by Erin Green
Trish gently leads me from my seat towards the kitchenette.
My chest feels tight, my heart is racing. I can’t speak, I just want to cry.
Polly
‘The Red Lion called earlier, Mum,’ shouts Cody, as soon as I enter the house amidst the unfamiliar buzz of young girls and their belongings.
‘I can’t hear you, Cody – just give me a minute to get my coat off,’ I answer, hurriedly packing the girls upstairs with their bags.
I go into the lounge to find him sprawled on the sofa, flicking through the channels.
‘The Red Lion called, they said they have a cancellation for Saturday but you’ll need to phone back and confirm and pay the deposit by midday tomorrow.’
‘Oh, fabulous! That’s my first choice, though I’m awaiting a call from the Blue Lion too. Which would you prefer?’
‘The Red Lion. It’s in town, parking would be easy and the train station is only up the road if anyone wants to head to a nightclub afterwards.’
I peer at him.
‘Are you saying that our celebration isn’t really enough? That everyone will want to head off afterwards for more drinking?’
‘Yeah, that’s what we normally do.’
‘Oh Cody, really! Can’t we just enjoy a decent night as a family – especially given this . . .’ I indicate up above where the sound of excited footsteps can be heard dashing about our spare bedroom. ‘Without half the guests twitching to leave early to get a decent entrance price.’
‘Mum.’
‘Cody, please. There’s a chance she might not be out of hospital, Marc won’t come then, will he? Your nan and granddad are worried sick about the implications this has for Helen – please don’t let something that could bring us all together be the thing that doesn’t happen just because a handful of your mates wish to dash off.’
‘Hello, do I hear little . . . oh, it’s you two. I thought the girls were in here,’ says Fraser, entering the lounge, on arriving home from work. ‘Are they OK?’
‘Yep, as far as I can tell . . . Mum’s tummy bug is getting better is what they told me, so we’ll stick to the story, right?’ I say, nudging Cody’s leg to ensure he’s listening.
‘Yeah, I get you.’ He resumes flicking through the TV channels, and I hope all talk of nightclubs has been banished.
Fraser nods, planting a kiss on my forehead before removing his jacket and tie.
‘Thank you,’ I say, touching his cheek.
‘For what? Having the girls here?’
I nod.
‘No worries, I wouldn’t want them anywhere else if we can help out. I know Marc’s family are close but the girls don’t see them that often, do they?’
‘Nope. Which is why I was shocked when you suggested his family might lay claim.’
‘Lay claim?’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘Listen to you getting all possessive regarding your sister’s girls . . . Are you OK?’ he asks, following me through to the kitchen as I prepare to make a cuppa.
‘I am, but I don’t see why his side – they’ve never taken an interest in Helen, never treated her like one of their family, yet now they want to be all hands-on with the girls. Well, no thanks! I’m here. I’m prepared to do what is needed for my sister and . . .’ I stop, grab the kettle and fill it with cold water. I can feel my heart racing, my stomach churning; my mind is a complete whiz – just as it has been all day. ‘I’m sick of folks picking and choosing what they do, when they do it and how much interest they pay to others on a daily basis but perking up like meerkats when there’s a drama.’
‘Polly, the kettle,’ says Fraser, indicating I should turn the tap off now the upper filling limit has been reached.
I dash out half the contents and snap down the lid ready to boil.
‘And you think they’re only interested now because she’s in hospital?’
‘Yeah! They’re probably more concerned about their precious son than my sister.’
Fraser nods and takes the kettle from my hands, as I appear to be clutching it instead of making my much-needed cuppa.
‘Surely my parents have more need to be with the girls at the moment, given that it’s their daughter who’s in hospital and they can’t spend all day there, as they’d like. The girls would at least keep them busy – take their mind off things.’
‘Can I ask why they’re here then?’ says Fraser, preparing mugs with teabags and sugar.
