Yet how much worse did it need to get?
Beth had reached rock bottom a fortnight ago. Her young son had been hit by a car and ended up in intensive care. She’d turned up at the hospital but they refused to let her visit as she wasn’t officially the next of kin. Finally broken, she’d registered with addiction services. Emma had shoplifted a Twix as a goodbye present.
Someone tripped over her leg and she pulled the sleeping bag away and jumped up to see a white-haired woman staggering.
‘You okay?’ she said, and took the pensioner’s arm.
‘Yes, thank you, dear. I’m as blind as a bat without my glasses these days.’
The posh tone reminded her of Great-Aunt Thelma, who loved visiting Foxglove Farm. Despite her advancing years, she’d muck in by weeding or collecting eggs, and she made the best apple crumble. Emma and Andrea would fight over the last portion. Emma screwed her eyes tight, determined not to think about Healdbury. Yet lately it was becoming increasingly difficult. She wasn’t sure why.
She glanced over to the right and Piccadilly Gardens. The tops of the fountains danced. Their distant babbling reminded her of the village stream. How she and Bligh used to play there, catching tadpoles and feeding moorhens. They’d hit it off straight away as kids, sharing adventures good and bad. Like when they’d run a mile for charity, or got sick by bingeing on Easter chocolate. Bligh was a popular boy at school and Emma had eventually worked out why. He’d share his sweets as much as his time and never said no if someone needed help with their maths or learning how to shoot goals.
She yawned and struggled to keep her eyes open, despite rain spitting on her face. She’d been feeling much more tired lately. When she woke up, the afternoon was drawing to an end. Normally, at this time on a Monday, a tide of commuters would sweep in. But the bank holiday painted a different scene full of families and friends, and arms full of bags after a successful shopping day.
‘You ought to get a job,’ said a man who stopped in front of her and shook his head.
‘And you ought to mind your own fucking business.’ Mum would have told her off for saying the F word.
She looked up and watched heads bobbing along Market Street in the distance: Brazilian blow-dries, bald patches, peroxide blondes and throwback quiffs. She was just about to head over to the burger bar and badger the nice staff for a free coffee when her eyes narrowed. Her sleeping bag fell to the ground as she jumped to her feet, and she did a double-take at the sight of dirty-blonde hair.
No. It wasn’t possible. But what if…? She stood on tiptoe, trying to find the familiar-looking figure again through the army of umbrellas.
Joe? Nah. He’d gone to London. She was being stupid. But the hair came into view again, on top of a slight frame carrying a burgundy-coloured rucksack. Emma threw her sleeping bag over her belongings and began to run, shouting at people to get out of her way and ramming into a woman’s shoulder as she headed past a group of street entertainers. She skidded through puddles, and every now and again stopped to jump up and spot the distinctive hair. Soon she came to the Arndale entrance and the escalator leading up to the food hall. She could see Joe just ahead, about to cross the road that led to Marks & Spencer.
‘Joe!’ she called. ‘Joe! It’s Emma! Wait!’
A grin spread across her face. She and Joe were meant to be together. He’d realised that and come back. Her friendship was worth it after all. A burst of excitement drove her legs and finally she caught up.
‘Joe!’ She grabbed the familiar slender arm.
The arm was yanked away. Joe spun around. Emma’s smile dropped.
‘It’s not you,’ she said weakly.
The man’s frown disappeared. ‘Sorry, love. Tim’s the name and I’m late for my shift.’ He headed off.
Emma didn’t move. She could hardly breathe; her lungs felt as if they’d been ripped out of her chest. A couple of teenage girls stared and pointed.
‘What you looking at?’ she snapped, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand.
Giggling, they hurried off, whilst Emma numbly turned around and began the long trek back to the bank. She’d often wondered how she’d react if the dad who’d abandoned her as a baby suddenly turned up. Would she run with open arms just like she had for Joe? Would her anger melt instantly at the prospect of finally feeling whole?
She stood for a moment, and stared vacantly in the window of Boots. When she finally focused, she found herself transfixed by baby merchandise. She leant up against the glass and studied the plastic potties and cute babygros. An image came to mind of herself pushing a pram. She’d have her life sorted then, with a home and a good job. On days off she’d meet fellow mums for coffee and always know just how to stop her baby crying. The other parents would ask her advice.
