by Emma Cooper
‘Sophie?’ I look down and notice that my hands are twisting the bottom of my scarlet top around like a bobbin. The memory is vivid: I can see the slight smudge of mascara under Mum’s eyes as we sang ‘Wind the Bobbin Up’; I can smell her perfume – floral and powdery – and her smile, as we ‘clap, clap, clapped’. ‘Sophie?’
I’m crying. Again.
‘I’m sorry, that’s wonderful news, I just . . . miss my mum. And, I miss my life, and I miss my job, and I miss Samuel, and, and . . .’ I start sobbing: pathetic, noisy, uncontrollable sobs. ‘And, and . . . I miss wine!’ I take the tissue that he is offering and blow my nose noisily.
‘Anything else, Sophie?’
‘Yes . . . Stilton.’ I smile a little at this and then start laughing.
‘Mood swings are perfectly normal,’ he says sympathetically.
‘This . . .’ I swish my sodden tissue around, ‘. . . is normal?’
He smiles kindly. ‘I’ll book you in for your twelve-week scan and then I’ll see you for your next check-up in around six weeks’ time. But if you have any other concerns in the meantime, please feel free to make an appointment.’
As my car bumps towards the cottage, I imagine Bean looking around in confusion as its home, a bubble of liquid pink, is rattled up and down. What does it sound like inside there? Can Bean hear the engine? Are the sounds of the radio sea-like echoes of the outside world, softening into whale-song tones?
I pull up outside the cottage and take the key from the ignition. There is warmth in the sun on my skin as I step out of the car, slamming the door with a thud. My steps are swallowed by the moisture in the ground; the grass reaching and clinging to the heel of my brown boot, wrapping itself around it. The ‘For Sale’ sign next door has been taken down, I notice, as I bend down to untangle the grass from my heel. The sudden bang of a door rips its way into the soft sounds of my garden, tearing away my solace and filling me with a sense of violation. I look up to see who or what has encroached on my privacy. Through the door walks a man. A man that I know but who doesn’t belong here.
Week Nine
Samuel
‘How are you, my boy?’ Da’s voice fills the room.
‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph, look at the state of your pillow! How do they ever expect you to get better when your pillow case is all ruffled?’ I try not to let Mam know that her every movement is sending shots of pain up my back and my chest.
I wince as Da ‘whispers’ into my ear, ‘I’ve got you some whiskey. It’s in your drawer, but mum’s the word, eh?’ He slaps me on my leg, the only part of me that doesn’t hurt.
‘Mr McLaughlin, don’t you think I can’t hear you. It’ll mess with his medication.’ I close my eyes as I hear her open a drawer and take it out. My parents have always called each other Mr and Mrs McLaughlin respectively.
‘For the love of God, woman, whiskey has been putting the Irish back on the road to recovery for hundreds of years.’ Da’s voice is sinking into the floor, becoming quieter and more distant.
‘It’s put them on the path to ruin, too, now behave yourself.’ Mam’s voice shrinks away as I close my eyes again.
‘Will you both shut your holes? He needs to rest,’ Sarah says, but her voice skips away.
I slip into an opiate-filled dream as memories play in black and white like a Charlie Chaplin movie. Blacks, whites and greys flicker as the tape rolls, organ music playing as I see us: me walking hurriedly along the pavement while Sophie sits inside a café opposite, her big, sad eyes with fluttering eyelashes staring at me. She is wearing a twenties outfit, her blond hair arranged in sleek curls framing her face; she looks away bashfully. I give her a little wave and doff my bowler hat as my hand reaches for the door. I try the door but a white light consumes the shot, sending me somersaulting back. I reach for the door again. The white light sends me backflipping away. Again and again, I reach for the door, and again and again I am sent spiralling away. The sky darkens around me as the film comes to an end with the image of me sitting in the dust as the camera closes in on my pale, desolate face, a single tear running down my cheek: a small, circular shot of film, the rest of the frame black.
