by Erin Green
‘Anyway, watch your programme . . . and I’ll phone you in an hour.’ I collect my sleepy child and his bag and hastily take my leave.
My mum presses a pair of school trousers, freshly washed, dried and folded, into my hands as she kisses me on the doorstep.
‘He had a little accident earlier.’
I drive home with a sense of doom bearing down on me.
Why couldn’t I just be honest with the two people who have always supported me? They’ve never judged me or scolded me; they’ve played such vital roles in my life. Regardless of my situation or my decisions, they’ve always had my back. They’ve only ever wanted what was best for me. And Luke.
I should have stayed, watched the opening episode sitting beside them. Even if I couldn’t bring myself to explain prior to appearing on the screen, I should have stayed. I giggle, thinking that it would make rather a hilarious Gogglebox moment in their lounge. I imagine their jaws dropping, their eyes widening and their simultaneous stares in my direction, as I cringe, a decorative cushion held up to my face. My other viewing position might have been peering through the hinged crack of the lounge door, ensuring that I could only see a sliver of the TV screen. Such a childish act, last used to protect me from Dr Who and the invading Daleks, as if that would ease my embarrassment.
I feel like a chicken.
A scaredy-cat who should face her fears.
I glance at Luke in the rear-view mirror; he’s hugging his elephant contentedly and drowsily watching the passing traffic through lopsided glasses. His eyes are half closed and he’s struggling to stay awake given the rocking motion of the car. My dad has obviously played with him and run him ragged non-stop in an effort to entertain him after school, which has wiped my little soldier out. I suspect Luke will be fast asleep by the time we reach home – my dad may well be asleep in his armchair soon too. Though he’ll get a shock when my mother wakes him to see my image on their TV screen.
On arriving home, I’m reminded how different my life could be as I lift Luke from the car, attempting not to wake him, always a job and a half given his stocky frame. I’m not asking any new partner to completely devote themselves to my child. He’d be incapable of loving him like I do. I’d be happy to accept a partner who could befriend Luke, care for him, correct him when necessary and comfort him tenderly in my absence. I imagine that loving someone else’s child is difficult enough, fraught with issues and, at times, simply damned hard work. But I’m not prepared to share my life with any man alive who would stand by and watch me struggle with this particular task. I have to nip from the parked car to open the front door in preparation, then sneak back to the car, unlock the rear doors, undo his safety buckles, ease his legs from the moulded seat, tease the soft elephant ear from Luke’s tight grip. Every stage is another job to perform and triumphantly celebrate when I don’t wake the sleeping child. Then there’s the lift, cradle and manoeuvre whilst preventing his head bumping against the doorframe and the stagger towards our doorstep like a marathon runner bent double crossing the finish line. The only prize being a still slumbering child and not a gold medal.
The finale is a frantic dash up the staircase and a gentle plop on to his bed before dashing downstairs to retrieve my handbag, lock the car and secure the front door. Could I imagine Alex standing back to watch me perform this intricate task? Or could I imagine my sleeping boy cradled in Alex’s arms, his head lolling and his feet dangling?
Yes . . . ?
No.
I can imagine Alex being gallant enough to half-heartedly offer. He’s polite enough to feel uncomfortable whilst watching a mother struggle with the dead weight of a sleeping child. But could I see Alex having the innate instinct to simply act – nah! Which is a shame, he seemed a nice chap at first.
Having laid Luke on his bed, I traipse downstairs to lock the car and close the front door. I hesitate as the final sliver of our neighbourhood remains in view, and pause to look outside, up and down the quiet street.
By now, any one of my neighbours might be staring at their TV screen, pointing frantically and shouting, ‘That’s the woman next door!’ Further afield the chummy-mummies could be doing the same with a slight alteration: ‘That’s Luke’s mum!’ No doubt they’ll critically analyse my conversation, my body language and my lack of flirting skills. They’ll watch me devour my three-course meal and I hope to God that the production team have edited out the toilet sound effects.
I slowly withdraw behind the solid front door and await my parent’s verdict.