‘Because Marc wants them both at school from tomorrow and not off. Dad’s driving is a bit . . . you know, and Mum hasn’t got a car so how could she get them back and forth?’
‘And we can?’
I settle at the breakfast bar now that my task has been withdrawn from me.
‘Yes, I’ll drive them both across town each morning . . . I can’t imagine Helen will be kept in for much longer.’
Fraser pulls a face.
‘Do you think?’
‘It depends on their observations, Polly . . . you know that.’
‘She’ll be fine,’ I say. ‘This will have been a mistake, a misunderstanding caused by . . .’ I stop speaking on seeing Fraser’s face. His expression is quizzical, eyebrows raised, and he’s looking at me much like my father used to do when questioning my theories as a child . . . one of those ‘really now’ faces that makes you rethink your words and come up with the true answer.
‘I wouldn’t be so sure. How many times have you accidently popped four blister packs of tablets by accident and then . . .’
‘Don’t!’
‘Exactly.’
I suddenly remember what Anil gave me at the hospital. I jump down from my stool, rush into the hallway and rummage in my coat pocket for the piece of paper. My fingers trace the folded edges as if collecting Helen’s fingerprints.
Did she write this before or afterwards?
For me or Marc?
I turn it over: there’s no indication – it looks innocent enough, simply a folded piece of white paper.
I return to the kitchen as Fraser places my steaming mug on the breakfast bar.
‘They gave me this the other night,’ I say, offering up the paper.
Fraser’s comprehension is swift and sudden, seeing what’s in my outstretched hand.
‘You read it,’ I tell him.
‘Polly, surely this should be given to Marc unread . . . It’s private.’
I shake my head.
My hands unfold the paper. I lay it flat beside my mug.
I’m sorry. Look after my girls, tell them I love them so much. Helen x
I read her words in silence, crumpling the note into my palm before I begin to sob.
Fraser’s hands prise my fingers apart to remove the note before cradling me in his arms. I can feel his strength wrapped around my shoulders like a protective blanket. I know he’s right with his logical manner and yet I want him to be wrong about this situation. Wrong about my sister. Her efforts and the possible outcome, which I know won’t be a quick fix for any of us, least of all Helen and her girls.
A thunder of feet is heard crashing down the staircase; I pull away and prepare to pull a smile from my metaphorical bag of tricks.
‘Hey, girls,’ calls Fraser, as the kitchen door bursts wide open revealing two excited nieces. ‘What’s it to be, pepperoni or Hawaiian?’ His excited tone diverts their attention from me, as I quickly wipe my eyes and grab for the crumpled paper, stuffing it into my pocket.
‘Shit!’ I launch myself off the sofa at just gone ten o’clock and search for my handbag in the hallway, shouting through to Fraser, ‘When did Cody say the Red Lion wanted the deposit to be paid by?’
We’d ordered and eaten pizza, and watched nonsense TV with the two girls before bidding them sweet dreams, and had spent the last hour lazing on the sofa staring at a d
rama.
‘By midday tomorrow,’ comes his reply, as I return to the lounge, handbag in hand, to search for details and contact names.
‘The Blue Lion haven’t got back to me, so it’s a good job the Red Lion have, though if I lose the booking, we won’t look pretty partying in their car park,’ I say, finding my to-do list. ‘Monica, that’s the name.’ I grab my mobile and begin dialling.
‘At this time of night?’ asks Fraser, pausing the TV drama. ‘You’re hoping.’
I shrug, simply relieved to have remembered before the morning.
‘Hello, is it possible to speak to Monica, please?’ I give a wide smile, as the young woman puts me on hold to tinny lift music. Fraser nods and returns to his drama. I’ve lost the plotline so there’s no point him waiting for me. ‘Yes, hello, Monica . . . Polly Willis here . . . yes, yes, I know. Sorry I have left it a little late to call and secure the booking . . . yes, I don’t blame you for thinking I wasn’t interested. Oh, please, don’t offer it to anyone else. I did get the message but we’ve had a family situation . . . anyway, am I still able to confirm the booking and possibly pay the deposit over the phone?’
