If You Were Here

by Alice Peterson

  ‘I’m so sorry for losing my temper, Tim. Please forgive me. I didn’t mean it, any of it. None of this is your fault. I’m not sending you away. I promise you I’ll never do that. I love you so much.’

  And even if Dad couldn’t say anything back, I knew he felt it and is grateful each day for Mum’s unconditional loyalty and devotion.

  I’m looking for a love like that, a love that can survive no matter what tests it.

  The truth is, I’m not going to miss Nick. I’m going to miss Mark. He is my tutor, my friend and my counsel. He is the man who saved me when I was sinking, and I shall never forget his kindness. Mark knows every single thing about me, warts and all, which has only strengthened our friendship. I have discovered much more about his parents and his siblings. He likes to talk about his brother, to keep his memory alive. His sister lives in France. She’s artistic like him and illustrates children’s books. They write to each other regularly. Mark isn’t scared to ask me questions about Dad, whereas many of my friends still skirt around the subject, clearly uncomfortable. He knows I still haven’t talked to Mum about what HD means for me, but it helps me telling him my worries, even if there is no solution. In fact, if I think too much about the hole he is going to leave in my life I feel desperately sad, because I know that no one can replace him.

  Occasionally, I have wondered if there is anything between us, whether he feels this bond too. Even if he does, he’d never act on it. He and his wife are trying for a baby. I think they’ve been trying for some time. He doesn’t talk too much about that, and I don’t push him. Some things need to remain private.

  When he stood up saying he must go, I thanked him.

  ‘For everything,’ I said. Modestly, he claimed it was his job, yet I could have sworn he wanted to say something more.

  Instead he shook my hand, adding, ‘Have fun in Amsterdam.’

  I’d told Mark that a few friends and I were going there to celebrate the end of exams before we found out our results.

  ‘Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.’ He smiled and was about to leave, before I plucked up the courage to call out, ‘I’ll miss you.’ I sensed maybe I’d gone too far, perhaps even crossed a line, so I added, ‘Even when you tell me off.’

  He looked at me, as if hesitating with how to respond. Finally his expression relaxed as if he was giving himself permission to say it back. ‘I’m going to miss you too, Beth,’ he said. ‘I’ve never known anyone quite like you.’

  I fought back the tears as I watched him leave, a piece of my heart walking out with him.

  32

  Peggy

  ‘As Elvis is here, I might as well take a look at him,’ James says, poor Elvis quivering on the examination table, nothing the matter with him except for his owner who has brought him in under false pretences so she can interrogate the vet. ‘Has she told Theo?’

  James feels under Elvis’s tummy. ‘He could do with losing some weight.’

  ‘Couldn’t we all.’

  ‘Elvis has some serious love handles, Granny Peg. Ironic, isn’t it, when he’s been castrated.’

  ‘What did Theo say?’ I press James again.

  ‘I think the time has come to feed Elvis lighter food, for the more mature dog.’

  ‘James!’

  ‘I feel uncomfortable talking about that.’

  ‘But I need to know,’ I beg. ‘Ricky says I must be patient, but waiting is killing me, James, and that’s very bad for my nerves. I have a bad heart, you know,’ I try. Emotional blackmail is sometimes the only way to go. ‘I promise I won’t say a word.’ I mime zipping up my lips.

  He shakes his head. ‘No, not yet.’

  ‘Why not?’ I ask, though I’m in no position to judge.

  ‘She’s seeing her GP today, who will hopefully refer her to a genetic counsellor. She’s planning to work out her options before she tells him, okay? She wants to feel in control.’

  I stick out my chin. ‘So what’s she told him in the meantime?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  I place my hands on my hips. ‘You do.’

  ‘It’s up to Flo to tell you.’

  ‘Is she reading the diaries?’

  ‘Crikey, Elvis, you win the gold medal for smelly breath.’ He looks up at me. ‘Go to the butcher’s and get Elvis some marrowbones to chomp on, and his teeth could do with a clean. Use a cloth and salt water.’

