by John Marrs
It was a wonderful, warm, sweet kiss. She tasted of Parma Violets. I knew the longer it lasted, the more chance Dougie would catch us. She gradually pulled away and gave me the most beautiful grin I’d ever seen. Then a shadow caught our eye, and we turned to find Dougie standing in the doorway holding a tray of snacks.
He processed what he’d witnessed before he reanimated his blank face and placed the crisps and sweets in the centre of the bed, pretending he hadn’t seen anything.
I knew I’d wounded him, but I didn’t know then how long he would wait to retaliate.
20 March
I scanned the row of Brooklyn brownstones a second time, then slipped across the street to a shabby vehicle wedged in among the line of cars tightly parked by the curb. I’d watched its owner forget to lock the door as she struggled up the stairs with two bags of groceries and a whining toddler.
There was a fist-sized dent in the passenger door, and the simulated-woodgrain vinyl panels were sun-bleached and had begun to peel from its body. The rear seats bore the scratches from a large dog’s claws. A sticker with the name ‘Betty’ had been placed in the bottom left-hand corner of the rear windscreen. She had a history, but then so had I.
I slipped casually inside the Buick Roadmaster station wagon and entwined the wires beneath the steering-wheel column like Roger had shown me when I’d lost the keys to the Volvo. Then, after trial, error, a spark and a splutter, Betty burst into life.
I could have chosen something a little grander and perhaps a little more modern. But she possessed the basic criteria required – she was practical and unremarkable to look at. She had plenty of space inside her to offer passage to other travellers, and her two rows of back seats folded forwards, enabling me to sleep inside her if I wished.
I’d grown restless after two months of exploring New York’s nooks and crannies. The signs of better days ahead in the dilapidated Meatpacking District, the magnitude of Central Park, the illuminated glory of Broadway, and the bars and brothels of Soho had nothing more to offer. City life had exhausted me and it was time to explore further.
I pulled out into the street and scowled at the crucifix swinging from the rear-view mirror. I yanked it off its chain and threw it onto the back seat. It bounced off something – a child seat. Suddenly I recalled the long car journeys we’d taken to the Lake District and the Devonshire coast, with three young children in the rear of the car. I remembered listening to James and Robbie fighting over whose turn it was to use my Walkman. Emily was still a baby and more concerned with her rattle. Catherine was asleep in the front seat, gently snoring, and as I drove I listened to the buzz of the family we’d created together and smiled.
I didn’t want to miss any of that, but I did.
Now I was about to take another journey into the great wide open, although this time, I’d be alone.
Northampton, today
1.20 p.m.
She’d watched him grow uncomfortable and tap his finger against his lip each time their children were mentioned by either of them. She was pleased that her plan was working. Slowly and surely, she would break him down piece by piece until he showed some remorse for what he’d done to his family.
Remember why you’re here, he told himself. Remember who’s in charge. He’d fought quite successfully at the start to convince himself that not seeing the children the morning he left had been the correct thing to do. But deep in the pit of his belly, it was his one regret. Because after forcing himself to erase their young faces from his memory, it had later proved an impossible task to bring them back to life.
He’d thought about them more and more since meeting Luciana, and had to rely on guesswork as to how they might look now. He wondered whom they’d taken after genetically, and if it was just James who’d inherited his father’s smile. How did their laughter sound? What were their personalities like? He felt a little downhearted knowing his own would’ve had little bearing on theirs. No matter what they’d taken from him biologically, she’d shaped them, not him.
He imagined what might happen if they were to meet under other circumstances. Would they like him? Ideally they’d get to know him first as an old family friend, and decide he was a decent fellow. Then, when the truth finally came out about who he was, it would be harder for them to burn bridges with someone they liked.
While he daydreamed, Catherine stewed on his recollections of sleazy liaisons with whores and pretty young things.
‘So you ran away because I couldn’t satisfy you in bed? Or did you just want to sleep with girls half your age?’ she asked indignantly. ‘You sound like a pervert.’
‘Of course I’m not.’
‘Well, you’ll forgive me for saying so, but all I’ve heard so far is that your wife was a lousy lover and your morals were no better than a dirty old man’s. And while I was coming to terms with your death, you were burning down hotels and screwing your way around America!’
Heard from someone else’s perspective, he conceded that’s exactly how it sounded, even though it couldn’t be further from the truth. He bit his lip, frustrated both by his tactlessness and by her, for being too focused on the finer details to understand the big picture. He needed to regain control of the situation, but it was proving hard to wrestle from her grip.
‘At any point are you going to ask about your children, or how they managed without you?’
‘Yes, of course,’ he replied. ‘How are they?’
‘That’s none of your business.’
One–nil, she marked on an imaginary scoreboard.
‘Don’t be childish,’ he snapped. It was the first time he’d grown impatient with her.
‘Don’t you dare call me childish.’ Her voice deepened. ‘Don’t you dare.’
‘I’m sorry, that was wrong of me.’ He began to feel a dull ache in his head. He knew what it meant.
For the first time since the ghost appeared, she felt she had the upper hand. Now he wanted something from her, and she could either pretend her kids’ lives without him had been a bed of roses, or twist the knife by telling him the truth.
