptation if the cupboards are bare.’ Her smile is a self-deprecating one. ‘No, I’ll go with Aidan tomorrow when we get the car. Thanks, anyway, Dad.’

  ‘Any gardening that I can help with?’

  ‘No, thanks. Aidan caught up with it over the weekend.’ She puts some ham and cheese on a cracker, then stalls. ‘Actually, if you’re looking to pass some time, there is one thing you could do for me …’

  ‘Just say it.’ Something I can get stuck into. At last.

  ‘The spare room. I need to clear out the boxes from the wardrobe, create some space.’

  ‘Are you having someone to stay?’

  ‘Jasmin.’

  Sometimes we can talk for ages without Aidan popping up, and I can almost forget about him. Today is obviously not one of those occasions. Aidan and the new car. Aidan doing the gardening and the groceries. Aidan’s bloody daughter coming to stay.

  It makes me want to shake her, to shout: Wake up, Sophie! Aidan’s the one who did this to you. How can you ignore that? How can you have him, and now his daughter, under the same bloody roof as you? How can you act like this is a normal relationship, when everything it’s built on is rotten to the core?

  Of course I said all those things, and more, at the start. She refused to take heed – it’s like he’s brainwashed her – and now she won’t even allow me to bring up the subject.

  ‘Right,’ I say instead. ‘Where do you want the boxes to go?’

  ‘In the laundry, behind the door … if you can fit them in. Thanks, Dad.’

  The boxes don’t fit in the laundry because there are too many other things in the way: other boxes (mostly empty), sporting equipment (bats, tennis racquets, mitts, all thrown in haphazardly), and backpacks of every shape and size. I end up clearing out the whole area and running down to the hardware store for a four-by-two storage unit to make better use of the space.

  All the while, Sophie takes and makes calls on her phone, talking about files and reports and meetings, working as hard as she would if she were in the office. Three days a week, my arse. Sophie isn’t capable of clocking off. She’s a workaholic, like me, or at least how I used to be, before I retired … the biggest bloody mistake of my life. But Sophie doesn’t want to hear my reservations, doesn’t want to be told to slow down, to hold back for the sake of her health. And in many ways, it’s good to see her like this – busy, focused, in charge. I just can’t help worrying. Another relapse would be a terrible blow for us all.

  At 2.30 p.m. I stop to make a call to Dee. ‘Do you mind making your own way home today, love?’

  ‘Not at all. What’re you up to?’

  ‘Helping Sophie with something.’

  The new storage unit is missing some screws, and another visit to the hardware store is required. By five o’clock, the unit’s assembled, but everything needs to be sorted through before it’s put away.

  ‘I’ll come back another day to finish this off.’

  ‘There’s no rush, Dad. It’ll probably be another week or so before she stays over. Aidan and Chloe are still sorting things out.’

  Once again I have to bite my tongue, keep what I really think inside.

  Sophie stands up from her laptop and comes over to give me a hug. ‘Thanks for today, Dad. You’re very good to me.’

  ‘I know. Too good.’

  I spot Aidan on the main road, getting off the bus. My brief glimpse of him is oddly clear: one hand on the strap of his backpack, his eyes staring straight ahead as he strides away from the bus, those deceivingly clean-cut features set in concentration. He looks healthy and strong and purposeful. It makes me furious. So insanely angry I want to turn the car around and chase him down. Ram into him over and over again until his sternum is fractured, his nerves are permanently damaged and he doesn’t know what a day without pain feels like.

  Calm down, Richard. You’ll give yourself a heart attack. Calm down. He hasn’t got away with it. The date has been set. With any luck, the judge will have a daughter of his own and will be able to imagine the horror of what we’ve all gone through.

  The date has finally been set. I thump my hand against the steering wheel.

  If there’s any justice in the world – any at all – they’ll put him behind bars.

