by Caroline Day
‘Marnie Shale says it’s still all right to put it in my book. Even if it is a little tiny coincidence. She says it’s still all right.’
I didn’t even have to look for the word in my brain one tiny bit. Coincidence. Not even bingo. It was just there.
‘What coincidence? Him working at the hospital? Or being in your writing group?’ Bridget Flynn means Simon Taylor. I know that’s his only name now, and not Stephen at all. I’ll always remember it now. Because of talking to him on the telephone, and also because of him coming to Danny Flynn’s house with Julie Clarke. I think that was yesterday, maybe. And soon he’ll be coming again, actually, and Julie Clarke too, because of them and me going to the hospital later.
I’ve done so much talking today, it’s been talk, talk, talk. In the morning, there was Marnie Shale, popping by for a little word with me, with Danny Flynn here too, not going to work in the morning, because of a half day. Marnie Shale brought some chocolates, which were like the snails, but I didn’t eat very many at all, because of not feeling very hungry, actually.
And then there was more talking with Camilla da Silva. And after that a little nap, because of all the talking, talking, talking making my head so sleepy. And now Bridget Flynn is looking at me, with her eyebrows close together, and asking about what coincidence.
‘Only a tiny bit of a coincidence. Not one like sitting in a bus with your cousin who you don’t even know. Because of Simon Taylor wanting to find me anyway, so it wasn’t a ginormous one.’
‘Hang on, so this Simon joined the writing group to find you?’
‘No. Because he didn’t know that I was going to be doing the lessons too. He didn’t know that I even wanted to write a book. But he did want to find me and that was why he wanted to talk to my mum, and he did go to the bookshop too. But my mum wasn’t even there. Because it was her day off, maybe. Maybe it was a Sunday, when he went, and my mum doesn’t work on Sunday.’
‘Still, sounds like quite a coincidence to me.’ This is Bridget again, with her eyes wide and her mouth too. ‘Let alone him working at the—’
‘Not really …’ It’s Danny Flynn speaking really quickly. I’m dipping my toast into the egg, and pressing it down with my fork, because of that being the yummiest bit. So I’m looking at my plate now. But with a bit of my eyes, I’m seeing Danny Flynn looking at Bridget and shaking his head. But he stops when I look at him. And he smiles at me, even though he’s still talking to Bridget.
‘Lots of people want to write books, Mum. And the NHS is the biggest employer in the country. As you should know. And—’
‘It wasn’t a gigantic coincidence about him working in the hospital, actually.’ I’m only interrupting a little bit because of it being important. ‘Actually it was as far away from a coincidence as anything.’
‘But …’ I think maybe Bridget is going to say something else but Danny Flynn is putting his finger to his mouth. Connor Flynn is cutting his egg into slices. He’s already eaten all his beans.
‘He really really didn’t know about my mum being in the hospital.’ I’m explaining it to Bridget Flynn. And I know because of Simon telling it to me, and Marnie too. And that’s why it’s not such a gigantic coincidence so I can still write it in my book. ‘He didn’t even have any idea that she was there. Julie Clarke was right about it being a ginormous hospital and him being in a different part of it. And that’s because of him being a special sort of nurse. An alcohol nurse. For alcoholics. The disease for people who can’t stop drinking vodka and gin – I mean G. And beer and wine. And that’s not a coincidence at all, about him being that sort of nurse, because he even decided to do that job because of my birth mother and me, maybe, too. That’s why he decided not to be a computer programmer anymore, but to become an alcohol nurse. But mostly he works with people in their homes, and only sometimes in the hospital, like maybe once a week, and he didn’t even know that my mum – Jenny Nicely – was there. So that is really not a coincidence like one person going to America and meeting their cousin in a bus, even without knowing who they are. That’s much more ginormous. That’s a real couldn’t-make-it-up coincidence.’
Connor Flynn has stopped cutting his egg and he’s looking at me now, except not really at me, but more past my shoulder.
‘The comparison is of the probability of one individual encountering a previously unknown family member on a random form of transport in a random town and, one could perhaps assume, a random country, with what, a separate individual from a known area working in the hospital that another individual is being treated in?’
