Just a Girl, Standing in Front of a Boy

by Lucy-Anne Holmes

  The funeral is only two days away, but I haven’t been able to get hold of my father. There was no answer at home and then when I called his work I was told he was on a three-week holiday. No one seemed to know where he’d gone. One chap thought Florida, another said he’d mentioned a cruise. They both said he would be on email for anything urgent. But I emailed and I haven’t heard from him. In the first email I just said, please contact Jenny. But then when he hadn’t responded after twenty-four hours I had to tell him about Mum. There was no answer at Sue’s house either. So I can only assume that she’s with him. I think that Mum went to Sue’s house on the day she was diagnosed. I just have a feeling. She hinted that she’d known about the affair for years. So that must have been the catalyst to confront it. I don’t think she even told my father that she was ill.

  ‘Hey, Mum,’ I whisper.

  I’ve been talking to her a fair bit. I’m hoping Mum’s found Doris and they’re having a glass of cheap fizz.

  The hall buzzer goes. I look at it but don’t move. I may be feeling strong but I’m not sure I want to see anyone. The buzzer goes again.

  ‘Mum, should I get the door?’

  I really will stop doing this at some point, I promise. For some reason, though, I’m already up and I’m lifting up the receiver of the intercom.

  ‘Hello?’ I say. My voice surprises me for some reason.

  There’s no answer. But I feel as though someone’s there. It seems surreal. But then nothing feels as it should at the moment.

  ‘Jenny Taylor.’

  I close my eyes. I have to swallow. Isn’t it strange how some voices can make you instantly feel like crying?

  ‘Hello,’ I say, my voice quivering. ‘I don’t think I want to see you.’

  Perhaps I’m not as strong as I thought. It’s Joe King.

  ‘Oh, Jen. I know. But I’m afraid you need to see me.’

  I shake my head and have to swallow again.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Please.’

  I lean against the wall.

  ‘Joe, what do you want? I’m… I’m not great at the moment…’

  ‘I know… I know about your mum,’ he says gently.

  Now I’m crying. It’s his voice. His bloody kind voice, the voice that whispered to me, ‘Can I help? Can I do anything?’ when he held me on the pavement the day that Doris went to hospital. The voice that said, ‘I’ll be by your side,’ when I spoke about seeing my old school bullies. It was the voice that I thought would stay by me.

  ‘Oh, Jenny.’ He’s crying too. I don’t like hearing him cry.

  ‘People will think you’re mad crying into an intercom system.’

  ‘Let them.’

  I buzz him in.

  I open the door. I can hear him walking up the stairs, not quickly, not slowly, but steadily. It suits me. I try to regulate my breathing before I see his face. He’s on the landing now, walking towards the flat. Now he’s here. He’s in front of me. Joe King, in his biker boots, and his black jeans and his grey hoodie. It’s the Joe King as I remember except there are tears down his cheeks and his mouth is twisting as he tries not to weep. I want to comfort him. But I don’t move. My chest heaves and my eyes fill again with tears but I don’t step towards him.

  We stand still, our irregular breathing oddly similar. I don’t know why we’re doing this. It doesn’t look like it’s good for either of us. I don’t know what to say.

  ‘Do you want a cup of tea?’

  I’m so British.

  He nods and half smiles and shrugs and then follows me through to the kitchen. Mum’s obituary is lying open on the kitchen table.

  ‘Such a great picture of her,’ he says and it strikes me as being a bit of an overfamiliar thing to say about someone you only met once and didn’t seem to particularly get on with.

  I keep my back to him while the kettle boils and I get the tea ready. When I eventually turn around with the cups, I’m newly shocked by how upset he looks.

  ‘Listen, you,’ I say, trying to jest. ‘My Mum died, I’m supposed to be the more miserable of the two of us.’

  He looks down at his lap and nods. I place the teas on the table and sit down on the furthest chair from him. I can’t be too close. I still want to reach out and touch him. He’s sucking his bottom lip. He seems far, far away. Eventually he looks up at me, sighs a tiny sigh and looks back down at his lap.

  ‘I knew your mum was ill, Jenny.’