  14

  Hannah

  I had to plead financial hardship to the soccer club. There was no way I could scrape the money together, not with all the other bills. I dreaded the phone call, but the lady I spoke to was so kind. Initially, she suggested a payment plan, but when I told her that my husband had died unexpectedly and explained all the upheaval the boys had been through, she waived the fees altogether. Her kindness moved me so much I started crying. Linda, her name was. Lovely Linda. Let’s hope I never meet her face to face. I don’t know what’s more embarrassing: the fact that I needed to claim financial hardship in order for my boys to have the simple pleasure of playing soccer, or that I broke down and bawled my eyes out to a complete stranger.

  The team – the Cheetahs – is warming up down at one of the goals, going through a drill with their coach, Davy. Mum has been impressed with Davy. She likes how he doesn’t let the kids get away with much.

  ‘They respect him,’ she said after training last week. ‘Any fooling around and they have to run a lap of the field. It’s a great way to discipline them, and they get fit in the process. Right, boys?’

  Apparently both Finn and Callum had to run laps this week. Does this man – Davy – think that my boys are badly behaved? Does he know that they’ve lost their father and their home? Does he know about the club fees being waived? I can feel my face getting hot, even though the rest of me is rather cold. Fooled by the blue sky, I decided against a jacket when I left the apartment this morning.

  ‘There’s a bite in the air,’ the woman next to me comments.

  ‘Yes, there is, isn’t there?’ My voice sounds stilted, even though I was aiming for friendly.

  ‘Which one is yours?’

  ‘The twins. Callum and Finn.’

  She squints in the direction of the boys. Like the other parents, she’s dressed well: a trendy jacket and designer jeans in strong, contrasting colours. No evidence of financial hardship there. Can she tell by looking at me? Do my clothes give me away?

  ‘And which one is yours?’ I ask politely.

  ‘The girl. She’s hard to miss.’

  The referee – a dad in shorts and T-shirt, who, like me, must have overestimated the blue sky – calls the teams into position. Callum is centre back and Finn is right forward. The two of them look smart in their new playing gear – red shirt, black shorts and socks – and they fidget as they wait for the whistle. My heart aches. For them. For Harry. For all the upcoming tackles and passes and goals that will remain unacknowledged. It’s not fair. It’s just not fair.

  The whistle blows.

  ‘And we’re off,’ the woman says. ‘Another soccer season under way. Smelly socks and muddy boots. Hooray.’

  She’s being friendly, and I’m grateful for the effort she’s making because nobody else has spoken to me. They’re clustered in little groups, chatting and laughing like they’ve known each other for years. Younger and older siblings are ganged up in similar groups, playing games, weaving between the adults.

  ‘Clear it!’ the woman shouts. ‘Clear it. Look up. Find a player.’

  Callum mistimes a tackle and the opposing team make an earl
y shot at goal. The goalie fumbles before getting a firm hold of the ball, and we all breathe a sigh of relief: there’s nothing worse than conceding a goal in the first thirty seconds.

  ‘It’s fine, Callum!’ I call, because it’s obvious he’s berating himself for the mistake. ‘Next time you’ll be ready.’

  The goalie, quite a small boy with surprising strength, kicks the ball out over the halfway line, where Finn picks it up and makes a good run forward. He dodges and weaves but forgets to pass – his weakness – and loses the ball to an opposing player.

  ‘Don’t forget to pass, Finn!’ I yell, louder than I intended, my voice so shrill Davy glances my way.

  Harry used to do this. Calling out to the boys to find space, to pass, to jockey. He could project his voice without shouting, unlike me.

  I turn to the woman. ‘I think I’m in trouble with the coach.’

  She waves one hand dismissively. ‘Davy’s used to us shouting. He doesn’t expect us to stand here completely mute. Anyway, he tells the kids to listen to him and him alone.’

  Twenty-five minutes are gone in a flash and we’re one goal down at half-time. Davy gathers the kids around to give them a pep talk. They hang on his every word. I can see what Mum meant about him having their respect.