I can hear the frustration in her voice: dealing with the general public isn’t always the easiest of jobs. I can tell she now thinks I’m a total time-waster and a good-for-nothing mother who’s blagging an excuse. To be fair, I don’t really care, given the previous two days I’ve had. But I will sleep better tonight if this job is sorted and the venue confirmed.
I spend another five minutes on the phone, reiterating our requirements and making an appointment for tomorrow morning to view the conference suite, which I appear to be booking, given that our credit card is pinched between my fingers.
‘Thank you, yes, I’ll sign the paperwork tomorrow,’ I say dubiously, knowing full well I should have dropped by on my way home from work tonight but, hey, family comes first in my book.
I end the call, relieved that I’ve paid for the room hire . . . one less task to mither me.
‘Are we sorted about his present? I ask, unsure whether Fraser has finalised the details.
‘Of course! Do you think I’d leave something like that to chance?’
‘No, but given the week we seem to be having, I thought I’d ask.’
‘All sorted. Five thirty appointment on Friday.’
I return to the sofa. My mind is now a scramble of party ideas. Venue booked, catering nearly sorted. The DJ needs chasing, text invites need monitoring and a quick dash around the local card shop should provide me with all the decorations and balloons that I’ll need – unless the venue can offer me a package deal on that tomorrow. Though it might be cheaper if we do it ourselves.
‘Are you going to switch off any time soon?’ asks Fraser, stroking my head as I snuggle under his arm.
‘Doesn’t look like it. I’ll get through this week, then take some time for myself next week.’
‘Mmmm.’
I don’t bother trying to convince him. He knows I’m lying. He knows my weekly routine off by heart. Monday, Tuesday and Friday working at the travel agents and the rest of the week dashing, running, hustling and being wherever I’m needed for the older and younger generations.
My phone bleeps. A text from my dad.
Fido booked in for 2pm tomorrow x
‘OMG!’ I yell, knowing perfectly well Fido’s appointment will clash with collecting my mother from her class.
Fraser stares, awaiting my explanation.
‘Dad didn’t call to confirm before booking the dog groomers . . . and the appointment’s tomorrow. How am I supposed to drive Mum home and take Fido?’
‘Really? Since when have you been the taxi for that job?’
I peel myself from under his protective wing to stare at him for full effect.
‘For the last eight years with Fido and the previous ten years with that mongrel he used to have!’
Fraser watches as I sit staring at my phone.
‘What time does your mum need picking up from The Bed Shop?’
‘Two o’clock.’
‘I’ll take a late lunch and drive her home.’
‘Thank you,’ I sigh, snuggling back into position and breathing in his comforting warmth. ‘I chose a good ’un.’
Fraser murmurs his gratitude before kissing my temple.
Dana
‘Seriously, this is how you portray yourself, Dana?’ asks the instantly recognisable voice.
‘Andrew . . . nice to hear from you after so long!’ I reply without flinching.
‘I turn on the TV and there you are filling the screen . . . what are you playing at?’
‘How dare you! You chose to walk out on my life the minute Down’s syndrome was confirmed – so, go figure! I’ve spent five years looking after my son . . . our son and yes, now, having spent five years alone, I have a right to begin having a tiny slice of a life of my own. You’ve got a bloody cheek!’
‘Dana, everyone we know saw you.’
‘Er, yeah! Likewise everyone we know witnessed your hasty decision to abandon ship – but that didn’t stop you doing as you wished six years ago!’
‘Dana!’
‘Andrew!’
‘Could you have not informed me?’
‘I don’t have to ask for your permission! Could you have not informed me prior to a major life decision just how shallow you actually were, or was that too much to ask?’
‘Dana!’
Breathe, I tell myself. It amazes me how quickly Andrew’s voice can ignite my emotions.