‘Mummy?’ says Luke groggily as I carefully remove his hoodie. His eyes remain firmly closed.
‘Yes, sweetie?’
‘Grandpops’s mad –’ he slaps his lips together before continuing – ‘paper shop man . . .’
My ears prick up, tuning in to Luke’s sloppy speech.
My dad argues with nobody, ever. He sees it as a lack of decorum, control and a waste of breath.
Stay calm, stay blasé and listen carefully.
I peer at Luke’s relaxed features, willing him to continue, but his eyes are closed, his button nose snuffling and his breathing working its way back towards a deep sleep.
I sigh. He’ll say no more. A wave of sadness envelopes me, because I know the only reason my dad would ever argue or be angry is because of this little boy. He will defend to the death Luke’s rights to a good life and . . .
‘He’s just a little boy,’ mutters Luke, in his sleep.
I bite my lip as Luke’s brow furrows and then relaxes as a fleeting memory of today is hopefully erased.
Instantly I want to hug my dad. I have no details, no proof, but I sense that sometime today in the paper shop my dad reacted to someone. Was it a cruel remark? An intense stare? But he’s been a proud grandfather standing up for my son. Not what my dad expected to have to do when I announced I was pregnant, or even when I made my second announcement declaring I’d be a single mum. I received nothing but tight hugs and kisses on my third and final announcement. I’d waited ten days to say, readying myself and getting my own head around the final test result before sharing it with the family.
My eyes well up, realising my dad has endured a moment today justifying my decision of six years ago. I want to squeeze him. I wish he’d said earlier. I wish Dad had shared, but he’s swallowed it like I do, most days, for fear of it ruining the other twenty-three hours and fifty-eight minutes of our precious day.
‘My God, you could have said . . . your father nearly had a coronary!’ screeches my mother, at 10:03 when she phones straight after the programme airs.
‘Sorry, I just didn’t know what to say and then I got all embarrassed about choosing that path and then . . . oh well . . . what did you think anyway?’
‘You came over bloody brilliant . . . but we didn’t like the guy!’ she says, instantly talking over her shoulder to my dad in the background. ‘I’m just telling Dana – we didn’t like him, did we? Nothing against him but he didn’t seem very child-friendly.’
I’m about to ask why but she continues anyway.
‘I can’t see how the so-called experts put you pair together. What on earth did you have in common? Your father reckons that he’s probably the worst of the three and that the other two will be better matches. The first episode is all about warming up the audience for the week ahead, isn’t it? Viewing figures and all that.’
‘I’m not sure, Mum. Alex was quite nice to talk to. I sensed he wasn’t overly interested in me but he was pretty intelligent and attentive. Did that come across?’
‘Oh no, I wouldn’t have said that. Hang on a minute, I’ll ask your dad. Did you think that guy came across as attentive and intelligent?’ I don’t answer because although it sounds as if she’s talking to me, she isn’t, she is in fact asking my dad, who will instinctively know it’s him she’s speaking to purely by her manner. That’s how my mum works on the telephone; it
can be confusing for her friends or PPI callers, though it’s hilarious if observed from in her lounge. ‘Your dad agrees with me. He reckons he called you Diana several times during the episode – which is simply rude in my opinion.’
‘Maybe they’ve edited it to make it appear a certain way, which isn’t funny if they portray him as uncaring or uninterested,’ I say, suddenly concerned by how Alex might be perceived by the chummy-mummies.
‘Don’t fuss, Dana – you came across very well. I said to your dad, “You can tell we raised her to have manners” – they cost nothing yet are worth a fortune!’
Cheers, Mum! Of all things she homes in on my bloody manners. Not my hair, styled by a professional, my perfectly applied make-up, which I could never replicate in a month of Sundays, or even my polite conversation. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry that my nerves held out to portray my manners to the nation. Let’s just hope that the chummy-mummies at the school gate appreciate the finer things in life. Somehow I doubt it.