  ‘James!’

  ‘Yes, and she’s finding it tough,’ he concedes, ‘but I think you did the right thing giving them to her.’

  ‘Is she still drinking?’

  ‘Enough,’ James says, his tone sharp. ‘She’s safe. She’s doing well. She’s working through this, and she’ll call you when she’s ready.’ James lifts Elvis off the table and attaches the lead to his collar. ‘Take your old boy for some nice long walks,’ he suggests. ‘If anything critical happens, I will let you know, I promise.’ He opens his door.

  ‘How are you, James?’ I ask, not leaving.

  He looks thrown by the question. ‘I’m good.’

  ‘It can’t be easy for you, all of this. I didn’t just come here to fire questions at you. I also wanted to thank you for looking out for Flo. She needs a friend like you.’

  His guard finally drops before he closes his door and leans against it. ‘I’ll always be there for her. She’s like family.’ He pauses. ‘If I’m honest, Granny Peg, it’s made me put things in perspective. If I’ve had a bad day at work, it’s just a bad day, but what you and your husband went through, what Flo is now going through, I’ve realized I’m lucky to be alive and to be well.’

  ‘Thank you, James, I appreciate that.’

  He touches my shoulder with solidarity. ‘I promise I’ll keep in touch. Try not to worry.’

  ‘That’s like asking me not to breathe.’ I compose myself. ‘But you’re right. I must keep busy. I’ll go home . . . and brush Elvis’s teeth.’

  I chuckle. ‘I can’t wait. Lucky old me.’

  33

  Flo

  It’s Thursday, less than a week after my last day at work, though in many ways that feels like a lifetime ago. My GP peers at her computer screen. We’ve had a good appointment. She’s going to refer me to a genetic counsellor at a hospital in Tooting. I stressed the sooner the better, explaining my situation. She was sympathetic, understanding it must have been a shock to find out I could be at risk of HD in my twenties, and she thought it would be a good idea to speak to a counsellor, but the referral could take anything between six and eight weeks.

  ‘And health-wise, everything else is okay, Florence?’ she asks.

  ‘Yes, fine,’ I reply, thinking I really couldn’t handle any further complications right now.

  ‘Last time I saw you, goodness, almost a year ago now, you were having particularly heavy periods and I gave you some tablets for that. Have they helped?’

  ‘Yes,’ I mutter, suddenly trying to recall when my last period was and realizing it’s late. ‘Though sometimes they can be later than usual. That’s normal, isn’t it?’

  ‘How late?’

  ‘A couple of weeks.’

  ‘Do you think you could be pregnant?’

  ‘I hope not.’

  ‘Are your periods often late?’

  I shake my head. ‘But I can’t be.’ I feel sick. ‘I’ve been stressed; the last few weeks haven’t been easy, that could be a reason, couldn’t it?’

  ‘Don’t panic. There could be a number of reasons why. Some people skip their periods entirely when they’re on contraception, although that hasn’t been the case with you, so perhaps it’s worth taking a test, just for your peace of mind.’

  I leave her office abruptly, before heading to the pharmacy attached to the surgery to buy a pregnancy test.

  On my way home, I stare out of the bus window, reassuring myself Theo and I have been careful. As my GP said, there could be a number of reasons why I’m late. Stress. No sleep. Secrets. Lies. More stress. More lies. Heavy drinking.r />
  My mobile vibrates. It’s a text message from Theo. I still need to tell him, but constantly find reasons not to, unable to risk possibly losing him too.

  How’s Peggy? Am missing you. Call me with the latest news. Tx

  I want to have a child, a family; of course I do. Theo and I have talked about it. We both agreed we’d like to have a few years to travel and be married without kids, if possible. I’m only twenty-seven, there is no particular rush, and what with everything else going on right now, and the idea that my baby could be at risk . . .

  No, I can’t even go down that road.

  I’m not pregnant. I can’t be.

  34

  Beth’s Diary, 1989

  Oh, Beth, you really do know how to make your life complicated, don’t you? I have no idea what to do, and this time I can’t go running to Mark.