  ‘Say that again…’

  He nods. ‘I knew… I knew she was ill. Really ill. She came to the pharmacy right after I started there. She had loads of stuff on prescription. I said, “We’ll be able to hear you rattle with all this.” Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything, I’d never worked in a chemist. Anyway, she laughed, and when she came back to pick them up she’d had her hair done. So we had a bit of banter. Then she came in again not long after and she was glowing, and I said, “You look great, you don’t look at all poorly.” And she seemed thrilled, but she said, “I am though, it’s my brain, I always suspected I was ill in the brain. But it’s my secret.” That was it. And I’m just working in a shop, Jenny, I didn’t know what to do or say! Then when she came in again, I said, “how are you doing?” and she said, “OK. I think I’ve got a little while left and I’m living it.” And I said, “Do you want to talk about it?” and she smiled and said, “Thank you, but I haven’t told my own daughter so I shouldn’t really talk to you.” I said, “fair enough.” And she said, “Do you think that’s wrong of me. To not tell my daughter that I’m dying?” And I thought about it. I didn’t say anything. She said, “I just don’t want everything to be about my dying, I want it to be about my living.’ And I thought about it. And I nodded, and I said, “I’d probably do the same.” I was already in love with you. And then we had your mum over for tea.’

  He stops speaking suddenly and starts to cry, as though it’s a relief for him to have finally poured it all out.

  I get up and give him some kitchen roll. I leave it in front of him on the table.

  ‘I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want to hurt you, Jenny. I’d never hurt you. Oh, God, I feel sick.’ He half laughs and wipes his face with the kitchen roll. ‘ I still don’t know what I’d do differently. How I’d do it better. She asked me not to tell you. How could I be with you keeping that a secret? But then I didn’t want to not be with you. I hate secrets, Jen. But this wasn’t mine to tell. Oh, God.’ He puts his head in his hands. He exhales. ‘You said that since you’d met me you’d neglected your mum, and I thought, I’ve got to step aside, let you guys have time together. So that’s what I did. But I didn’t want to hurt you. Oh, I hated to hurt you. And I know you probably can’t forgive me. But’ – he swallows, and runs his fingers through his hair – ‘that’s what happened. Anyway, after the tea, your mum came and visited me. She gave me a letter, she said, “This is for Jenny, after I’m gone, hopefully I’ll get to tell her before I go, and then I’ll come and tell you and we can throw this letter away. But if I don’t get a chance, for some reason, if the old brain wants to speed things up, then can I ask you to give this to her?”’

  He pulls a square envelope out of the front pocket of his hoodie and pushes it along the table towards me. Jenny, my beautiful girl it says on the front.

  ‘I best get out of your hair,’ he says, standing.

  I look up at him, at this beautiful man.

  ‘Will you be coming to the funeral? It’s the day after tomorrow.’ I whisper.

  ‘It’s up to you,’ he answers quietly. ‘If you want me to.’

  I nod. ‘The dress code is The Rolling Stones.’

  We lock eyes and let our breathing synch for a moment. I never notice my breathing with anyone else, yet with Joe King, it’s as if our respiratory systems are desperate to dance together. He steps away from his chair and walks towards the door. I follow him. He turns when he’s on the threshold so we’re facing each other.

  ‘Jenny, I’m so sorry,’ he whisper
s.

  ‘It’s OK.’ I mouth the words.

  I look into his kind, wretched face. And he looks down at me. And, as if at the same time, our arms open. Mine find his back, they pull him towards me, and his hands land on my shoulders and draw me into him. His head rests on top of mine. I can hear his heart beating. I don’t want to leave this embrace and I don’t for a long while. When I do I say, ‘Will you go home…’ Joe King looks at me and nods sadly. But I hadn’t finished because what I was going to say, and what I do say, is, ‘Will you go home and get your guitar and come back?’

  Joe doesn’t answer.

  ‘If you want?’ I add.

  ‘I want,’ he says.

