38
Home and Dry
PHIL
THE TOURNAMENT is tough and Rosie’s team doesn’t perform very well, but I don’t care. It’s another day with my daughter, precious hours of watching her play, witnessing her resilience, cheering her on, being there for her. When she grabs my hand to steady herself as she pulls off her boots at the end of a long, unsuccessful day, my heart lifts. Her tired silence on the journey home is a gift.
Time together, that’s what we need. Not words or actions or decisions, just time.
We get home, eventually, and Rosie calls first dibs on the bath, limping upstairs on her stiff legs to soak away her disappointment. I fill Sarah in on everything that happened. I don’t want her to feel left out. When Rosie comes back down, she’s in her pyjamas, her face scrubbed clean of muck and make-up. Another small step on the road to normal. She sits at the table and eyes the pile of bread. ‘Have some, if you’re hungry, I think tea’s going to be another ten minutes or so.’ It makes me smile to see her take a big hunk and spread a thick slick of butter on it. Lauren, sitting across from her, immediately signs for some as well. Mid-chew, Rosie hesitates and looks at me, I nod and she tears off a lump and puts it on the table in front of Lauren. We eat dinner, then all decamp to the front room and watch rubbishy Saturday-night TV. Lauren claps and rocks along to the crappiest bands, happy as a clam, and James stays in and makes an effort to participate by mocking each sobby backstory. It’s nothing we haven’t done a thousand times before, just an average night in, but this time it’s all of us together under one roof and that’s what’s special. Sunday is the same. Good, relaxed, a normal family weekend, which is all I’ve ever wanted.
ROSIE
For a few seconds when I wake up on Sunday morning I’m confused; everything smells, sounds and looks different. I stretch out under the thin duvet, and pain shoots up my calves. My foot touches Dog at the bottom of the bed. I curl my toes into his fur. I need a wee, but I can’t be bothered to get out of bed. Jim’s room is a tip, there are clothes piled high on the chair and there’s a mountain of crap on what I’m guessing is his desk. The wardrobe door doesn’t shut properly because there’s a sleeping bag spewing off the top. And I guess this is the tidied-up version of it. I’d never be allowed to let my room get like this. I sit up and press my heels down into the rug, easing my Achilles. The radio’s playing downstairs and someone’s clonking about in the bathroom. I wait, not sure what to do, but I really need a wee. The toilet flushes, then I hear Sarah’s voice and an odd swishing sound moving across the landing. ‘Good girl, let’s get you dressed.’ It’s Lauren, crawling back to her room. I stay put, listening to Sarah’s voice through the wall. ‘That’s it. Lift up. Good girl. Good girl, all done. Trousers on, now your top. A blue top today, yes, blue, good girl. Now what do you need? Socks. One sock, two socks. All done. There, you look lovely.’ The swishing sound passes across the landing and down the stairs. ‘Go careful. Good girl.’ Sarah’s voice follows her down each step.
I wait another minute, making sure it’s safe, then rush to the bathroom. When I get downstairs, Sarah’s in the kitchen encouraging Lauren to eat her breakfast nicely. She’s not. She’s cramming pieces of toast into her mouth as fast as she can without chewing. ‘Help yourself.’ Sarah gestures at the loaf of bread and the toaster. ‘Are you a bit stiff?’
‘Yeah. It’s just first thing. It’ll ease off.’ I don’t know where they keep the jam and stuff.
Sarah must be telepathic because, without taking her eyes off Lauren, she says, ‘Top left. There’s Marmite as well, if you prefer. I hate the stuff, but Phil’s addicted.’
‘No, thanks, I think it smells rank.’
She laughs. ‘He’ll be back in a bit. He’s just gone to get some petrol. I thought we could maybe have a wander around the shops later. If you fancied it.’
‘All of us?’
Sarah wipes Lauren’s face and hands. ‘No, James would rather poke his eyes out with a stick than go clothes shopping.’ Which isn’t the answer I wanted.
