by Casey Watson
‘Oh, Mum, don’t think like that,’ she said. ‘You really mustn’t. Yes, I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck, and yes, I do keep feeling teary, but it’s like the doctors said – these things happen to women everywhere, all the time, and I’m lucky. I already have a family to cherish, so I’ve no business moping and feeling sorry for myself. Well, a bit sorry for myself’ – she laughed, and my heart really went out to her – ‘but not for too long, and Emma will be the best tonic imaginable. I’m not going to sit there distraught because she’s having her baby and I’m not. And, actually, she’s right. She will be a great distraction, and, you know what, I like her. She’s a sweetheart. She’s been to hell and back and she’s there worrying about cleaning my skirting boards? Bring it on – she is my kind of gal.’
So Riley and Emma had spoken and I was only too happy to listen. No matter that their combined ages didn’t even add up to my one, their combined wisdom belied their tender years, and over the next couple of weeks I could see the benefits in both of them, with Riley taking on the mantle of Emma’s pregnancy guru – demanding to know her vegetable intake and whether she was getting sufficient exercise, and Emma parrying by giggling and pointing out that she didn’t need any more exercise than she was getting by scrubbing filthy football-boot marks off Riley’s kitchen floor.
It was a tonic for all of us and we’d frequently be reduced to fits of the giggles as if, having rediscovered laughing, we couldn’t work out how to stop.
And I was to see another heartening development just a few days later, when I asked her about celebrating her fifteenth birthday. It seemed hardly possible that she had been with us almost a year now, yet she had. And she was finally that magical ‘fifteen’ she’d been so keen to tell us she ‘nearly was’ for much of the last six months.
But Emma didn’t want to celebrate her birthday.
‘It doesn’t feel right to,’ she said when I suggested we do something – even if just a quiet family dinner. ‘What with Riley losing her baby, and me losing Roman. It just doesn’t feel right to. You don’t mind, do you?’
I was so touched. And also saddened, when she went on to explain that she didn’t set much store by birthdays anyway.
‘I got used to it,’ she said, ‘because Mum only remembered half the time anyway. One year it would be, like, nothing, because she’d be out of it and couldn’t care less, then one time she would remember, or she’d remember it the wrong month or something and she’d like buy me shed loads of rubbish that I didn’t even want and we’d have no money for the electric or food and stuff. No,’ she said, ‘let’s not. Let’s just concentrate on Riley. I mean it would be nice to get a few bits from Primark or something – actually, I’d really like that because none of my skinny jeans fit me – but, nah. Let’s not bother. Not this year.’
It was all I could do not to weep right there in front of her. And give thanks that whatever her mum was or wasn’t, with her multiple rejections, her capriciousness, her unpredictability, ‘not around’ was a state of affairs that suited me – and Emma’s precious emotional health – just fine.
There was still one particularly persistent fly in the ointment, however – one I realised I’d forgotten about only when the house phone rang one evening, and when Mike went into the hall and answered it, he followed up by saying, ‘Hello, Billy.’
It took a second or two for me to work out who Billy was, but Emma was all ears in an instant. ‘Tarim’s dad,’ she mouthed at me as we sat and waited for what might be coming next. I picked up the remote and lowered the soap opera we’d all been glued to, the better to hear. I hoped this wasn’t about to become one as well.
‘No, I’m sorry, she can’t,’ we heard him say. There was a pause while Billy spoke again. ‘Because I don’t think it’s a good idea,’ Mike said, ‘that’s why.’ And then another. And then ‘Hang on.’
There was another pause and next thing Mike was in the living-room doorway. ‘Love, it’s Tarim’s dad,’ he said. ‘Says he wants to speak to you. You don’t have to. But I said I’d ask –’
I glanced at Emma, willing her to tell him where to go. She wouldn’t cave in now, would she? Please not. Not now. But I needn’t have worried. Emma was already shaking her head. ‘No, Mike. I don’t want to speak to him, thank you. I don’t ever want to speak to him,’ she added, chin tipped up. ‘That’s it.’