I say yes, because I think that’s what I’m doing, maybe.
Connor Flynn is still looking past my shoulder, with his fingers doing the piano thing.
‘It is impossible to assess the variables for each situation, of course, and there are too many unknowns to establish an approximate probability to any degree of certainty. However, my assumption would be that the probability of scenario A would be vastly less than scenario B, taking into account both geographical and—’
‘It’s a more gigantic coincidence being on the bus. Being in the hospital is only a little bit of one. That’s what Marnie Shale says.’ This is me. It’s only a little bit interrupting because I don’t understand what Connor Flynn is saying.
‘Well, yes, of course. The degrees of differentiation are impossible to calculate reliably but without doubt the greater coincidence would be the meeting of an unknown family member in a random state in …’
I’m smiling really hard now. Because Connor Flynn is so clever. And because I was right about the coincidence. And Danny Flynn is saying Julie and Simon will be here soon to take me to the hospital.
This is my box. That’s what Julie is saying. And she’s saying it with a big smile. We used to look at it a lot together when I was younger – it’s my very own box, but not the box I was left in, which was a cardboard one. This is the same size as the one which my trainers came in, except it doesn’t say Nike, of course, it says Hope Nicely and it says My Life and it is white and it is wooden and not big enough to put a baby in, unless it was a very tiny baby. It is on my knees and it has a photograph on the lid, which is me, but when I was very little. Julie is saying: ‘Look at you in your cute little Baby Grow.’
A Baby Grow is not for growing a baby, even if that’s what it’s called. It’s like pyjamas, actually, but only one pyjama, not a pyjama top and a pyjama bottom, just one whole pyjama. And my Baby Grow has pictures of dogs all over it. I’m not sure what type of dogs they are, but maybe Yorkie Poo-Shits, just like Barry. My hair is sticking up on my head and I’m smiling but without any teeth, except for tiny ones at the front. I’m standing up with both my hands on a sort of trolley, not like a supermarket trolley, like a little one with lots of wooden bricks, and some of them are blue and some are red and some are yellow and some are green.
‘You remember this box? From when you were very little, looking at it with your mum, and with me sometimes too. I don’t know if you remember but …’
‘I do remember.’ This is me, and I sort of do. Remember. But sort of I don’t a bit too, because my memory – well the least said about that – and when I look at the box, even now, even with knowing what is inside it, mostly, I can feel my heart doing a bit of bumbum bumbum.
The box is on my lap and I am opening it. I am sitting in a chair, which is a proper one with arms, but not as comfortable as Camilla da Silva’s chair, which is leather, and it doesn’t turn from one side to the other, more’s the pity. And I am in the corner, not the corner next to my mum, Jenny – that’s Julie Clarke who is there on that side of the room. There is Simon Taylor too. He’s sitting next to me, so he’s in between Julie and me, on his own chair, but it’s not one with padding or arms. It’s just plastic.
Inside the box is a book. Not a buy-it-from-a-bookshop book. Not a book like my mum’s poem books. Not like my lovely blue notebook or my book of golden rules. Not my book, which is an autobiography, because I haven�
��t written it yet of course, but one which is like a schoolbook for lessons, like biology and spellings and maths. It’s an exercise book, actually, and it is a bit messy at the corners, but with writing on it, which is mostly Julie’s writing, she says, but also another social worker’s from when I was even littler. This writing is not so loopy and neat as Julie’s is. It leans to the side more.
And it says: My story. And it says, When I was very tiny, my mother wasn’t able to look after me, but a kind woman called Anne found me outside her church, and then a lovely person called Jenny said she wanted to be my new mummy and she would always love me very much. And so I went to live with her. There is a photograph, stuck in with Sellotape – except the Sellotape is more brown than normal Sellotape, and it’s lifting up a little bit and not all stuck down anymore, and when I touch the lifted-up bit it goes crinkle under my finger. The photograph is of me, when I’m a baby, an even littler one, with a white hat and a dummy in my mouth, and there is a picture too of my mum holding me, of Jenny Nicely, but when she was not so old and before she’d put on a few pounds, even before the blue dress, but still with her big silver earrings which are hoops and lots of bracelets.