‘For the record,’ she answered finally, ‘I have raised three wonderful, loving children. And none of it has been thanks to you.’
It was only then that she noticed he’d been holding his breath, waiting for confirmation they were all well. She felt her eyes narrow when he let out a barely audible, but relieved sigh. She remembered they had a father too. It had been a long time since she’d thought of him as that.
So she made a snap decision to explain their ups and not to exploit their downs. And she’d make sure he understood that, in retrospect, she wouldn’t have changed a minute of their lives without him for anything.
CHAPTER NINE
CATHERINE
Northampton, twenty-four years earlier
15 April
It was my own stupid fault for not thinking it through properly. It didn’t happen straight away, but cracks gradually appeared in the kids after I admitted I no longer thought Simon was alive.
Despite the birthday card they’d made me with just the four of us drawn on it, they’d quietly held on to the hope he could still be found. Then I’d opened my big mouth. They didn’t know how to express their grief other than to be angry with someone. And as he wasn’t around, I took the brunt of it.
Becoming a single mum was made all the harder having known what it was like to have shared the responsibilities. Now I was forced to make decisions on my own. I was good cop and bad cop; nurturer and provider; friend, parent and enemy. I permanently sat under a cloud of guilt – guilt over how I used to drink; for telling them off when they were naughty; for neglecting them when I worked; for letting their daddy vanish . . . for everything.
Of course, they were too young to recognise my limits, what buttons not to push, so reacted to not getting their own way by erupting like small volcanoes, which in turn released my changing emotions towards Simon. I was grateful he was never far from their thoughts, but I also l
onged for the time when he’d gradually fade from their memories. It was selfish, I knew, but it would make my life much easier.
James rebelled by upsetting others. I was called to his school several times by his headmistress because of his temper. Eventually she had no choice but to suspend him for a week after a fight that left another boy missing a tooth. I tried spending that time rationalising, sympathising and punishing him, and I thought I was getting through to him. Then Roger brought him home one night in a police car after he was seen throwing stones at cars parked outside the church. I was back to square one.
James was furious at his dad for leaving him, and I was at my wits’ end. He lost interest in playing with the friends he hadn’t walloped, so he took his animosity out on his battle-weary toy soldiers and Ninja Turtles, staging bloody battles to the death. He even stopped reading the Hardy Boys books Simon had bought him, or watching fat men in colourful leotards wrestle on Saturday afternoon TV.
He only seemed to find a kind of peace when he was playing his records. He spent all his pocket money on CD singles, which gave me an idea. I dragged the old acoustic guitar Simon had given him for his fifth birthday from where James had shoved it under his bed. I dusted it down, paid to get it restrung and handed it to him for a predictably underwhelmed reaction.
‘I’ve also bought you these,’ I added, passing him a Teach Yourself Guitar book, along with some sheet music from his new favourite group, U2.
‘Do you think they got where they are by just bloodying their knuckles and getting kicked out of school?’ I asked, quietly assuming that’s where and how all rock stars indeed got their first taste of anarchy.
He shrugged.
‘Well, they didn’t. They worked at their music until they could say what they wanted with it. If you want to be like them, you can start by learning how to play this. If you enjoy it and practise every day, I’ll pay for proper lessons for you. And one day, you might even make a record of your own.’
Of course, I was sure he wouldn’t, but a little white lie wouldn’t do him any harm. A tiny, curious glint appeared in his eyes, but he tried to hide it. And when he thought I wasn’t listening, he began learning chords behind his closed bedroom door.
Over the weeks his enthusiasm came loaded with its own problems, namely the repetition of hearing ‘Mysterious Ways’ – strummed dreadfully – again and again until the cows came home. But if it kept his mind busy and his fists occupied, my sanity was a small price to pay.
But poor Robbie was a different kettle of fish altogether.
1 May
Convincing James he could become the next Bono was a doddle in comparison to coaxing Robbie out of himself. I’d underestimated how deep his problems lay.
As he grew from baby to toddler to little boy, I’d accepted he wasn’t like his brother or our friends’ children. He was a sensitive, insular child who carried the weight of the world on his young shoulders at a time when it should have been carrying him. He could make a minor problem ten times worse by dwelling on it rather than sharing it with me.
And while James and Emily were adapting to a new set of rules, Robbie retreated further into himself. I needed one of those small forks you get with a plate of escargots in a French restaurant to pull him out from his shell.
His teachers said he behaved well. He was intelligent for his age and his spelling and maths were way above his six years. But he had no interest in showing how bright he was in front of his class. Socially, he was becoming reclusive.
Robbie seemed to enjoy his siblings’ company – he just didn’t need it. They hit brick walls when they begged him to join in with conversations or to play. And, gradually, he used words less and less, until one day, he fell completely silent.
In her usual matter-of-fact way, Paula tried to convince me he was merely looking for attention, while Baishali was more sensitive to my concerns. And after a week of constant quiet, I was out of my mind with worry. So began a series of doctor’s and child psychologist’s appointments, until eventually we found ourselves sitting in a room with a specialist in mental welfare.