  I’m not at college anymore. It’s not his job to clean up my mess.

  The last time we spoke was when he congratulated me on my 2:1. I was staring at the board in case I’d got it wrong. Later, I discovered I’d missed a First by just one mark.

  The owner of the gallery in South Kensington where I’d mounted my degree show called me, saying he’d like me to work for them in the future.

  ‘If that doesn’t give you the confidence to go out into the world and be an artist, I don’t know what will, Beth,’ Mark said when we met up for a coffee, Mark unable to wipe the proud smile off his face.

  Well, I didn’t exactly plan to go out into the world and be knocked up by some stranger only weeks after getting my results.

  What an achievement.

  I went to see my GP. I told her I’d skipped a couple of periods, but not once did I think I could be pregnant because I’d taken a test a couple of months ago, after returning from Amsterdam. She told me that, occasionally, this does happen; pregnancy tests can initially show up negative, people can have no early symptoms and hardly any weight gain. She sent me to the hospital to have a scan.

  I am four and a half months pregnant. I have the image to prove it.

  He was Italian. I’d say early thirties, around Mark’s age. He was on a stag weekend. Not his thing, he said, unnecessarily expensive with all that pressure to get drunk. He said he could slip away, none of the lads would notice as they’d been drinking since noon.

  ‘The groom has already passed out,’ he said with a smile, his eyes flirting with mine. We headed back to my hotel room and raided the mini bar. I felt young, carefree and happy. The memory of Nick, Mark, of home and Dad, seemed a million miles away.

  He left the following morning, no note on the bed, no romantic gesture of meeting up again. I knew nothing about him – not even his name – and the funny thing is I didn’t care at the time. We’d danced. We’d laughed. We’d had sex, and it was amazing. It was exactly what I needed to try and forget about the man I could never have.

  I don’t know what to do.

  I know, when – or if – I tell Mum, she’ll be disappointed in me. She longs for me to have a successful career like my father and have all the opportunities she never had. She grew up without a mother and always said her life felt incomplete with only one parent, no matter how kind her aunt was. I also dread to think what she’ll say when I tell her I have no idea how to trace the father.

  It’s at times like this I miss talking to Dad. I know he’d never judge and he always used to give me good advice. It’s impossible to know how much he understands now. Mum and I talk to him as if he does, even if his eyes are glazed over and he doesn’t answer back.

  I could book myself in for an abortion. But what if I regret the decision for the rest of my life? The doctor advised me to take my time, although I don’t have that much to spare.

  Do I want to be a single mum? Is it fair to raise a child without giving them a father?

  I realize the more important question is: is it fair to bring someone into a life of uncertainty?

  If I have inherited this gene from Dad, it isn’t his fault because he never knew his father, who died fighting in the Second World War, had the condition. There is also doubt as to whether he really was Dad’s father – he’s always suspected he could be the result of an affair. We know Dad’s mother had no signs of HD. She died of cancer in her early fifties.

  For me it’s different. I know that if I have this little boy or girl, I might be putting him or her at risk. Can I really do that? Equally, how can I live with myself if I abort a perfectly healthy baby?

  I wish the right answer would come to me, a message in the sky, a sign, anything. Even if I were still at college, I’m not sure I could tell Mark, however tempting it might be to rush into his arms.

  How I’d hate to see his pride turn to bitter disappointment.

  35

  Flo

  I’m not pregnant. I took the test the moment I arrived home, before collapsing into bed and sleeping deeply for the first time in days, the relief so overwhelming that I can now return all my attention to telling Theo and deciding whether to take the other test.

  I’m hoping I’ll find out soon through Mum’s diaries if she dithered or not. Was she certain she was doing the right thing? Is there a right thing? I imagine not. What’s right for me or Mum isn’t necessarily going to be right for the next person. I can’t imagine anyone finds this decision easy.