‘Hang on a minute, your dad is pointing to the TV screen and telling me to watch. Dana, they’re showing a brand-new advert ready for tomorrow night’s viewing – oh Dana, they clipped together some lovely pictures of you from tonight’s episode. They’ve even added some glitzy writing which floats about the screen showing the title. I might phone your aunty and make sure she’s watching tomorrow night – she won’t want to miss it, love.’
My nerves suddenly kick in and I need the toilet, quick.
‘Mum, I’ll see you tomorrow. Thanks for having Luke and I take it you’ll be tuning in for episode two?’
‘You bet, we wouldn’t miss it for the world. I’ve already said to your dad, if tonight’s guy was the worst I might need to buy a new wedding hat by Saturday!’
‘Mum!’
‘You never know, Dana . . . they’ll no doubt have saved the best till last!’
I arrange to drop Luke off tomorrow morning, bid Mum goodbye and hang up before dashing up the stairs two at a time for the loo. My mind is racing with visions of people I know all tuning in, dissecting and pawing over every detail witnessed on their TV screen. Didn’t Mum say earlier that she’d already watched Eamonn and Ruth conduct an interview? I have no doubt that by Friday the world and his wife will have an opinion, which they won’t hold back from airing at the school gate. I need to do what is right for me and my Luke. I can’t afford to be swayed by other people’s flippant opinions. I must maintain a clear head and focus on my values – even if that means disappointing my parents and a few thousand viewers.
I stop dead on reaching the top stair.
Would it be a few thousand viewers? The prime-time slot would make a huge difference to the audience size. I won’t be a pawn in a TV ratings war for Jez’s production team to score points against a rival. I won’t be remembered as some airhead from a dating programme who upturned her life to be a one-week wonder for the cameras purely to entertain the nation’s chummy-mummies.
A sudden attack of nerves overwhelms me – this could be much bigger than I’d first imagined. The production team might have a website, discussion forum or a Twitter feed with hashtags!
The question is dare I nip online to see?
Polly
‘Polly, it’s Marc.’
I sit bolt upright in bed before he can say another word. It’s 11.22 and I was asleep, but now I am awake. Wide awake, alerted by Marc’s sombre tone.
‘Polly, there’s been a situation . . .’
‘Is everything all right?’ Instantly I feel stupid; he wouldn’t be phoning if everything was all right. Is it Dad? Mum?
I’m out of bed, grabbing my dressing gown and dashing around our bed towards the door. I need Fraser, who is still downstairs with Cody. I’m on the landing before I know where I am.
‘Polly, Helen has been taken to hospital . . . She’s . . .’
I stumble down the stairs and burst into the lounge, to stand wide-eyed and staring at Fraser and Cody, slumped on either sofa. Both jump up on seeing me, my mobile clutched to my ear.
‘Marc!’
‘She’s taken some tablets, Polly . . . lots of tablets.’
‘How many? What type? How? Why? Marc?’ I don’t give him chance to answer; my mind is racing. My sister. Helen, no!
Fraser calmly mutes the TV and stands in front of me, both hands reaching for my shoulders to gently rub them.
‘They’ve taken her to the Royal . . .’
I repeat Marc’s words mainly for Fraser’s benefit.
‘And you, where are you?’ I interrupt his calm voice.
‘I’m at home, the girls are in bed . . . I called an ambulance and they came and they’ve taken Helen in.’
You’re at home! Why aren’t you with my sister?
‘Polly, can I ask you to go and . . .’
I don’t need to be asked.
‘Marc . . . speak to Fraser.’ I thrust my mobile at Fraser. I’m flying back up the staircase faster than I have ever moved. My sister needs me.
‘Hi Marc, it’s Fraser . . . is there anything else we can do? Would you prefer to go too and I’ll sit at yours in case the girls wake up?’
Silence.
‘OK, no, that’s fine, mate – if you think that’s best . . .’
I stop on the landing hearing Fraser’s calm voice. Did Marc just say ‘no’ to Fraser’s kind offer? Why wouldn’t he want to be with her? What’s going on?