  My phone rings in my bag. Sophie. Flipping heck! It’s Saturday morning, I obviously have family commitments – I have two young boys, for God’s sake. This is exactly why Jane quit, but I’m not going to let it get to me, like she did. I’m going to be level-headed, matter-of-fact and clear about my boundaries. There’s no need for it to become acrimonious.

  Besides, I’m enjoying the work. Sophie has been giving me some of the more junior parts of Jane’s job. I have nowhere near Jane’s experience or qualifications, but I like the challenge. I do miss Jane, though. Work isn’t the same without her. I miss her seeking me out for quick chats throughout the day. I miss being able to ask her questions freely about how things work around the office. Jane is shrewd and sassy, and I miss the security of having someone like that looking out for me. I’ve left numerous calls for her but I don’t think she’s ready to talk about what happened. There’s a rumour that she told Sophie to ‘Fuck off’. Given how worked up she was at lunch that day, I have a horrible feeling it’s true.

  The team goes back on the field and puts everything they have into evening up the score. Luck is against them. The ball whizzes past the post, missing by a whisker. Again and again it soars over the top of the goal. Then it hits the crossbar with such force the whole structure shakes, it boomerangs down into the goal face but – unbelievably – does not go over the line.

  ‘Come on!’ I can’t help yelling.

  ‘You can do it!’ my new friend shouts, a lot louder and less self-consciously than me. ‘Get one back, Cheetahs.’

  They’re running out of time. The referee is looking at his watch.

  Callum makes a clearance at the other end. The ball flies through the air, a midfielder picks it up, passes it forward, and then, miraculously, the ball is in the net. A goal. Finally. Finally. Finally.

  Celebrations worthy of the Premier League ensue on the field, the players jumping on top of the skinny boy who scored the goal. The whistle goes, and the first game of the season is over: one all, a draw.

  The sun has got a little warmer, and my boys, their faces flushed and sweaty, are in the midst of their new team, celebrating the last-minute comeback. It has been a good morning. There were even a few stretches of time when I lost myself in the game and forgot about Harry and the waived soccer fees and everything else.

  The woman, my new friend, is grinning. ‘The draw feels like a win.’

  She’s right. Sometimes, just surviving is an achievement in itself. A dead husband, a repossessed home, a new school and suburb, a mortifying phone call to the registrar of the club. But we’re here. We got to play. And, for the moment at least, it does feel like a win.

  It suddenly occurs to me that we’ve talked all this time without properly introducing ourselves.

  ‘I’m Hannah, by the way.’

  She smiles, flicking a strand of naturally highlighted hair away from her face. ‘And I’m Chloe.’ Her daughter comes to stand next to her. ‘Also known as Jasmin’s mum.’

  Jasmin’s a pretty girl, her face open and smiling.

  ‘Nice to meet you, Chloe and Jasmin.’ My boys are still out on the field, doing some practice penalty kicks with each other. I’ll have to go and persuade them that we’ve had enough soccer for one day. I give Chloe and Jasmin a small wave. ‘See you both next week.’

  15

  Jasmin

  I wish Daddy was here. I wish he’d seen the goal. And my tackle on that really good kid. Daddy doesn’t care about winning or losing. All he cares about is everyone trying their hardest and ‘fighting the good fight’. He would’ve been proud that we didn’t give up.

  ‘You played so well, Jazzie.’

  Mum squeezes my shoulders. She looks happy. She’s made friends with Hannah, the twins’ mum. Mum doesn’t have many friends because we’ve only been living here a year and a half, and it takes a long time for grown-ups to make friends. We’ve lived in lots of different places because of Daddy’s job, and Mum’s got friends in all those places, and so do I. I’ve lived in seven houses, but I can’t remember three of them. Daddy’s lived in more places than us – East Timor, Iraq and Afghanistan.

  ‘Say thank you to Davy.’ Mum gives me a little shove.

  This is my second year in the team. Davy was the coach last year too. The twins are the only new people this season. I know what it feels like to be new. At least they have each other. I wish I had a sister, or even a brother. Davy is bent over, packing up the kit bag.

