The First Time I Saw You: the most heartwarming and emotional love story of the year

by Emma Cooper

  ‘What is it that I’m supposed to be looking at? I can’t see a fecking thing except a headline made up of an N, I, N and a T, oh and is that . . . what is that?’ My arms stretch the paper away from me, ‘An arse cheek?’

  ‘Arse cheek, I ask you! It’s a woman’s shoulder, but that’s not what I want you to look at.’

  ‘Mam, can you just . . . read it to me? I can’t see enough of it.’

  ‘Oh. Right you are. Sorry, I thought . . . never mind.’ She takes the paper from me. ‘It’s in the classifieds:

  Lost: Six-foot-two Irishman who answers to the name Samuel McLaughlin. Has weak shins and enjoys show tunes. If found, please return to Sophie Williams – phone number below.

  I can’t help but smile.

  ‘What have you got to say for yourself now?’ She is standing opposite me, the paper rolled up in one hand, the other on her hips. My mind does this sometimes, filling in the parts that I can’t see.

  ‘There’s nothing to say, Mam, you know why I can’t go to her.’

  ‘I know why you think you can’t go to her – ah shite, the bacon’s burning. Hold on, I’m not done with you, not for one moment!’ I turn my head and catch a glimpse of her blue cardigan as she marches out of the room. Weak shins and enjoys show tunes. That’s still me, isn’t it? I try to ignore myself. The room is hot, and I need to get out. I shake Michael awake: let’s get some air.

  It takes me a while to zip up my coat, but I’ve done it. Mam is thankfully distracted by the smoke alarm going off and I can hear her running up the stairs and waving the tea towel at it. My hand finds the doorknob, turns it and I follow Michael as he rolls over the threshold, taking me along the path towards the park. Drizzle has begun to fill the air, fine misty drops that aren’t rain but aren’t fog either. I stop to pull up my collar, apologise to the dog that I have just bumped into, and to its owner, who gives me an over-the-top ‘not to worry, you’re doing a grand job’ reply. Grand job? All I’m doing is walking to the park. I tell myself off: the guy is only being kind; he doesn’t realise that talking to me like a child taking its first steps makes me feel like an idiot.

  The past week has been hard. I’ve had to try and ignore myself constantly and that isn’t easy. I mean, you live with yourself, don’t you? Michael warns me that there is a rise in the kerb; instinctively, I lift my foot a little higher to avoid falling again. I tell myself to shut up, that she will be better with her new chap. How do you know he’s a decent bloke? He looked like a rock star, for Christ’s sake! He could be a rock star for all you know, shooting up heroin and snorting cocaine out of super models’ belly buttons. What do you know about her new man? I trust her; she wouldn’t start a life with just anyone.

  I stop at the crossing. My hand slides up the damp post, the drizzle cold and wet against my palm, until I find the button and then press it. I wait for the beep. I glance through the gap at the end of the tunnel; I can see there are cars waiting. I turn to see part of a wiper slicing across a windscreen, hear the rumble of the engine and the ticking of an indicator before I step off the kerb. My thoughts of Sophie take a breath as I cross the road. How will I ever do this once my sight completely goes? Will you get a hold of yourself! Here I go again. You’ll have a guide dog; you’ll have family and friends who will help you; you’ll have Sophie. She would help you. I don’t want her to help me; she will have enough to deal with; she’ll have a baby. Don’t you remember what Sarah was like with William? She was a total nut job – do you remember how crazy she looked? But you could help each other. How could I help? I could fall over with the baby in my arms; I could knock boiling water over it.

  The path takes me beneath tired trees where the drops of water occasionally slide off the leaves, into my vision, and plop into muddy chocolate-milkshake puddles.

  Are you going to let a little disability get in the way of spending the rest of your days with the love of your life? I look up at the trees and down at the milkshake puddle, moving my eyes about so I can make a full picture. You call this a little disability. Well, not little, but, OK, I get you. I know things will be difficult, but if Sophie loves you the way she says she does? What’s your point? Well, my point is . . . what are you doing standing in the rain with a face like a slapped arse?

  I have a point.

  ‘And just where have you been?’ Mam yells. Michael skulks behind my leg as I take off my coat.