Week Ten
Sophie
Charlie Evans. Gorgeous, kind Charlie Evans. Charlie Evans, who took pity on me as a shy, awkward fourteen-year-old girl when I was being teased at school for my hand-me-down uniform and home-cut hair, who began sitting next to me at lunch, putting up with me hanging around him – even though I was two years younger. He introduced me to his girlfriend Olivia, listened to my opinions and ruffled my hair like I was his younger sister. The teasing stopped and I was left alone; I had a friend. That was until Jeanette Jones started telling everyone that I was in love with him.
After that, Charlie would blush every time I looked at him, would avoid me when I walked towards him at lunch time, because the whole school knew. And once again, I was the awkward girl with the scuffed shoes who buried her head in books.
And now, Charlie Evans has moved in next door.
I stood there, my foot still tangled in the grass. He had stopped short and looked straight at me. His expression slowly changed, his eyebrows folding into a scowl, whereas at school, they were raised; like he was always in a state of alarm. He lifted his chin as he no doubt tried to remember where he knew me from, the gesture defensive and wary. I smiled at him, trying to embody the London me, the straight-backed, perfectly groomed version of me that didn’t have her heel stuck in grass and wasn’t desperate for a wee.
‘Hello!’ I said, my confident London voice coming out over-enthusiastic, like I was trying too hard. He gave me a short nod in response. His light-brown hair needed a cut; waves that used to bob up and down as he walked seemed stiff and unwashed. I used to love how he walked, almost rocking on to the balls of his feet with every step. It always looked as though he was eager to go wherever it was he was going – even double French.
‘I thought next door was empty,’ he answered, turning his back and walking back through the open door. My welcoming smile dropped, and irritation replaced it. I bent down and released my foot, trying to keep my legs clamped together as I regretted not making a dash for the loo before I left town. I fiddled with the key in my own front door, as he dragged out a roll of carpet. In my peripheral vision, I could see him hauling it towards the skip which I had ordered, ready for the kitchen fitters.
‘That’s my skip.’ The words were out before I could help them. He stopped the dragging motion and turned to face me.
‘Pardon?’
‘The skip,’ I replied, holding my head a little straighter, my shoulders a little further back, enjoying the sense of control I was feeling. ‘It’s mine. But feel free to use it, if that’s all that you need to get rid of. I don’t mind.’
‘Right,’ he replied, and with a slight grunt, chucked the carpet into the skip, wiped his hands on his jeans, walked into his house and slammed the door behind him.
Bean seems to really like chocolate milk. Who would have thought that I would prefer to drink this than coffee? I suck on the straw and drain the last of the carton with a slurping rattle as I smooth down the pages of The Book. My baby is approximately the size of a sherbet lemon now; the skin is covered in soft hair; eyelids are now fully formed and sealed. Bean is apparently moving around quite a bit, too. I picture it doing a little somersault to celebrate. Bean’s fingers now have tiny nails. Cute.
I hear a bang from next door and ignore the little niggle of annoyance. Charlie Evans has turned into a knob, I have decided.
I close The Book, put it on the floor and walk over to Mum’s old battery-operated radio. I fiddle with the dial until it tunes into a classical station, then settle myself down into her chair. Great Expectations sits in my lap again, but I keep getting distracted by thoughts of Samuel. The urge to fetch my laptop from upstairs is proving harder for me to suppress than I would like. I keep ignoring the whispers from Bean that he has a right to know.
‘We’ll
be fine on our own,’ I say. ‘What kind of father would he be to you? He slept with me because of revenge, Bean, not love.’ I dismiss the way he had looked at me: the anger in his eyes in the meeting; the way he smiled. I clear my throat and return my attention to the book, re-reading the passage again.
My hand drops to my knees, the pages remaining open.
‘Do you think he would like it here? You know, if things were different and he didn’t hate me? Didn’t sleep with me and then destroy everything that I had worked for?’
Deep down I know the answer to that. He often talked about his mam’s house, about how nothing ever matched, how nothing ever worked without a swift kick or bang in the right place . . . maybe I should call him? ‘Should I call him, Bean?’ I imagine the tiny human floating around in a pink pool, the thick cord anchoring it as it kicks and nods its head. ‘What would I say?’ I sigh and return to my book. ‘We’re better off without him.’