  Chapter 70

  My beautiful, beautiful girl,

  Oh, Jenny, I’m sitting up in your bed writing this to you. I look about me and I see all your hundreds of fabulous outfits and I hear you chattering and laughing with Al in the kitchen. Yet there’s a tear in my eye already, because if you’re reading this then… well, then… I’m no longer with you. And I am so sorry I didn’t have time to tell you. I wanted to tell you myself. But I also wanted us to have this time together, without such a black cloud hanging over us. If you think this was wrong of me, Jenny, I am so truly sorry.

  Jenny, my darling, I’m going to say something, which will be a shock. So I hope you are sitting down and I hope you will forgive me. It’s something I promised Jack I wouldn’t tell you. But as I’m no longer about, as such, I feel I can. I wish I hadn’t promised. I’m starting to feel you’ve been unduly punished by secrets, Jenny. And again, I am so, so sorry.

  In 1984 I went to Reading Festival with Debbie and met a man called Lawrence. Jenny, I am almost positive that this man is your father. Not Jack. I’m so sorry, Jenny. I had been seeing Jack, and before Debbie and I went to the festival, he proposed, I hadn’t answered him, I was to make my mind up there. And I did, I decided not to marry him. I fell in love almost instantly with this man called Lawrence. Oh, he was lovely, Jenny, funny and caring and he had a way of looking at the world that made you excited to be alive. But I lost him. Still, I came home and told Jack I didn’t want to marry him. But Jack persisted. He was very persistent when he wanted something. Then I found out I was pregnant. In all honesty, I wasn’t sure whose it was. I told Jack this. But he said he’d marry me anyway. And that seemed like a good thing, Jenny. I hope you can understand this. I wanted you to have a father. So we married and you were born, but then Jack and I couldn’t have any more children, we tried but I never got pregnant and I think that’s when he started to resent you and me. He never trusted me, as you might remember. So no, I shouldn’t have married him, but I did and I thought I’d made the most of it. But me marrying him made no one happy, and unhappiness grows, it seeps into everything, until you forget that happiness is even an option. All I ask of you, Jenny, is that when you find happiness, cling to it, defend it. But somehow I know you will.

  I don’t think I’m the only woman who looks back on their life and thinks, well if it wasn’t for my diabolical decisions in love, I would have aced this life malarkey. But Jenny, I had a good ride. And although I could have used another forty-odd years, as we both know, when it’s your time it’s your time. And you have to be grateful for the time you had. And mine was good. I had good love and bad love and good friends and bad friends, I saw sunsets and cities, I laughed and I cried, I made mistakes, but don’t we all? And I did some good, I helped some people, but best, best, best of all I had a beautiful daughter. When I look at you or think of you, Jenny, I feel so proud of you. You once said, ‘We can’t all be superstars,’ but you are, Jenny, I think you’re a superstar. You certainly shine like a star.

  I will always be at your side, my darling daughter, always.

  I’m so glad we had these days.

  Lots of big, big hugs.

  Your proud mum.

  x

  ‘Do you need a hug?’ Joe King says, when I’ve finished reading.

  I nod. He lays his guitar down on the floor then moves over to me on the sofa and he scoops me into his arms. I appreciate that he doesn’t ask me what it says. I don’t want to start talking about how my dad isn’t really my dad at all, but some bloke called Lawrence is instead. There’ll be plenty of time in the future for me to discuss all this with him. Right, now, I just want to be held.

  Chapter 71

  Jack Taylor always seemed an unlikely partner for my mum. He looked too tanned, too smooth, too a lot of things for her somehow. A little bit smug with it as well, a little bit ‘didn’t you do well, darling’. But not today. My dad – even though our blood is different I can’t stop calling him my father overnight – my dad, Jack, is broken. We stood next to each other in the crematorium and I don’t think he could see, his eyes were so wet and swollen. All I could hear throughout the service was him trying to breath through his blocked nose. We left the crematorium together, walking side by side into the bright sunshine to the sound of the Rolling Stones’ ‘Ruby Tuesday’. There in the entrance he suddenly grabbed me and clutched me to him. The other guests had to walk around us. It wasn’t quite the hug I had imagined, what with it being at my mother’s funeral and all. But… well, I don’t know actually. I don’t know what to feel. He couldn’t speak when he released me.