That vision of her future seemed further away than ever. She kicked a can on the ground and built pace as she went back to her patch. How could she have left her belongings? Primark came into view, and relief flushed through her system as she spotted her sleeping bag. Her rucksack was still underneath. She dropped to the wet pavement. The coffee cup containing a few coins had gone.
Emma sat hunched as darker clouds gathered and the breeze lifted. Joe wasn’t coming back. She had to face that truth. Her head dropped onto her raised knees and she gazed into darkness. Yet even though Joe was out of her life, she still felt, just very slightly, that unfamiliar sensation that had appeared during recent months. It brought to mind phrases such as turning point, enough is enough, this can’t go on.
A stray dog wandered over. Emma had seen it several times before. She stroked its head, reached into her rucksack and gave it the remnants of a sandwich. It peed up against a nearby bin and then wandered off.
Could she ever be brave enough to admit to people she’d messed up? She thought back to the chemist’s window and the tiny babygros. She lifted her head as the word chemist gave her a jolt. She searched in her bag again and pulled out the goodbye present from Joe. Her throat constricted, making it difficult to swallow. She hadn’t needed to use the tampons since he’d left. Perhaps her period was just late. But hairs stood to attention on the back of her neck. She had been feeling especially sick lately, and worn out.
No. It wasn’t possible. Her body was in such a state of disrepair. She never ate properly, nor got enough sleep. Occasionally her periods were a bit erratic. It was no big deal.
There was no way she could be pregnant.
A few days later.
Emma pulled her anorak tighter as the skies opened. It tugged slightly across her stomach. She rubbed a hand over her abdomen. Was that distension imaginary, or due to her risky lifestyle? Funny how the prospect of creating a new life seemed more scary than losing her own.
Somehow she’d managed to put aside a tenner and buy a pregnancy test. It remained, unopened, in the bottom of her rucksack. Every time she walked down the street, prams seemed more prominent. Hungry bawls and jingling rattles drowned out the city sounds, as if there really was something in the proverbial water – or rain – that had made every woman in Manchester suddenly give birth.
A man walked past accompanied by a little girl wearing glittery trainers. She was skipping and tugging on her dad’s hand to get his attention whilst he had a conversation into his phone. She caught Emma’s eye and stuck out her tongue. Emma pulled a funny face. The girl waved as her dad finally slid his mobile into his pocket.
Emma had always assumed she’d have children one day, whereas Andrea was adamant that looking out for a little sister was more than enough. Emma didn’t believe her. Nor did Mum. Oh, she never played with dolls and preferred plants to the animals… except, that was, when one of them gave birth. She hand-reared a lamb once, feeding it religiously through the night. Andrea was better than anyone else at getting the milk bottle angle just right.
Emma, though, had already worked out every detail of her motherhood by the time she was eleven.
‘I’ll have two girls. Like me and Andrea,’ she’d
declared to Bligh when they were paddling down at the stream one day. ‘They’ll be called Holly and Ivy after my favourite time of year. I’ll be a vet. The girls will have their own ponies. We’ll all play Animal Crossing.’
Emma liked the idea of mending people’s pets. She’d be needed. Respected. She’d become a part of the owners’ lives.
‘What about you?’ she’d said to Bligh.
He’d pulled a face. ‘You know what my dream is. Mr Harris said it wasn’t ambitious enough.’
The careers teacher had gone around the class asking each of the children to name their dream job. Bligh had said being a family man. The whole class had laughed.
‘You can work for me, doing handyman stuff like your dad,’ Emma said. ‘And you can look after my children. You’d be ace.’
‘What about your husband?’
She’d pulled a face. ‘All that kissing stuff? No thanks. I’ll be the only parent.’
So it wasn’t as if she’d ever planned to be part of a couple when bringing up kids. Tentatively she pulled a magazine out of her bag. She’d found it in a bin. It was the Mothercare catalogue. She turned the first page and flicked through, admiring the stylish nappy bags and buggies that looked as if they belonged to a futuristic century. And weren’t those dummies cute? Those socks so small? Emma would make sure her baby’s toys were educational, like those sorting and stacking ones.