  ‘I went for a walk.’

  ‘On your own?’

  ‘No, I took Michael.’

  ‘Michael! Mr McLaughlin, will you speak to your great eejit of a son and tell him to ring that girl right this minute!’

  ‘Can you just let me take my shoes off first before you start having a go at me?’ I groan as I fumble with the laces which have wound themselves into a knot. Sliding my hand down the wall, I lower myself on to the bottom of the stairs and begin to try to loosen the lace.

  Do you see what I mean? How the hell could I look after a baby when I can’t even undo my shoelaces? Get Velcro.

  ‘Right, Sammy, I’m going to pour us both a stiff drink and then we’re going to have a chat with your man Bret. He called while you were out in the wild and he says he’s got something to speak to you about.’

  My damp towel lies on my bedroom floor and I bend to pick it up. It’s just another of the many things that I’ve had to change about the way I act. A damp towel on the floor means I can trip over it; a pair of keys falling out of discarded jeans pockets means instant foot trauma; and a glass placed too close to the bedside cabinet can mean either a face full of cold water halfway through the night or a bleeding sole.

  I pull out a pair of black jeans – I can still see that much – but Mam has started to cut out shapes in the labels to help me become familiar with the shapes and colours before the bricks are cemented in. My wardrobe door is mirrored, and I take a step back, so I can look at myself . . . well, small parts of myself. See? You still look the same, I say. She will still love you. I reach for Michael and tap him against my foot. Not any more, I say, and throw him on to the bed.

  Sarah is coming up the stairs. It’s strange how I can recognise people’s steps, and I wonder if I’ve always been able to do it – instantly know which member of my family is approaching my door. Her knock is gentle but insistent.

  ‘Yep,’ I say as I pull the T-shirt over my head.

  ‘Bret is on Skype.’

  ‘I’m coming.’

  ‘Hey,’ I say, sitting down in front of the screen.

  ‘Hey, how’s things?’ His accent is strong, but his voice is uncharacteristically hesitant.

  ‘Good, man, good . . . you?’ I ask. There’s a smell lingering in the room, something from my childhood, but I can’t quite place it.

  ‘Goooood,’ he replies. ‘I’ve, um, buddy, I’ve got something to tell you and you might want to hear it on your own.’

  ‘On his own! Bret my boy, I thought we had an understanding!’ Da leans forward. Sits back. Then leans forward again. Mam is sitting next to me, her knee bouncing up and down.

  ‘It’s fine, thin walls in this house anyway.’

  ‘Right. Well. The thing is, well—’

  ‘Spit it out, Bret!’ Mam shouts. I jump, and picture Mam frowning at my startled expression.

  ‘Right you are, Mrs McLaughlin. Well, I, I rang Sophie.’

  ‘Feck’s sake!’ I shout. Other me smiles knowingly. ‘I told you to leave it alone. It was my decision.’

  ‘Oh, shut your piehole!’ Mam says and hits me with a tea towel. At least I think it’s a tea towel; it could be one of her giant pairs of beige knickers that I’ve seen hanging over the radiators for all I know.

  ‘I had to let her know that I’d had her email, mate – what kind of man do you take me for?’

  ‘Quite right, Bret, I bet your mother is as proud as punch of you.’ I can practically hear her nodding knowingly.

  ‘Just get to the point, will you?’ Sarah says. I hear the pop of a bubble; the smell had been e
ating away at my senses and I couldn’t place it until then.

  ‘OK.’ He lets out a long stream of breath. ‘It’s yours, Sam. The baby is yours.’

  Mam gasps and claps her hands together. Da clinks his glass against mine which sits untouched on the table. Sarah blows another bubble and I . . . well, I smile. My face smiles in a way that I don’t think it ever has before, each muscle happy, each piece of skin tingling with joy. I’ve never felt this way before. I’m having a child, a child that I might be able to see.

  ‘The dude you saw through the window is called Charlie; she said he’s just a friend. Nothing more.’

  But it doesn’t matter who that other person is any more; what matters is that I get to Sophie, that I see my child before the last brick is set and the tunnel is sealed for ever.