We drive into Leeds. I sit up front with Phil, so that he can point out all the local landmarks. We leave the van in a disabled parking space and walk into the shopping area. It’s busy, better shops than I was expecting, lots of buzzy cafés and some really cool arcades with some good boutiques. Phil pushes Lauren as we wander around among the crowds. He waits outside a lot of the shops because they’re too cramped to get her inside. There’s a really awkward moment when we’re in one of the malls and Phil points out the store he got my bracelet from. I’m suddenly very conscious that I’m not wearing it, but Sarah helps by chattering on about mindless stuff and keeping us walking. When we do go into some of the shops, I feel quite self-conscious looking at stuff with her. I can tell she’s following me around, not sure where I want to go or what I like. She doesn’t pick anything up or suggest what might suit me, like Mum always does. She seems totally disinterested in buying anything for herself. Besides, I don’t have any money with me and I can’t really expect them to pay. It’s nice, but it’s all a bit pointless.
As we walk through the crowds I notice how many people openly stare at Lauren, not just kids, but adults as well. One fat woman actually stops talking to her equally fat friend and cranes her lardy neck round as we pass. Rude cow! Again Sarah must have some sixth sense thing going on because she says, ‘You get used to it.’
‘She didn’t even pretend not to stare.’
‘I just wish people would smile more.’ Sarah seems relaxed about it. ‘Shall we find somewhere to eat?’
I look at the waves of people and just know that everywhere will be packed. I think of Lauren with her snotty nose, speed-eating, cramming food in her mouth with her fingers, and I feel a bit sick. ‘It looks really busy, I’m fine just going back to the house.’
‘Okay, if you’re sure.’
Once Phil has fastened all the complicated straps onto Lauren’s wheelchair in the back of the van we’re ready to head home. ‘Hop in.’ He slams the boot shut. The side door is open, but no one tells me where I’m supposed to sit. It’s like this in the house as well. I don’t know where my spot is, not yet. I can’t just climb in the front again without being asked, so after a second or two I get in next to Lauren and we set off home.
It’s really unnerving the way she looks at me. She breathes heavily through her bunged-up nose and blinks a lot. It’s impossible to know what she’s thinking. I look out of the window. A few seconds later I feel her fingers grab my top and pull. I try to ignore her. She pulls harder. I shuffle further away from her, but there’s not much space for me to go anywhere. She yanks even harder. By now I’m sweating. I can’t face reaching down and unpeeling her fingers from my sweatshirt. She tugs again. Finally I turn round and see that’s she’s grinning, her face very close to mine. Another tug. She waits for my response. I tug back and she grins some more.
It’s a game.
Sarah does her psychic thing again from the front seat. ‘Lauren, you’d better not be making a nuisance of yourself’ and, as if she understands, Lauren looks me directly in the eye and gives an almighty tug. It catches me off-balance and I half-fall into her, it’s only the seatbelt that saves me from slipping right off my seat. That makes her laugh out loud. Sarah looks back at us. ‘Are you sure you’re all right, Rosie?’
‘I’m fine,’ I say. ‘She’s just messing about.’ Sarah looks relieved.
We spend the whole trip home doing this weird Lauren version of tug-of-war, but it seems to make her happy. It’s nice to see her smile. It changes her face completely.
We don’t go far for the next couple of days: the park, the local shops, Phil takes me and Jim for a game of pool at the local pub, but mostly it’s around the house, talking, helping Sarah cook and just watching TV. There’s also lots of hanging around while we wait for Lauren to be ready or fed or changed or entertained. It’s very different from being at home. It’s almost boring. I would normally be with Kennedy and Holly m
ost days during the holidays. They keep messaging, asking me what I’m doing. There’s not much to say, we’re not really doing much, but still.
Mum texts every five minutes asking how it’s going.
On Monday teatime Jim challenges me to a match on his Xbox. It feels okay when we’re alone together now, less awkward. He’s actually the source of most of my information about their lives. I feel I can ask him things that I can’t ask Sarah, because he’s not judging me, deciding about me. He seems so placid, so ‘whatever’ about life, so okay about having me around. I’m grateful. I’m not sure what I’d be like in his situation, if Mum really had been mad enough to try and get custody of Lauren. We set up a game and he starts his usual showboating, which means I score, twice, in the first couple of minutes. We play in silence apart from the odd insult after that, but as always, I can’t resist picking his brains, catching up on the years of family history that I’ve missed.