But I’m not pregnant, she told herself, and shoved the catalogue back into her bag. She opened a packet of biscuits that someone had given her and picked at the contents. But what if that bump across her stomach wasn’t due to ill-health but was a child trying to make itself heard? The packet of biscuits fell to the pavement. Emma’s chin sank onto her chest and she covered her face with her hands. Had her sense of denial crossed through the placenta? Could the foetus read her thoughts? Her last period had been a few days before she and Joe slept together, so… for possibly six weeks now, had it floated alone thinking nobody cared?
But Emma did care and would be damned if she ended up following her dad’s example. He hadn’t needed her. Or respected her. Or made her a part of his life.
She got to her feet. Grabbed her rucksack and not for the first time wished she had somewhere to store her belongings. Rough sleeping was hard enough without having to constantly lug your life around on your back like a snail. Carrying your emotional baggage didn’t leave much energy to spare. She headed over to the burger bar, went into the toilets and disappeared inside a cubicle. Fifteen minutes later she was back on her patch holding a slim white plastic stick.
She inhaled deeply and then looked down at the test resting in her hands. She lifted it up, aware that it might be about to change the course of her life.
And there they were, as if the universe were sticking up two pink fingers to her face. Pulse racing, she leant back against the wall, feeling faint. She grabbed the small stick tightly and focused on the pink lines. Pink was an LGBT colour, the colour of fighters against breast cancer. It represented being proud of your identity, and survival. How could Emma live up to all that? And wasn’t pink also supposed to signify romance? She’d messed things up big time with Joe.
And now she was going to be responsible for another life. That would never work.
Her hand reached for the bottle poking out the top of her threadbare rucksack. She pulled it out and paused mid air, staring through the plastic at the liquid’s inviting caramelised sunshine colour. Then she let the bottle drop back inside the bag and instead fished out an orange flyer, staring at the information on it. She’d passed a mobile soup kitchen late one night. Got chatting to one of the volunteers. They’d handed her the flyer giving details of a treatment centre.
Her mind skipped back to the days before she’d started drinking all day. It used to be just on special occasions, with Mum and Andrea, and occasionally round at a friend’s house – vodka and marshmallows in the bedroom with Pretty Little Liars playing in the background. How grown-up she’d felt. And then she’d failed her A level biology. She’d retaken it at a college in Manchester and made new, exciting friends. But when she’d failed a second time, she’d thrown herself into the party lifestyle, making her appearance more glamorous. Nightclubs Fifth and Factory were great for cheap shots. She was in with the in crowd and just the first mouthful made her feel accepted and loved. It gave her the sexiest moves on the dance floor. The funniest sense of humour.
Happy days.
It wasn’t long before the weekend stretched from Thursday to Monday, and then every day of the week. If Emma wasn’t out with the girls she’d take a bottle of wine to Bligh’s. One bottle became two. Wine o’clock got earlier: midday, then the morning. Resentments grew – along with Andrea’s disdain, Mum’s disapproval and Bligh shifting to parental mode, calling her Emma rather than Emmie.
Her face screwed up and she tossed the pregnancy test away. It couldn’t have been accurate. Her fingers curled around the top of the bottle and she lifted it to her mouth.
Darkness had fallen when she woke up with a thumping headache and a dry mouth. Late trams whistled. Amateur drinkers stumbled home, singing songs or having arguments. Someone had placed a sheet of cardboard over her. It was soggy now, like an over-dunked biscuit. She pushed it off. The early summer evening felt like a damp autumn night.
‘Why did I have to wake up?’ she said numbly, and gazed skywards. ‘I’m done. What do I have to do to end things?’
‘Get help, cock,’ muttered a rusty Mancunian voice. ‘And stop the pity party. It serves no purpose.’
Cheeks hot, she turned sideways to see a rough sleeper in his sixties. Stormin’ Norman he was called. She didn’t know why – something to do with him being ex-army. He knew Beth. Emma had chatted to him now and again under the railway bridge. He was sitting in a drenched sleeping bag and wore a military-style cap. He caught her eye. ‘Just thought I’d keep you company until you woke up. There are some crazy bastards out there.’ He offered her his cigarette. She shook her head. ‘So, you want to end things? Why?’