Mike winked at her and walked back into the hall. ‘Well, that’s up to you,’ we heard him say. ‘But that’s something you’ll have to speak to social services about. It’s up to them now … No, it doesn’t involve Emma. Not at all. Roman’s in care … yes, that’s right. You’ll need to call them. It’s really nothing to do with us now …’
When he came back we were both poised to hear the details of the rest of it. There was no raised voice, but that didn’t mean there was no potential for trouble. Putting two and two together, it seemed they wanted access to Roman. Which was rich given that the last time we’d had dealings with Tarim he’d been mouthing off about how he was disowning them all.
Mike confirmed it. ‘They’re after contact,’ he said. ‘Want to know how Tarim can get to see Roman.’
Emma looked horrified. ‘They won’t actually let him do that, will they?’
I didn’t know what to say to her. In fact, all things being equal, they couldn’t not. With Tarim confirmed as the father, they had no grounds to refuse him contact, provided he kept his nose clean. As a child in care, Roman had as much right to contact with his father as he did his mother, who was looking at me now, open mouthed.
‘I don’t know for sure, love,’ I answered truthfully, ‘but even if they do decide to allow it, one thing I do know is that it would be supervised – no question of that – and that he’ll have a long way to go before they put anything in place anyway – even a short visit at the family centre.’
She looked even more anxious. ‘What, with me?’ she squeaked. ‘He’d be allowed to just come and join in?’
I shook my head. ‘Heavens no. You never have to see him again, ever, love. Don’t worry about that. No, it would be entirely separate.’ I squeezed her arm. ‘Don’t worry.’
‘Has he been in touch with you about this already, love?’ Mike asked as he sat down again. ‘Funny them calling us on the house phone.’
‘No, not at all,’ she said. ‘He couldn’t, ’cos I blocked his number yonks ago. I know he was bothering Tash for a bit, but she blocked him as well in the end. So that’s probably why. God, I wish he’d just sod off and leave us alone.’ Then she blushed. ‘Sorry. But, I do, I really do wish he’d go away. Find some other girl – I wish I’d see that. Wish I’d see him with another girl, ’cos then I’d know he’d finally decided to let me go.’
For myself, I decided wishing wasn’t quite good enough. So the next day I called John so I could establish more in the way of facts. If Tarim was serious about shaping up and being a father to Roman, so be it. Every child deserved the love of the people that made them – that was never a bad thing. And the first image I ever had of Tarim was also a very powerful one. No one was black and white and, however corrosive and aggressive his relationship with Emma, it was not for me to decide he should have no role in his infant son’s life. But, tender though the moments with his son had been to witness, I had a hunch that this was perhaps more about Emma than about Roman. It was a thought that had taken root as soon as she’d told us that she’d blocked Tarim from calling her mobile.
And John confirmed it. ‘Oh, I know all about this, Casey – in fact it was one of the things that was on the agenda for the progress meeting we’ve scheduled with you next week. Sorry you’ve been bothered. Was he bothersome?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘It was actually his father who made the phone call on his behalf. Though he was there –’
‘That doesn’t surprise me. I get the impression from Maggie that his dad’s a bit of a pawn in this whole game. The truth is that he seems genuine. Keen to get his son straightened out. But so far, t
hough they’ve made all the right noises and filled the forms in, there’ve been two meetings arranged for Tarim to come in and discuss things, neither of which he’s bothered to show up for.’
‘So my hunch might be right. He’s just using Roman to try and get to Emma.’
‘Nail on the head, I think. And he wouldn’t be the last man to do that sort of thing, would he?’
We both chuckled. ‘No, he wouldn’t,’ I agreed.
‘And she’s standing firm as far as he’s concerned?’
‘Firm as anything,’ I reported happily.
‘So far so good, then,’ John said. ‘And it’s been far as well, hasn’t it?’
It had indeed. All things considered, we’d come a long way already. There was just the small detail that we still had a long way to go.