  ‘Let’s meet up next week,’ I found myself saying to him. ‘To…’ I stopped there. To what? To have dinner? A drink? A coffee? To reminisce about Mum? But I found myself saying, ‘Let’s meet up next week and talk.’

  I don’t know how you go about rebuilding tattered relationships like ours but talking seemed to be the only place to start.

  He nodded.

  And so, here we all are. A group of people sitting on the grass in the sun. Me wondering if I could manage some hummus. The ache is still there, obviously. But there’s also another feeling, one I can’t quite put my finger on yet. My Mum left me her love. She spent her last months with me and now I have her love. Something I didn’t really feel I had before. And that love is such a gift – I can’t help but feel that it’s changed everything, most of all the way I feel about myself. I’m all right, you know. Jenny Taylor’s all right. I no longer feel terrified that everyone’s going to leave me or start hating me. Maybe having my mum’s love is making me love myself. Oh, I don’t know. Perhaps I can’t be relied on to make sense today. And I probably shouldn’t try. But I’ve decided I’m going to go to college. I hope I can go part time at the surgery and study performing arts somewhere. I want to grow and learn now. I’m ready and I think she’d be pleased and that makes me smile.

  ‘Hey, beautiful,’ Joe King says, squeezing my hand.

  I’m wearing my wedding dress. I did ask him if he thought it was weird, but he said that I looked beautiful and that I had to wear it. He hasn’t left my side since he reappeared. We haven’t said much to each other, to be honest, and we haven’t done any sexy stuff. His hand simply seems to appear in mine, or I feel his arm around me when I need it. I feel lucky, and like Mum said, I’m going to cling to this and defend it. I’m not going to be afraid this time. Nope, no more fear.

  I squint my eyes at the sun blazing down upon us. I’m not complaining, I’m glad the sun is smiling today for Mum.

  ‘Do you want my shades?’ Joe asks.

  I shake my head and pull out the Dame Edna ones that Mum wore the day she had the hangover to eclipse all others. At least that’s what I thought. I always assumed the headaches were hangovers; it never occurred to me they’d be anything else.

  ‘Ah, I remember those!’ Al exclaims, when he sees me putting them on.

  ‘Yeah, do you remember that day? She got all overcome that you’d made a frittata. “He’s a man and he made frittata, why does that make me so happy?”’ I say. I love sharing stories about her.

  ‘There are so many people here,’ Philippa whispers. ‘I think there’s well over a hundred.’

  I nod. ‘I think most of them must be from the hospice where she used to work. I should go a
nd introduce myself.’

  ‘Do you want me to come?’ Joe squeezes my hand.

  ‘No, I’ll be fine. But thank you.’ I smile. That nice Joe King, my mum said. ‘You should play a song on your guitar.’

  ‘Do you want me to?’

  ‘Why not? She loved a festival, my mum,’ I say.

  It makes me think of my dad, my real dad who doesn’t know I exist. I wonder if I will ever meet him. I wonder whether I should search for him or whether perhaps Mum was right and some things really are meant to stay lost.

  I stand up, wipe the grass from the backs of my legs and start visiting the clusters of picnicking people. Debbie Diamond jumps up and hugs me. She’s hugged me a few times already today, she’s insisting that Joe and I go and stay with her for a few days. We said we’d like that very much. I leave her and walk towards Dr Flemming, in his very fitted purple suit from the seventies, so tight in the trousers I don’t know where to look. He’s talking with Marge, who’s wearing a kaftan. She’s draped over her beau from Reading. I say hello and hug them. I think Mum would have liked to have gone out with Dr Flemming really. But I think she was frightened that being a GP, he’d suspect she was ill. That’s my theory anyway. When I move on, Simon the Plasterer stands up, he holds out his hand for me to shake, but I smile and hug him instead.

  A kindly faced lady reaches out and taps me on the leg when we are finished. I bend down.

  ‘Your mother was a wonderful woman,’ she says emphatically. ‘When we lost half our funding at the hospice, it was your mother that came up with the plan that got us through. She saved the day for us.’

  She briefly introduces me to the group she’s sitting with, nurses who knew Mum, other fundraisers and even some families who had loved ones at the hospice and met my mum. I feel so very proud as I leave them to carry on with my other greetings.