  AUTUMN

  Week Thirty-Four

  Sophie

  The midwife extracts a printout from the machine next to the hospital bed and smiles.

  ‘Right, so, you’re what? Thirty-four weeks plus six?’ I nod as she scribbles this down on the printout. Tomorrow I will be thirty-five weeks pregnant. Already. ‘No sign of contractions, Sophie, and you’re not dilated at all yet. Just very strong Braxton Hicks, by the sounds of it. I think it’s best if you go home and get some rest. Storm Russell is set to hit later, they say, so my advice to you is to make the most of a night in front of the telly. This baby is staying put . . . for the meantime, at least.’ She smiles and unbuckles the elastic belts around my tummy, then takes one of the round disks that have been monitoring the tightening across my stomach. Typical. The last few days, Bean has been convincing me that I’m in labour, and then the minute I get to hospital the pains vanish. I’ve kept the pains to myself. Helen was supposed to be coming over today, but Caitlin has a sickness bug and I didn’t want her to worry.

  Back at home, I turn off the engine and stare at the house being beaten by the beginnings of a storm. Leaves fly around in angry mobs, taunting and hurling themselves against the windows and the doors; plants huddle in their baskets and cling to each other in tangled fear. I retrieve my case from the boot and struggle towards the front door.

  Already, the spilt ink of night is oozing across the sky, its blue-black stain spreading across the pinks and yellows. Charlie left for London yesterday and it seems strange seeing his half of the cottage filled with darkness.

  ‘London?’ I had asked when he nonchalantly dropped it into the conversation yesterday.

  ‘Yes.’ He added some basil to a bubbling pot of tomato sauce.

  ‘And you’ve decided now is the time to go?’ I pointed to my stomach. He disappeared behind the steam rising as he drained the pasta.

  ‘Your sister is coming tomorrow, isn’t she?’ I nodded and he placed a bowl of grated Parmesan and some garlic ciabatta on the table. ‘Good. And do you promise not to climb any ladders or do any kind of decorating while I’m gone?’

  ‘Promise,’ I replied through a mouthful of pasta, but I couldn’t ignore the worries that were chasing his decision, snapping at his heels, asking why is he going? What is he going to do there? Is he planning to come back?

  ‘Why are you going to London, Charlie?’

  ‘I’ve got to visit my mum. Alzheimer’s.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘It’s OK.’ He sits down. ‘It’s a good home and Mum thinks she’s in her early twenties most of the time. They think it’s a chest infection, so she might have to go into hospital.’

  I swallowed down the pasta, praying that she’ll be OK, and that Charlie doesn’t have anything else to cope with.

  I flick on the lights, hang up my keys and run my fingers through my hair.

  Receipts from the folder look at me reproachfully and I yawn in response. Tiredness pulls beneath my eyelids and I long for a hot bath and, for the first time in a while, a glass of wine. But the pile frowns and wags its finger, so instead I pour a glass of Diet Coke, flick the TV on and begin to plough through the paper-clipped piles of invoices and room service orders from my newest client. My head shakes at the scribbled-down room reservations, my eyebrows meeting my hairline when my fingers pull out a load of pink carbon-copied receipts. Carbon copies? I didn’t even know they still existed. I have a very vague recollection of a strange hand-held machine that you made a backwards and forwards motion with, which copied your card details, but I can’t quite believe that this B&B is still using it. I’m going to have to bring them into the right decade if I’m going to be their accountant; this is going to take too much of my time. The TV shouts for my attention: an eighties comedy about a blind man and his deaf friend. I laugh, then sigh as I look at the pile of paper on my table. I push it to one side, grab a packet of popcorn from the cupboard and head into the soft lights of the lounge. A scrape of a lighter, the flicker of a flame and the scented candle releases its vanilla and jasmine into the room as I sink into the sofa. Bean sleeps and I pull the soft fleece throw over us and spend the evening laughing at an eighties double bill before falling asleep.