Chapter 20
It had been a curiously quiet end to an eventful and traumatic year. With Roman’s first birthday having come and gone, and Emma’s passing largely unremarked, the usual fairy-light fest that was the Watson family Christmas passed in equally understated style. Which wasn’t to say that we didn’t have some fun – we were all together, we had some snow, everyone ate their body weight in nuts and chocolate. But Roman’s absence, along with the baby daughter Riley had lost, cast a slight shadow over things; how could it not? Though, for all that, as Christmases went, this was a good one for Emma. She’d told me it was one of the few proper family Christmases she had ever been a part of in her young life. Her first with us had been a blur, obviously, but this last one had been a gift. ‘It’s the first time,’ she confided to me, ‘that I’ve felt like it was proper. Like the Christmas stuff you see on the telly.’ She went on to tell me that hers more often than not began alone, in their flat, because her mum had to go to the pub before lunch on Christmas day, because it was the one day they closed after lunch. She had only the foggiest memories of any ‘Christmassy sort of Christmas’ – a blurry image of a tinsel tree and presents arranged around it, a dim recollection of a grandmother she could hardly remember, talk of a granddad who was already gone.
My heart went out to her and I was thankful that Roman was still so tiny. Was I unrealistic to hope that this would be the last Christmas he had to spend without his mummy? I truly hoped not.
Emma had been particularly taken with, and, to an extent, awed by Justin the second time she met him. He was now living in supported lodgings and working hard as a council gardener – he was now almost an adult and nearly as tall as Kieron. And when I explained about Justin’s background – how he’d been passed from pillar to post in the care system from the age of just five, after having been abandoned by his heroin-addicted mother – I think it really brought Emma up short. It certainly gave her pause for thought. Serious thought, too, about just how determined she was to do what she had to do to get her little boy back with her again.
Not that Roman wasn’t thriving – he was. Well, I presumed he was from the pictures. I’d actually been asked if I wanted to go and see him, more than once, but I’d chickened out, still feeling too delicate to trust myself. I felt daft as a brush admitting it, but I missed Roman more than I let on to anyone outside the family, and the last thing I wanted was to see him and blubber and have him get all upset by being visited by some bonkers old lady.
It was February now, one of the coldest I could remember in a long time. Not the best time, perhaps, for a new life to enter the world, but mother nature was no respecter of schedules. Or, indeed, sleep.
‘Casey, Casey … wake up. Wake up … I think it’s started!’
The sound came to me as part of the most bizarre dream. I was in a caravan park, somewhere seasidey but, instead of the usual sand, sea and sun combo, the whole resort seemed to be made out of fruit. Instead of palm trees there were upside-down clumps of giant bananas, and the deck chairs were slices of melon. And most weirdly, we’d gone on holiday – me and Mike, all the family – and, for some reason, we’d taken a small Shetland pony. Which, for reasons that escaped me, we had decided had better join us in the caravan, so I’d made it up a bed in the living room. I’d never had a Shetland pony – though the kids had certainly talked me into having all sorts of smaller pets as children – and as I struggled to work out where I was, not to mention why, all I could think of was how important it was, before I went off to see who was calling from outside the caravan, that the pony didn’t put its backside through any of the windows.
Something was tugging at me now, as well. Was it the flipping pony again, trying to bite me? It was only when I realised that it had spoken rather than neighed that it suddenly hit me this wasn’t real. I was actually lying in the dark, somewhere, having been jolted into consciousness, and there was a mouth talking at me, right by my face.
A human mouth. My eyes snapped fully open. ‘Jesus!’ I jabbered, rubbing my eyes as they began to adjust to the darkness. ‘Emma! God, I’m so sorry! Are you okay?’
She didn’t look okay, that was for sure.
She shook her head. ‘Nooooo,’ she sobbed. ‘I’m not. I’ve got these God-awful cramps keep coming. I can’t sleep, it hurts so much. I think it’s the baby coming, Casey.’