I’m starting to get bored. I have cleaned the kitchen twice, which is pointless because I have chosen a new one and it will be fitted tomorrow. Pip and Miss Haversham have been discarded again and instead I have begun a crossword.
‘Three down, six letters, Bean . . . sequence of notes that are pleasing to the ear . . . Melody.’
I fill in the blanks and then sigh. ‘It’s no use, I need to do something.’ I call Helen on the same phone that I called my first boyfriend on . . . My initial nostalgia of watching the dial turn lazily after my index finger slides into the hole, is replaced with impatience.
‘Hey, what’s up?’ she asks.
‘Nothing, I’m bored.’
She laughs at this. ‘When have you ever been bored? I thought you were enjoying the peace and quiet of the Welsh countryside?’
‘I am. I’m reading Great Expectations and doing a crossword.’
‘Simultaneously? You always were an over-achiever.’
‘Funny.’
‘How’s the old place looking?’
I smile at this and look around. The old patterned carpet was replaced with a thick, deep grey yesterday and the new pale-blue sofa looks much softer and more welcoming than the tattered brown one that sat there previously. I’ve kept Mum’s chair but have made an appointment to get it re-upholstered to match the heavy latte-coloured curtains.
‘Nice, different. I think you’ll like it.’ Helen hasn’t been back here since the day Mum died.
‘Soph . . . I still don’t think I could—’
‘Give it time, Hel. Once I’ve had the new kitchen put in – did I tell you about the oven? Remember how we hated this one? The way the grill was on top of the hob and we nearly burnt our eyelashes every time we made fish-finger sandwiches? I’ve chosen a cream Aga to replace it, do you remember how Mum always wanted one? And proper oak cupboards, not like that sticky stuff she tried to cover them with that time. It’ll look completely different, not dark and dingy like it is now. Oh, and once the furniture for the lounge comes, it won’t look anything like it did before.’
‘Sophie, how are you planning on paying for all of this stuff?’
‘Rent from the London house, my “if you leave quietly” severance pay and . . .’
‘And?’
‘I’ll worry about that in a couple of months. I’ve got a lot on my mind.’
‘What, like seven across and Estella?’
‘Point taken. I’ll have a think about my finances.’
‘You know, if you talked to Samuel, he’d have to help.’
‘I don’t need his help. Bean and I have decided we’re fine on our own. Haven’t we, Bean?’ I ask.
I picture Bean’s legs kicking a few times to agree with this point, but I can’t feel them yet.
‘I have a neighbour,’ I add, changing the subject. ‘Do you remember Charlie Evans?’
‘Charlie Evans? Kind of. Didn’t you have a thing for him?’
‘No. I. Didn’t. He was a friend, that’s all . . . He was kind to me when, well, you know, when I was having that horrible time at school. The year Ian lost his job. Anyway, he’s turned into a complete wanker.’
‘Ouch, do I detect a touch of sour grapes?’
‘There are no grapes, he was just a friend.’
‘Yeah, well. I think Charlie should be the last thing on your mind.’
‘He is.’
‘Good.’
‘I’ve not given him another thought.’
‘Glad to hear it.’
Rain is sliding down the windows wearily, as though it can’t really be bothered to put the effort in. I run my finger around my waistband and shift on the sofa as I write ‘Things I like to do’ in the centre of the paper and then chew the top of the biro, trying to ignore the banging coming from the kitchen. I know that this exercise would be a lot more effective if I was job-searching on the internet, but I can’t quite bring myself to open my laptop just yet, so instead, I’m brainstorming on an old lined A4 pad that I found whilst emptying the kitchen drawers. I circle the ‘Things I like to do’ a few times and draw a spider leg from it. I scribble out the word ‘like’ and replace it with the word ‘can’: ‘Things I can do’. Next to the leg I write ‘Have to work from home’. Beneath that I begin bullet-pointing; next to the first point I write ‘Accounting’. I draw another spider leg. ‘Needs to be good pay and flexible.’ I draw over the ‘A’ of accounting a few times. ‘Needs to be something I can do on my own.’ I draw over the ‘c’ a few times and then rip the paper from its gluey spine, yawning as I do. I glance at my watch, yawning again. Why am I so tired? I must have slept over ten hours last night. In the middle of the fresh page, I write the word ‘Accounting’. I don’t really know why I was trying to think of another career path; accounting has always been my fall-back, my constant.