  I pick up the photograph on my bedside table that Mum took of me in our back garden. I’m wearing my favourite poppy dress and my hair is styled in two long plaits, tied with red velvet ribbons. I remember Mum taking this as we were about to visit Granny and Granddad for tea.

  I longed to have a father. I longed to have a normal family, whatever normal was.

  I pick up a new diary. I’m now four years old. It’s strange reading Mum’s diaries now that I’m in them. Growing up you never think your parents had a life before you came along. You also don’t imagine they had any problems.

  I keep looking back, wondering how I never noticed the signs, although I was only little. I never questioned why Granddad was in a wheelchair. I was only interested in how fast it could go, and whether I could ride on it too.

  I loved going over to Granny’s for tea. We’d play games or I’d sit at their kitchen table and paint and draw. Often I’d help Granny bake a cake or a batch of scones.

  ‘Splat!’ she’d say when Granddad dropped his slice of Victoria sponge on the floor, and we’d all laugh too. I didn’t think their set-up was odd at all, or the fact Granny and Granddad rarely went out or visited us at home.

  Occasionally, I’d see someone on the television in a wheelchair and point to the screen saying, ‘Look, Mama, he’s in a chair like Granddad!’ There was only one time I remember thinking something was wrong. It was the first and only time I saw Mum cry. I asked why she was so sad, but she never told me. It’s only now I’m close to guessing.

  36

  Beth’s Diary, 1994

  I hadn’t planned on seeing my parents today, but when Mum said she needed to talk to me, I knew it must be important. Mum rarely demands my time, especially since I’ve had Flo. She understands it’s not easy being a single mum.

  Initially, when I told Mum I was pregnant and wanted to keep my child, she was furious. How could I have let myself down? How could I have saddled myself with a child without having a job or even knowing the father?

  I understood her anger. It was only when Flo was born that she changed. The moment she held her in her arms she was in love, and since then she has wanted to do everything in her power to support us. This is where Mum is so kind, so good. In order to help me financially, she was determined to move into a smaller space that would give her some capital to help me invest in a property. ‘Please, Beth, let me do this for you and my grandchild. I know it’s what your dad would want too.’

  So Mum and Dad moved to Hammersmith and Flo and I moved to Barnes, close to Flo’s primary school where I now teach art.

  As I helped Flo put on her poppy dress and tie her plaits with red ribbons
, my little girl was wondering with great excitement what games we might play, whereas all I could do was worry about what it was Mum needed to talk to me about. It had to be something to do with Dad.

  It’s hard now, visiting Dad at home. When I look into his eyes I long to see a glimmer of life, anything to suggest he knows who I am. Yet his body is no more than a shell; his soul has gone. Both Mum and I realize that, in many ways, we have been lucky. He has suffered severe frustration and anxiety, who wouldn’t? But he has never, once, become aggressive towards us.

  Dad’s doctor had warned Mum that very often behaviour can change, people can become intensely depressed and angry, occasionally violent, but we haven’t seen any of this.

  He has only faded, if that’s the right word, day by day.

  I don’t know how Mum has managed to look after a man who can no longer walk, talk, swallow, is fed through a peg and wears incontinence pads. She does have a nurse who comes in three times a week, but I still worry about the physical toll it takes on her, with no break, and I’d already suggested several times the moment has come for Dad to go into a nursing home.

  And tonight, Mum felt it too.

  She struggled to talk to me, but I knew what she was trying to say. While Flo was next door, lying on the floor watching television with Granddad, Mum took me to one side in the kitchen. She cleared her throat, composed herself.

  ‘Beth, your father is heavy, I’m not strong enough to lift him and—’

  ‘Mum.’ I touched her arm. ‘Let’s give the nursing home a call.’

  ‘I’ve done it already, Beth. I’m taking him tomorrow.’

  And for the first time in years, Mum pulled me towards her and hugged me, and she cried. She cried for all these years that she has cared for him painstakingly, and all I could do was to hold her, saying no one could have loved Dad like she had, so devotedly.

  Mum dried her eyes and then finally looked at me, and again I knew what she was thinking, which gave me the confidence at last to say it.