‘He’s not stupid,’ I told Dr Phillips defensively, following a barrage of questions and profile tests. I held Robbie’s hand tightly, scared of the assessment she was going to make about my son.
‘I know that, Mrs Nicholson,’ she said, smiling reassuringly. ‘The purpose of this meeting is to ascertain what the problem might be and not to judge Robbie.’
‘What do you think is wrong?’
‘I believe he has what’s called selective mutism. It means that he can talk if he wants to, but he’s chosen not to.’
‘I’m not sure I understand,’ I said, frowning. ‘You’re saying he just doesn’t want to speak to me anymore?’
‘Not just to you, but to anyone. It’s rare, but it happens. Children, particularly ones sensitive to a change in environment or a family unit like he’s had, can feel they have little control over their lives. The one thing they can control, however, is how they react to those situations. And Robbie’s reacted to his by electing not to speak.’
‘So it’s just a phase he’s going through?’
‘Maybe, maybe not. I’ve seen cases like Robbie’s last for years. Others remain for a few weeks and then they’re back to normal. There is no way of determining it.’
I turned anxiously towards Robbie, who listened intently but didn’t let out a peep.
‘Robbie, please say something. Tell Dr Phillips she’s wrong.’
He looked at me and began to open his mouth, considered it, then closed it again. His eyes fell to the floor.
Billy, my breakdown, and then his father’s disappearance had clearly had a knock-on effect I should’ve predicted. The world was too huge and scary for my little boy, and he was afraid for anyone to hear his voice.
‘I suggest you go home and carry on as normal,’ added Dr Phillips. ‘There’s an excellent therapist I can recommend – and, Mrs Nicholson, I’ve yet to see a case continue indefinitely. Just try not to worry and be patient.’
It was easy for her to say.
30 May
Making Robbie feel even more self-conscious wasn’t going to help him. So while we didn’t pretend something in him hadn’t changed, we didn’t place him under any pressure either.
I learned never to underestimate the tenderness of children. His brother and sister might not have understood his reasons, but they accepted them and treated him like they always did. His teacher even stopped asking him questions in front of the class so she wouldn’t embarrass him.
But Robbie’s alienation meant he spent his playtimes alone. I dropped him off one morning and hovered outside the school gates, watching the other kids play with Transformer toys and hopscotch across chalk squares.
My chest tightened at Robbie, sitting in a corner, alone. I wanted to run over, scoop him up in my arms, stroke his thick blond hair, and carry him home where I could make everything all right. But I knew that wasn’t possible. I had to let him work through it in his own way. I was to blame for this, not him.
4 June
Within a year of Simon’s disappearance, Emily had spent almost a quarter of her life without her daddy. He’d helped create a beautiful ball of energy, but hadn’t been lucky enough to watch her grow into an astonishing little girl. And without getting to know her dad, she’d missed out on a wonderful role model. It made me sad.
She’d inherited Simon’s compassion for animals. Abandoned baby starlings, snails with broken shells, worms with half a body, and a jar of tadpoles she once told me ‘missed their daddy frog’ had all lain on our kitchen table at one time or another.
By the time the first anniversary of her daddy’s disappearance arrived, our family was very much intact. We’d been scared, lonely, battered, abandoned, confused, silenced, angered and still had our bruises. But we were not beaten.
My work was earning me a healthy, regular wage, the bills and the mortgage were paid on time and I’d learned to keep my
emotions in check each time I thought of Simon. I realised I wanted him more than I needed him.
The baby steps we’d taken meant we were finally ready to say goodbye to him. We each dressed in our smartest clothes and walked hand in hand from the house to the bridge over the stream, a year to the day after he vanished. Oscar lagged behind, determined to catch one of the wild rabbits that always outsmarted him. There had been times when I’d wondered what it would feel like to wade into the water and be taken away in the current. But that was all behind me.
‘I want to say that I miss you very much, Daddy, and thank you for my guitar,’ began James as we sat. Then he tore the words of a song he’d written about his father from an exercise book, dropped the page between the wooden railings and let it float away.
All Robbie could muster up was a smile as he placed a drawing of Simon on a cloud sitting next to an angel into the stream. Emily, excited by our trip but unable to grasp its significance, sang ‘Happy Birthday to You’ instead, unsure of why the rest of her family was giggling. I gave her a hug.
I’d had a print made of the last photograph we’d ever had taken of us together, at Easter, and let it drift below.
‘Thank you, Simon, for the wonderful years we had together and for the family we made. I’ll love you forever.’
We sat on the bridge until well beyond teatime, reliving memories and anecdotes, from how he and I had met, to the best game of football he’d ever taken the boys to watch.
A year that had begun so miserably and so painfully had closed with warmth and with love.
SIMON
Georgia, USA, twenty-four years earlier
19 April
I felt like the luckiest man alive as my American reincarnation continued.
Hotels and motels were comfortable and offered practical amenities, but they were characterless, lonely places. I appreciated my own company, but being around like-minded others made the adventure that much more exciting. So hostels became my first choice for off-road respite.