I look out of the window as the sun pierces through the clouds, pulling them apart with its brilliance and sending them sliding away, inferiority heavy in their grey faces. The radio is turned up and Ed Sheeran begins singing about playing a fiddle and one of the kitchen fitters sings along in a key or so out of tune. I sigh and undo the top button of my jeans. My stomach feels bloated and uncomfortable, like I’ve eaten too much food. I feel fat, not pregnant.
‘’Scuse me, love, I don’t mean to interrupt, but we’ve found this down the back of one of the cupboards.’ He walks over and passes me a parcel wrapped in fading pink paper; it’s covered in dust and cobwebs. I accept it with thanks as he leaves the room. My fingers reach for the tag; I’d recognise the handiwork anywhere. Helen has made it, the tag in the shape of a pocket watch:
Happy Birthday Sophie! Don’t be late, we’ve got a very important date! Love Mum and Helen xxx
The paper is brittle and tears easily, revealing a very old copy of a very familiar book. The cover itself is a dark blue, with Alice’s image embossed in gold.
‘What is the use of a book, without pictures or conversations?’ Mum’s voice asks me.
My mouth is dry as I turn it over in my hands and wonder why Helen has never mentioned this book to me.
Week Ten
Samuel
Sarah is asleep in the chair next to my bed. I’m glad about that. She looks awful. Her clothes are creased and the remains of what could be yesterday’s mascara is smudged around the bottom of her eyes. There is no sign of Da and Mam. They have been by my side for days, making this room feel even smaller than it already is.
The last few weeks have been hard on them. I would hate to be stuck in this room when you have the choice to leave it.
I have no choice; I can’t move much. It could have been considerably worse, they have told me – the nurses, the doctors, the people who come into this room and then leave it. I covet their freedom. Here is what could have been worse:
1. I could have been burnt to death. This, I agree, is a much worse fate than the second-degree burns that I have across the right side of my face, arms and torso. My neighbour, Eric, apparently pulled me from my house and called the fire brigade and ambulance. Without
him, I’d be dead because my house is apparently now just a carcass.
2. I am not paralysed. My right leg is broken and currently in a cast hanging from some weird pulley machine.
3. I am still not paralysed. I have cracked ribs, and torn ligaments in my back and neck, for which I have to wear a neck brace which looks like I’m wearing half a stormtrooper helmet. So yeah, it could have been worse. I was lucky. But lucky is not how I’m feeling right now. I am trapped. My arms and face are screaming to be itched: they are sore, they are blistered, they are hot, they are painful. I’m desperate to get something to stick down the inside of my plaster cast and scratch like hell, but I can’t, because right now I can barely move. I’m a prisoner. In fact, it’s worse than being in prison because I can’t escape it. I have been incarcerated in my own body. The painkillers are the only good thing about my life right now. They ease me in and out of consciousness; I long for the oblivion of sleep.
‘Sarah?’ My voice is hoarse and I have to repeat her name until she wakes.
‘Mule? Are you OK? Do you need something?’ She rubs her eyes and leans forward.
‘I need you to check my emails.’
‘Your emails?’
‘I have to find Sophie.’
‘Mule, you need to rest.’
‘I will. Once . . .’ I swallow. ‘You’ve checked my emails.’
My eyes close for a moment.
When I wake, I hear an over-enthusiastic talk-show host babbling away on the television.
‘For the love of God, will you please turn that down?’ My voice sounds scratchy as I automatically try to turn my head towards the person sitting by my bed.
Sarah has been replaced by Bret, who stands up and retrieves the remote control, turning down the sound.