‘Our son is very well, by the way; he’s doing well at school. I thought I’d say since you haven’t asked. I can also confirm that since starting school he does frequently ask, “Have I got a daddy?” Though I am trying to play it down, so that should ease your guilt,’ I say calmly, trying to regain control of my rising anger.
‘Dana, you didn’t even mention his condition during your dinner date last night, so don’t lecture me about the moral high ground!’
‘Why should I? It was a first date. When you met Hannah, did you immediately discuss your son’s condition or did you chat about the weather first?’ I snarl, hurt that he would hurl such a remark at me.
‘Hannah has never had an issue with Luke’s condition.’
‘Hannah has never met Luke! And why’s that, Andrew? Because you’ve never made arrangements for access or visiting. You’ve seen him three times in five years! Luke hasn’t even met his two half-brothers, so don’t try that crap with me.’
Andrew falls silent. He can’t argue with fact.
‘Dana, you know I can’t . . .’
‘Andrew, you could if you wanted to. I’ve been telling you for nearly six years, you are welcome to visit him here for as little as an hour – simply name a date and time.’ I’m happy to stomach Andrew visiting my home if it means my son gets to see his father. I know my parents don’t harbour such forgiving feelings but I’d do anything for my boy to have a proper relationship with his dad, despite the events of the past.
I wait for him to speak but Andrew’s conversation stalls, probably due to the dam of guilt over which his words must climb before flowing. A dramatic pause follows . . . which would mean so much more if we hadn’t been here before but, sadly, such a pause means absolutely nothing.
‘Dana, I can’t.’
‘Can’t or won’t?’
I know it’s difficult for him. I get that we are each made of different stuff, have different views and opinions on life. Andrew made his choice and I made mine. So why keep interrupting our life if he can’t or won’t participate?
‘Luke’s beginning to ask questions and so far I have very little to tell him . . . it would be great if you could play a part. If not, then leave us alone to get on with our lives. I’ve never asked you for anything, Andrew. I’ve never even asked
you for money. So I don’t appreciate you popping up every eighteen months or so when you’re rattled by something you’ve heard or seen.’
‘You’re appearing on the bloody TV! What am I supposed to do?’
‘Nothing, Andrew. Pretend you’ve never met me or simply ignore the programme – there are plenty of other channels to watch.’
‘Ha bloody ha, as if that’s easy when my wife’s hooked on the first two episodes!’
‘That’s your business, not mine.’
‘Everyone is talking about it . . . I think I have a right—’
He doesn’t get to finish his sentence.
‘Right? You want to discuss rights, Andrew? I’ll tell you what rights you have . . . none! You walked away from your rights on the day we visited the midwife. Since that day I have fought for my boy’s right to do all the things any other child does, including your other two sons . . . and now, after nearly six years, I have the right to a private life, to get to know someone who the experts think might be a true match for me. Someone who won’t let us down, someone who might enjoy the life we have and someone who might be able to show both Luke and I love and affection.’
‘Dana . . .’
‘Goodbye, Andrew.’
I end the call with as much animosity as if we’d been present in the same room – funny how emotions can flare in one phone call. I haven’t heard from him in eighteen months and yet still his attitude angers me every time we speak.
I imagine him ending the call and instantly returning to his family life, blasé and carefree. Me, I sit for thirty minutes on the bottom stair, clutching my mobile and crying. My memory relives our most important conversation, the one that began this sparring match to which we’ve just added another round:
‘What?’ I’d said, puzzled by his response.
‘I mean . . . I’m not sure I’m up to . . . you know.’
I’d instinctively cradled my swelling bump.
‘Andrew . . . what are you suggesting?’
‘Dana, I can’t . . . I couldn’t possibly . . .’
‘Andrew?’
He’d fallen silent, lowered his head and I had tried taking my cue from the top of his dark hair, sitting in the midwife’s tiny office. She had sat behind her incredibly tidy desk, offered a pre-printed list of counselling options and support groups but provided no immediate support to either of us during this difficult discussion.