It takes me twenty-seven minutes to reach the Royal. I park hurriedly, pumping into the machine the entire handful of change that Fraser kindly gave me as I left, after I’d refused his offer to drive me. I have no idea where to go, what ward to ask for, who to report to, but I need to see my sister.
I stride across the vast car park with an array of lights and alien signs filling my view. These places are huge, no one truly knows where they are heading, everyone must have to ask for directions. I dash towards a large painted sign offering a selection of arrows and destinations. A&E jumps out at me, so I follow without knowing whether this is the right place to go.
The large glass doors automatically open and I burst through straight to a reception desk where a young woman smiles and asks if she can help.
I quickly explain, give Helen’s details and I finally breathe. I stand watching as the young woman taps her computer keyboard and locates my sister.
‘If you’d like to take a seat, someone will be with you shortly . . .’ The empathy in her manner makes me want to cry.
She knows. She read the details. She can see my panic. She knows all about it and relayed that in her tone and look.
I turn and go to sit where she’s indicated, row after row of blue seats arranged like an airport lounge but without the duty-free. A handful of people sit and wait, staring at me. A large plasma screen is muted whilst displaying Sky News. I watch the yellow info band crawl along the bottom of Anna Botting’s talking image. Forget the rest of the world, what about my sister, our Helen – why are her details not urgent enough to replace tonight’s football results?
I take a seat and wait. My gaze follows everybody as they walk the stretch of tiled floor, regardless of uniform, lanyard, pace or haste – I’m alert and ready to respond to the first flicker of interest in me, Helen’s younger sister.
I don’t know what to say, so I remain silent and hastily follow the quick-paced step of the nurse leading me through a succession of corridors, left, right, left; there are signs overhead – I’m not even looking at them. I’m simply being led through this sterile maze by my companion. She tried to communicate but, not to be rude, I don’t want polite small talk, just my sister.
I’d waited for ages and finally Anil had introduced himself.
He led me into a tiny family room, sat me down and explained gently. Whilst her two girls were safe and sound tucked up in bed, someone called Helen, who I don’t think c
an be my sister, had taken lots of tablets. Lots of paracetamol. Planned purchases, apparently, given the numbers involved. The same woman had also drunk several large whiskies. Combined the two poisons, then went upstairs to lie down. Her husband arrived home late and called 999.
Anil’s voice was soothing and patient, his eyes kind, as he talked about this stranger called Helen. I didn’t interrupt him, I just waited patiently to hear his news about my sister, also called Helen.
‘We found this . . . inside her trouser pocket.’ He’d offered me a folded piece of paper, at which I’d stared, not wanting to take it from his grasp. It wasn’t for me.
Now, the quick-stepping nurse indicates right and we enter the double doors of a small side ward with just four beds. There is only one occupant.
‘Thank you,’ I say most gratefully, as she returns to her post.
I near the bed, half expecting to see the face of that stranger, Anil’s patient, above the yellow cotton blanket.
It’s my sister, Helen.
I stand beside the bed and stare at her sallow features, her brown hair falling back from her forehead, splayed out upon the white pillow. Without saying a word, she slowly opens her eyes and takes in my presence.
‘I can’t pretend to understand where you are right now. But sometimes all we need is for someone to hold our hand during our darkest nights . . . I promise you, I won’t let go until the sun returns, OK?’
I reach for her hand and squeeze it tight. I’m her sister and this is what loving siblings do for each other.
Her blue eyes glisten and well up before her tears flow.
There is nothing else to say, so I gently stroke her hair with my free hand.
Chapter Six
Tuesday 25 February
Carmen
Our kitchen wall clock reads ten minutes to three in the morning as I drain my second mug of chamomile tea. My mind swirls with suggestions and unforgivable reasons for why Elliot has never asked me. Does he not love me? Does he love another woman? Doesn’t he want children? The stream of questions laps my mind in a never-ending loop, thanks to Mr Cole senior. Eight years, living as a couple for six of those years – how could this not end in a proposal? I’ve been patient. I’ve been hopeful and yet there’s nothing to secure our happiness. Have I missed some vital sign? Has Elliot alluded to an unhappiness which I refused to see or hear?