And there is a photograph of the church, which is called St Magdalene’s, even though that wasn’t the name of the vicar, which was Anne Bentley. And the book says other things, like how I went to Cherry Tree nursery and then to my school, and about me liking to eat chocolate mousse and Gummy Bears, and my favourite song being ‘Zoom Zoom Zoom’ and the ‘Grand Old Duke of York’. I don’t think that was ever my favourite song so I don’t know why it says it. But I do remember Gummy Bears. They were yummy.
There are lots of photographs in the box too – under the book, but not stuck in. There’s me in the park, and me with Julie playing with a wooden car. On one it’s a picture of me, when I was little. It’s when I was six years old, and I know this because of Simon Taylor showing me the date on the back, and saying, so you would have been six when this was taken, and because of remembering it now. Maybe. And I’m looking at this picture and at me, with my hair in two ponytails, which is bunches. I’m sitting on a chair, in the picture, and the chair must be quite big because my feet are in the air and not down to the floor. I don’t remember my red shoes, so it must have been a very long time ago. And I’m wearing a T-shirt that is Angelina Ballerina and I’m holding up a monkey and I’m smiling, with all my teeth, except for one, which is on the top and must have been a wobbly-fall-out one. Beside me, it’s like it’s another me there too, except not me who is six years old in the photo, with frilly socks, but more like me now, me all grown up.
But this me is not me at all, actually. It is Ellie, who is the social worker, who bought me a monkey – the monkey that I’m holding in the picture. That monkey. And in the photograph I’m looking at the monkey. But now, in the real world, not the photo one, in the hospital, now, what I’m looking at is mostly the Ellie in the photo.
I’m looking really hard at her face, because of it being so interesting – and that is because it is really so much like my face.
If I was going to show it, not tell it, maybe I would say about her skin being a bit like a yoghurt that is peach, or maybe more like apricot, which is like mine too, and with black hair too. And having a mouth that is quite a lot like my mouth too. It is just a mouth, but with the lip maybe a bit bigger on the bottom than the top. And both of our mouths are smiling. I think I do remember the monkey – in a little bit of my brain – because of it having a plastic face and a thumb that went into its mouth and having a name, which was Monkey. I don’t know where it is now. The monkey.
‘Wasn’t she pretty?’ This is Simon Taylor, and he’s looking at my photograph too. And he’s not talking about the monkey. He’s talking about Ellie, because she was his girlfriend once, a long time ago.
There are more photographs too, in the box. There’s one of me with my teaching assistant who was called Susan, but not Ford. That’s someone else. And there are some old pages from newspapers, which say The Mystery of the Christmas Box Baby and Abandoned Newborn Found on Church Steps on Christmas Eve. And also there is a necklace which has a glass circle on it, and inside is a tiny bit of hair, and I think maybe it’s mine because of it being black too.
There is one other picture, but it’s not in the box – except now it can be if I want to keep it. Because it’s from Simon Taylor’s pocket in his leather jacket, but now I can have it forever if I want to. He’s giving it to me.
‘I guess I’ve changed a tiny bit.’ He’s taking the photograph out and he’s passing it to me. He’s laughing a bit and he’s rubbing his head with his hand. ‘God, time flies.’
I’m not looking at the photograph yet, because I’m still looking at Simon Taylor because he’s saying about time flying, which makes me think of a clock going across the sky like an aeroplane, or maybe a bird. And I’m trying to remember what the word is that is like feeling like money, or time being in the sky, which is not real. But it’s a …
It’s a …
And he’s shaking his head and saying one day I’ll understand about it feeling like only yesterday.
Analogy! I’m smiling because of that being such a good bingo. And now I’m lifting up the photograph to look at it, with Simon Taylor still talking about it being unbelievable, and where do the years go.
‘It’s not a tiny change at all.’ This is me. And I’m shouting a bit because of how very big the change is. ‘It’s gi-nor-mous. It’s a gigantic change.’