  ‘Thanks, Davy.’

  ‘See you on Wednesday, lass.’

  Davy is Scottish. He comes from Aberdeen, which is the third biggest city in Scotland, after Glasgow and Edinburgh. Davy calls all the boys ‘son’, but I’m the only ‘lass’ on the team. I used to giggle when he called me lass, but now it makes me a little bit sad because I automatically think of Daddy. I’m really his lass. He couldn’t come today. Last year he was at all my matches.

  ‘I think you’ve earned a slushie,’ Mum says. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Yeess.’

  I get an orange-and-blue slushie at the canteen, and Mum gets a blue-and-red one. We sit on the wooden fence at the side of the field. Another soccer game has started. The kids are older than me. There are no girls on the team.

  ‘What age are they, Mum?’

  ‘Twelve or thirteen, I’d say. Look how well they pass the ball, Jasmin.’

  Davy says we need to focus on passing the ball sooner, before we lose it. I tried today, but one time I accidentally passed to the other team. Davy says that we need to work on our fitness too. The best soccer players can keep running and running and never get puffed.

  ‘The sun is lovely now, isn’t it?’ Mum says, lifting her face to it.

  The sun is nice and warm, but it’s making me sleepy. I was really tired this morning. Mum had to call me three times, and eventually she whipped back the blankets. We were ten minutes late for warm-up. Davy doesn’t like us being late so I had to do extra laps. The cold air and the running woke me up.

  ‘Did I play OK, Mum?’

  ‘I told you, you were great.’

  ‘Do people know I didn’t get much sleep last night?’

  ‘No, darling. I’m quite sure nobody could tell. Everyone has their own problems to think about.’

  Mum and I had high hopes for last night because of the new diet. The ‘sugar diet’, we call it. It’s every kid’s dream: two jelly snakes before bed each night. Matthew said that sugar makes most kids hyper, but for a small percentage of kids it has the opposite effect, it actually calms them down. Mum looked sceptical (‘sceptical’ is one of our extension words at school). Then she said she would try anything at this stage, even something that goes against every rule in the book.
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  ‘The jellies didn’t work last night, Mum, did they?’

  ‘No, darling.’

  ‘Am I going to have them tonight?’

  ‘Yes. Two weeks, minimum. Then, if it hasn’t worked, we move on to the next thing on Matthew’s list. That’s the plan.’

  Daddy came to see Matthew with us, and he was sceptical too. Daddy puts no bad food into his body, and he runs or goes to the gym every single day. He has huge muscles on his arms. Sometimes he would lift me up over his head and hold me up there, pretending to groan under the pressure.

  ‘Careful,’ Mum would warn. ‘Don’t drop her, Aidan.’

  She would be grinning, though, and I would be laughing, and Daddy would still be pretending to groan.

  One of our other games was when he’d pretend to be a criminal and I would have to try to escape from him.

  ‘What are you going to do, Jazzie?’

  ‘Poke you in the eye.’

  ‘What if you can’t get close enough?’

  ‘Kick your kneecap as hard as I can.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Slam my hand against your nose. Pull your ears. Scream.’

  Then I would scream my best scream, until Mum begged me to stop.

  ‘What’s your best weapon, Jazzie?’

  ‘My brain. My brain is my deadliest weapon.’

  It feels like some of those things will never happen again: him lifting me up in the air like that, our self-defence games, me not having to think twice about whether he’ll be at my soccer game.

  ‘Jasmin,’ Mum says, in the voice she uses when she has to tell me something serious.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Dad and I have been talking …’ She runs out of breath. This often happens when she’s talking about Daddy. She’s really sad too, but she tries to hide it. ‘We’ve been talking about how much he misses you, and how he wants to see more of you …’

  ‘Is he coming back to live with us?’ I ask hopefully.

  ‘No, he’s not. Sorry, darling.’ She takes another raggedy breath. ‘But he does want you to come and stay the night with him. Maybe every second weekend. What do you think?’