She was just over a week before her due date, so I knew it could well be. And there was no doubt she looked like she was ready to have one. Having not seen her carrying Roman, I didn’t actually have a yardstick, but in the last four weeks or so she had ballooned up to what felt like twice her usual size. And that’s when it hit me why the dream had come about. The fruit – yes! She’d been wolfing down kilos of the stuff lately. And only last night she’d been on hands and knees, rocking back and forth, in the living room, resting her pelvis while I sat and watched EastEnders. And I’d told her that with her hair hanging down like a mane she looked like she was our pet Shetland pony. ‘Uuuurghhh,’ she started moaning then, albeit trying to do it quietly, so as not to disturb Mike, bless her heart.
I pinged the light on. ‘Mike!’ I said, shaking him awake roughly. This was no time for sleeping. We had somewhere to be. I knew just how much of a hurry second babies could be in, too. ‘Mike!’ I said again, as he groaned and rolled over. ‘Spit spot! We have a labour on our hands!’
‘Am I in labour, d’you think, Casey?’ Emma just about managed to gasp, as the contraction she’d obviously had started dying down. ‘Really? I mean, it feels like I am … oh, but I can’t bear to think I’m not. What if we get there and I’m not and they send us home again and then it starts again and … uurrgghh … I have to go through this for, like, ever?’
Mike had darted into the bathroom to throw some clothes on, in the interests of decency, since Emma had plopped herself on our bed and now couldn’t move. ‘Calm down,’ I said. ‘Breathe. Yes, I’m sure you’re probably in labour.’ Which was a contradiction in terms, but no matter. There was no way I was going to adopt a ‘wait and see’ approach here. I knew how quickly these things could progress. I felt her brow, which was clammy, and checked the time on the bedside clock. ‘Let’s see how soon the next pain comes, then we’ll have an idea, okay? And in the meantime’ – I was running around her now, trying to get myself out of my pyjamas – ‘we’ll get ourselves organised to –’
I stopped mid-utterance. Emma had leapt up – well, as far as she could leap anywhere – and was emitting a different sound now, a sort of ‘ohhhhh!’
‘What’s the matter?’ I said, but soon realised I already had my answer. Her waters had broken – and had only narrowly missed our bed.
‘Don’t worry about that,’ I chided, as Emma looked aghast at the pool of liquid darkening the bedside rug beneath her bare feet. ‘Just hang on there. I’ll go and get you some fresh trackie bottoms to change into. And your slippers and dressing gown, and your bag. Mike! Come on! What are you doing in there? We need to go now!’
‘And my phone. Don’t forget my phone!’ Emma shouted after me as I flew across the landing. I rolled my eyes. Ever the teenager, even now.
When Emma had asked me if I’d be her bir
th partner I had had two principal emotions. The first was joy. I was so touched that she wanted me there to hold her hand, I really was, because it meant such a lot to me about what we’d achieved. That she could trust me to be there during this most intimate of life events spoke volumes about the bond we’d finally forged.
But at the same time I did feel just a tiny bit squeamish. I could roll my sleeves up and get on with most icky things – I’d been doing that for years, and I’d been present at the births of both Levi and Jackson. Which had been an enormous privilege, because seeing a baby come into the world is a privilege like no other. It was just that this felt slightly different. Should it be me? Was it the right thing? I wasn’t sure.
But when I asked Emma if she was sure she had come back immediately. ‘Casey, you have to – I can’t do it without you. And who else would it be if not you? You’re the closest thing to a mother I’ve ever had in my whole life. And don’t you want to be there?’ She’d looked so anxious when she’d said that. ‘Don’t you think it would just be so wicked, like, when she’s older and you can tell her, “I was there when you were born”?’
And there was something else. Even as I was telling her that it was okay, that I would be there, she was already telling me the other reason she’d asked me to be her birth partner. ‘I don’t think I can bear being on my own again, I really can’t.’
Which was the clincher. The thought that when she gave birth to Roman she didn’t have a soul to support her. So we must. That was the main thing that Mike and I did, above everything – be there for the kids we looked after. We might never see some of them ever again, obviously. Some moved on, moved away, left their troubled pasts behind them, and in these cases that was exactly how it should be. But in other cases these relationships had and would always endure. And this was clearly one such. In as much as you could predict anything that happened in the future, this little girl – and to me she was still very much a little girl – would stay in our lives, hopefully, as well as our hearts.