‘Because stopping drinking… it’s impossible.’
‘Thousands of alcoholics have done it.’
‘I’m not an alcoholic,’ she snapped. ‘I’ve just… been down on my luck. I just want it over. I’ve had enough.’
‘There are four ways of ending it.’ He took a drag of nicotine. ‘Prison. Psychiatric hospital. Recovery. Death. Not everyone has a choice. You’re lucky. At the moment, you still get to pick.’
‘But I’m stuck. I can’t stop.’ Her voice broke. ‘And I can’t carry on.’
‘Perhaps that’s because you’re in a shit place at the moment. It’d be different with a clear head, with prospects, with help.’ Stormin’ Norman stubbed out his cigarette. ‘I’ve decided to go and see my old case worker again. I tasted a different existence in rehab – remembered how things used to be. I’m going to stick to the programme this time. It isn’t easy, but you know what they say – you don’t get owt for nowt.’
He stood up and yawned. ‘See ya around, cock.’ He lumbered off muttering something about finding a doorway.
A small flash of orange caught her attention – the flyer leaning against a lamp post. She scrambled to her feet and stared at it for a moment as it shifted in the breeze.
She bent down and picked it up.
Chapter 8
It took over an hour to dig up the deadly nightshade bushes. Emma was glad of the distraction. Afterwards, she headed to the kitchen for a quick cup of tea. Bligh was labelling his red onion jars in the shop and rebuffed her offer of a drink. Next she dragged the old bench into the goats’ enclosure and immediately one of them jumped on top. She scratched its head. She sawed an old piece of wide guttering in two and put one half in the rabbits’ run to act as a tunnel, filling it with strawberry plant leaves. Dusk fell, and as an evening treat, she chopped up some apples for the sheep and hand-fed one with a black patch of wool on top of its head. He was an orphan they’d saved and named Spit
because he never completely mastered drinking from a milk bottle. He’d taken it best from Andrea, who at one stage slept in the sheep enclosure overnight. Emma remembered doing that herself one summer when her favourite lamb fell ill.
Repeatedly she checked her watch. Why hadn’t Andrea rung with news? When the sun started to set, Bligh drove to the hospital. Andrea wasn’t replying to his calls or texts and he was worried. While he was gone, Emma swept the yard. Any evidence of the summer shower had quickly evaporated.
His car pulled up. Andrea opened the passenger door and got out. Emma laid down her broom and hurried over.
‘How’s Mum?’
Tears filled Andrea’s eyes.
‘Is she okay? Bligh?’
He nodded.
Andrea wiped her eyes and tugged out her ponytail bobble. ‘They told me to go home. Mum hasn’t been sick. She isn’t hallucinating. They think she must have just eaten that one berry.’
Emma exhaled. Thank goodness.
‘I’m just so worried,’ said Andrea. ‘What if they’re wrong?’ Bligh locked the car and came around to her side. ‘Thanks for staying late, Bligh,’ she continued in a flat tone. ‘Go home. You’ve done more than enough; you must be as tired as I am.’
‘Not until I’ve at least made you a hot chocolate,’ he said. ‘Have you eaten at all?’
She shook her head. ‘I just wasn’t hungry, and in any case I couldn’t leave Mum’s side. She looked so scared in the unfamiliar surroundings. What if she wakes up frightened tonight?’
‘I’m sure she’ll be all right,’ said Emma.
‘What would you know?’
‘You told me yourself, Andrea, that the doctors weren’t worried. They’re just keeping her in overnight to be safe,’ said Bligh. ‘Try not to worry. She’s in good hands.’
‘Look, let me make us a drink,’ said Emma, and without waiting for an answer, she went into the kitchen. She set out three mugs, spooned out hot chocolate powder and boiled milk in a pan. When she turned round, Bligh and Andrea were sitting at the table. Both looked utterly exhausted. Emma handed out their drinks and joined them. For a moment no one spoke.
Forgive Me Not Page 7