Because in the picture, it’s Simon Taylor with a face that is very young, and with hair that is long and yellow instead of black and a little bit white. And he’s wearing a T-shirt which is Bart Simpson saying Cowabunga and also long shorts with flowers on them and he’s holding a cigarette which is a rolled-up one and in the other hand a beer, which is a Lite. And she’s next to him, with his arm – the one with the beer – around her shoulder. Eliana, who is also Ellie. And she is also the social worker, who wasn’t a real one, in fact, who gave me a monkey, and also my birth mother, but not yet in this photograph, that’s what Simon Taylor says, because of not even knowing that I was in her tummy, and because of her tummy being quite little even though I must have been in there already. And she’s not wearing a smart skirt and a shirt, like in the other picture, the monkey one, but shorts which are very, very short, like teeny-tiny and made out of jeans, and tights which have lots of holes, like maybe hundreds, like so many that it’s more holes and rips than tights. And a pair of boots, which are DMs, like Julie Clarke wears sometimes, which are also called Docs. And she has a shirt which is tied around her waist.
‘I wish you could have known her.’ This is Simon Taylor again. ‘She was always laughing and always singing. Suzanne Vega and Tracy Chapman. Joni Mitchell too. She loved all that stuff. I used to tease her about being an old hippy. And wherever we went, I never really cared about making friends, but she just seemed to attract them. People. She had this warmth. She talked to anyone. She never stopped chatting away.’ He does a funny little laugh. ‘A bit like you, actually.’
He’s stopped talking now, and he’s looking at me, with his eyes so big, and so like they’re telling me something. And I nod, because I think that must be what he wants.
‘She was a good person, Hope. You need to understand that. And all the drinking and the … other stuff. It wasn’t really who she was. She was happy just to get on the bus, and find new places, and sing her songs and meet her people. It wasn’t just the getting wasted. But it was just … That summer. It just all went a bit … crazy. I don’t quite know what happened. None of it was really her fault. It was just a thing. It wasn’t her. None of it. Do you understand? Tell me you do understand.’
He’s looking at me with his eyes so big, and his whole body leaning towards me. And I’m thinking that what he really, really wants me to say is that, yes, I do understand, and I’m thinking about all the practice with my mum, and all the pictures on the buses, and the thinking about p
eople’s feelings, because of being grown up now. So that is what I say. I say yes I do understand, with my voice like it’s really important to me. But, really, I don’t understand.
‘I think maybe we’ve discussed this enough now, Hope.’ This is Julie Clarke. She has a look on her face that is a sort of smile, but with her lips together and her head on one side. ‘You’ve had so much to take in already, darling. Maybe we should stop talking about all of this until another day. I wouldn’t want to upset you. Maybe we should wait until Jenny’s fitter.’
We both look at my mum, Jenny. She’s asleep.
And I’m thinking Julie Clarke is saying about waiting and not talking anymore now because of the other times when my mum, Jenny Nicely, tried to talk to me about my birth mother, about her being dead. And it’s a very strange thing, because I don’t even remember those times. But it must be true because I don’t think Julie Clarke would tell me a lie, and my memory, well …
‘It’s just that in the past, this has been an issue for you, Hope my darling. And I’m concerned that you’re in a very vulnerable …’
I’m trying to listen to her talking and it’s lots of words like issues and loss and vulnerable. But in my head I’m thinking more about why I can’t remember. If the Ellie who brought me the monkey was my birth mother, why can’t I remember? And why can’t I remember about her being dead, too? If my mum, Jenny Nicely, has told me about it, why can’t I remember?
I think Julie Clarke wants to stop talking because she thinks maybe I will do not-so-clever things like breaking the window, or taking all the drawers in the kitchen and throwing all the knives and forks and spoons and plates on the floor, or screaming. That’s what Julie Clarke says I did before. And the rope with the knot that came undone. Julie Clarke says that all those things happened around the times when Jenny tried to talk to me about my birth mother, whose name was Ellie and also Eliana. And the car. The running into the car. That happened too.