‘Are you hanging around cos I’m here?’
Jim’s eyes don’t leave the screen. ‘Don’t flatter yourself.’
‘You don’t have to babysit me, you know.’
‘I’m not. This is where I live.’
I know he doesn’t mean anything by it, but it reminds me that I’m still just a guest in their house. I’m not really one of them. My being here is an inconvenience, especially for him. This is his bedroom, not mine. I’m screwing up his life, invading his space. ‘I’m sorry you’re having to sleep on the sofa.’
He just shrugs. ‘It doesn’t bother me. I can sleep anywhere.’ Across the landing we can hear Phil and Sarah bathing Lauren – it takes two of them. Jim shoots and scores. ‘Mum and Dad said they’re gonna use the money, when it comes through, to sort something out. Maybe convert the loft. Or we might move.’
‘Oh.’ I feel a jolt. I like their house. It’s the place I picture, when I try to imagine living with them.
‘It would help with Lauren, having somewhere bigger.’ The clock ticks down on the second half. We both try hard to score in the last twenty seconds. I shoot and miss. Game over. He immediately starts scrolling through, setting up another game. ‘Street match?’
‘Okay.’
The sound effects of the ball thwacking around the indoor court on the Xbox mix in with the splashing coming from the bathroom. Phil’s doing some really crap singing. Lauren likes his singing. ‘Now, lie down for your hair wash, good girl.’ There’s a loud slosh of water. I suppose in a bigger house you would at least be able to get away from hearing every single thing. There’s no getting away from Lauren here.
I sneak a look at Jim. He needs a haircut, his fringe is flopping in his eyes. Side on, I can’t tell whether his nose or his neat lips are anything like mine. He scores another easy goal. ‘So much for your defensive prowess!’ He pushes his hair out of his eyes.
‘Does it ever drive you mad?’
‘What?’
‘How much time they spend with Lauren?’
He doesn’t even seem to think about it. ‘No. I’m used to it.’
‘Even now, now that… you know.’ I don’t know how to say it.
Again he answers me without hesitating. ‘She still feels like my sister.’ I’m not sure what that makes me. ‘Besides, sometimes it’s good that they’re not always looking my way. Yes!’ Another goal slams in. He celebrates by rolling over onto his back and waving his legs in the air like a little kid. I give up and toss the control on the bed and flop backwards next to him. For reasons I’m not sure of, I feel like crying.
‘One, two, three. Out you come.’ Through the wall there’s a grunt from Phil and another swoosh of water – him lifting her out, I guess.
Jim sits up and pokes me with his foot. ‘Hey. You can’t bail just cos you’re getting thrashed.’ I ignore him and stare at the ceiling. ‘Rosie? Rosie? I didn’t mean anything. Come on, don’t sulk. We’re getting on okay, aren’t we?’ I don’t answer him, which I know is mean. I feel the bed bounce as he gets off it. ‘Suit yourself.’
I lie on his bed for a few more minutes, not crying, listening to the sounds of the house, then sit up. I’m not going to behave like Mum, hiding away when things get tough. I go down and offer to help with tea.
39
Home Alone
ANNE
I TALK to no one for two days, except Stan. I know he hates having to speak directly to me; our normal mode of communication is a note tacked to the shed door, yet I hurry out to greet him as soon as he arrives. I keep him talking about the garden for as long as I can, about the moss in the lawn and the blight on the pear tree. I even ask about the latch on the back gate, which has broken for years and really isn’t his responsibility. As I rattle on at him, he keeps looking past me towards the shed with a silent yearning. Later on in the morning, when I take him out his second cup of coffee, he literally tries to hide from me by burrowing himself into the wisteria. He shouts at me to leave his mug on the wall as he tries to blend into the foliage. I step back inside the house and the silence is just where I left it. The emptiness seems to expand and grow heavier with every hour that she’s absent. I check my phone again; still no reply to my last three texts, nothing since yesterday. I scroll back through what little she’s told me over the past two days. She’s been shopping. She’s been to play pool. She’s fine. I sit in the lounge and listen to the clock clicking slowly through the seconds and torment myself by wondering what they’re doing, what I’m missing and what I’m failing so abjectly to compete against.