  Week Thirty-Four

  Samuel

  Sophie’s mobile number rings inside my head, the numbers repeating themselves over and over like a jingle for an advert, but I can’t call her. The things that need to be said can’t be spoken into a microphone, my voice and meaning dampened by the distance across the Irish Sea. I need to tell her these things face-to-face; she needs to see me in all my incapacitated glory before she can make a decision. She needs to meet Michael. Just a few more days and I will be with her; once I’ve had my guide dog appointment I can go. I would have cancelled it, in fact I tried to, but Mam wouldn’t hear of it. I’ve already been on the waiting list for weeks and to cancel would have jeopardised my chances even further. I’m going to be a father, and I need all the help I can get to be able to cope with that and my diminished sight.

  ‘A golden key can open any door,’ Mam told me knowingly.

  ‘What the feck is that supposed to mean?’ I asked, throwing my hands in the air.

  ‘Watch your mouth, Samuel!’ She clipped me around the back of the head, the same way as she did when I was five. ‘It means if you’re going to convince Sophie that you can be a father, that you are still the man she fell in love with – even if you’re as blind as a bat – then you’re going to need a golden key. And for you, it comes in the form of a guide dog.’

  I don’t have to wait any longer. I’ve smashed the guide dog appointment – the dogs agree that I’m blind – so I’m going to Wales today.

  ‘Jesus! And I thought your room was bad enough when you were a teenager.’ Sarah walks past me; her familiar perfume is stronger today and her hair smells freshly washed.

  ‘Can you see my phone charger? I can’t find the bastard anywhere.’

  ‘The sooner you get out of here, the better. You’re starting to sound like Da. Here.’ She takes my hand and puts the charger inside it. ‘Why didn’t you ask Mam to help?’

  ‘Are you serious? She’d have me packing for a fortnight in the Alps followed by a trip to the desert, you know what she’s like.’

  My hand follows the edges of my backpack and I throw the charger inside.

  ‘Have you rung the airport yet? The news says some flights might be delayed because of the storm.’

  ‘I’ll ring in a bit; can you see my green V-neck?’ I pick up my washbag, feel its contents for deodorant, toothpaste and a toothbrush, and throw it in. I can still see glimpses of these things but I’m starting to rely on my other senses; it’s quicker than trying to get myself into the right position to see.

  ‘It’s already in your case. Look, you ring the airport and I’ll help you sort out this mess. You might be able to find the right clothes, but you couldn’t fold things properly even when you could see.’

  Sarah puts my phone on speaker and I ask for Belfast airport and the dialling tone connects.

  ‘Hello, I’m just checking on my flight, it’s the seventeen thirty-five to Cardiff?’

  ‘I’m
sorry, sir, all flights are currently grounded due to the high winds.’

  ‘For how long?’

  ‘We expect things to return to normal by tomorrow, but you should prepare for long delays. I’m sorry.’

  ‘What about flights to England?’

  ‘All flights are grounded for the next six hours. Your ticket will be refunded, of course.’

  ‘Can I book another one for tomorrow?’

  ‘Certainly, sir, just transferring you to ticket sales.’

  ‘Never mind, I’ll do it online,’ I say and hang up. ‘Shit!’

  ‘Calm down, it’s only a day. Why don’t you ring her? You’ve got her number.’

  ‘No. I need to see her, if you know what I mean; I need to be able to tell her everything face-to-face. It’s not the type of conversation you have over the phone.’

  ‘Fine,’ she sighs, ‘have it your way.’

  ‘Sammy!’ Da shouts.

  ‘I’m blind, not deaf, Da.’

  ‘The flights have been delayed.’

  ‘Yeah, I know, I’ve just called.’

  ‘Not to worry, eh lad? I’ve booked us on another flight for tomorrow night. The forecast says Storm Russell should have fecked off by then.

  ‘OK, thanks, Da.’

  ‘Now then, Mrs McLaughlin is off to the chippy, what are you having?’

  I try to sleep, but Russell has been dragging wheelie bins down the street and pulling trampolines from gardens. Now he seems to have got bored of our street; he kicks a tin can out of the way, slams a gate and moves on to the next road. I feel along the edges of the braille watch Mam bought me for fake Christmas and ‘see’ that it is half-three. My hand reaches out for the bedside lamp out of habit rather than need . . . will I still do this once the tunnel is blocked up for good? I speak quietly into my phone and ask Google to connect me to Belfast airport.