It will be noisy. James’s music will be thudding from upstairs, Lauren’s pre-school tunes will be trundling along on a loop, and in the kitchen the radio will be playing. Where will Rosie be? In the garden with Phil kicking a ball around, their banter cementing their growing bond, or in the kitchen, helping Sarah to cook, learning another version of a mum. A better one. Or, worse, they’ll be out together somewhere, a day-trip, maybe to the coast. Was it Scarborough or Sandsend that they always go to? A classic family day-trip to the seaside, ice creams and beach cricket, with a grand-dad thrown in for good measure. Because that’s what I’m up against: a whole family, not just Sarah and Phil, but a sporty brother, a doting grandparent and a wacky aunt. There’s Lauren as well, she’s the one ingredient in the mix that I’m fairly sure Rosie is less enamoured with, but it’s still an unfair fight.
Against my better instincts I phone her. It goes to voicemail. I leave a nice, bright, cheery message.
When my phone finally pings, mid-afternoon, I snatch it up, but it’s not from Rosie, it’s from Steph, scarily intuitive as ever.
I’ve bashed together a lamb casserole for tonight. See you at about 6.30? S x I’m about to text my apologies when another message appears: White rather than red by preference. But you know me, I’ll drink anything. See you soon. S xxx
As always, I let myself in; no one ever answers the door at Steph’s. ‘Hi,’ Steph shouts. She’s at the sink washing new potatoes, muddy water sloshing around in the bowl and onto her T-shirt. Her passion for her allotment is unabated by a year of backache, rain and veg-nibbling bugs. ‘The corkscrew’s in the drawer. I’ll be with you in a minute.’ It’s not, it’s in the draining rack, where it always is. I fetch three glasses. ‘He’s in the study – Tokyo. All hours. Grumpy as sin.’
Steph’s casual, staccato rudeness towards her husband, Matt, masks a lot; a lot of love and mutual respect. They’ve been married for longer than I’ve been divorced, for the most part happily, despite Steph’s perpetual grumbling and the occasional explosive argument. I’ve always envied them, deeply, not just for the obvious strength of their family, but for the atmosphere that prevails in their house. It’s relaxed, easy-come, easy-go. They’re always so uninhibited, irrespective of whether they’re bickering or laughing or full-on arguing. Without asking, I pour a third glass and take it through to Matt, tapping lightly on the study door before entering. He smiles and beckons me in, not missing a beat in his conversation. I put his wine on his desk and glance at his computer scr
een, which is awash with stats and graphs. How he can do business dressed in baggy shorts and flip-flops, with half an eye on the cricket scores, is beyond me. I wander back through to the kitchen and start laying the table. I’ve never felt anything other than completely welcome at Steph’s house. One of the family, even though I’m patently not.
When Matt gets off the phone we eat. Ellie and Greg are both around, so there’s five of us, plus the dog. We drink wine and chat and, after the plates have been cleared away, we play cards. The kids seem happy to hang out with us. There’s lots of good-natured banter and loud accusations of cheating. I don’t manage to find a way of making my excuses until after 10.30 p.m.
When I get home I check my phone for the twentieth time. Still nothing from Rosie. I call her.
She picks up. ‘Hi.’
‘It’s Mum.’
‘Hi.’
‘Did you get my messages?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I thought you might have had a chance to call me back.’
‘We’ve been busy.’
‘Doing something nice?’
‘Yeah.’ But she gives me no insight into what. Then her tone softens and she asks, ‘Are you okay? Have you been doing much?’ I fabricate a trip to Luton Hoo for lunch, and I try and make my trustee meeting sound funny, and I tell her about the meal with Steph and how badly Greg was cheating. She’s silent as I babble away. Then she says, ‘Given you’re quite busy with stuff this week, would you mind if I stayed here a bit longer?’ It’s the calculation that hurts, almost as much as her desire to stay with them.
‘Rosie, I really don’t think that’s a good idea. We said Wednesday.’
‘Please.’
‘Rosie, you don’t want to overstay your welcome.’
There’s silence on the line. When she speaks her voice is tight. ‘I’m not. I am welcome here.’
The Second Child Page 23
