If You Were Here

by Alice Peterson

  This is fun. I am enjoying myself.

  Oh my God, I can’t be this unfit.

  I swim. Occasionally I walk to work. I play tennis and I walk Elvis around the park with Granny. I must not stop.

  But I have to. My knees hurt.

  I stop to remove my rucksack, crammed with everything except water.

  Clever.

  I decide to grab a bottle from the next shop I pass. I imagine I’ve run about half a mile, maybe three quarters. I’m still on High Street Kensington. This road is never-ending.

  Once I’ve recovered my breath, on I go, this time at quite a pace, passing a newsagent, but deciding I won’t stop and weigh my rucksack down further with a bottle of water. Best to keep going.

  The knees and thighs are getting vocal again: upset, shocked, tearful. My trainers are rubbing, but I’m going to run home if it kills me.

  Eventually, I make it to the last stretch, about a mile to go.

  Stop running, Flo.

  The voice inside my head is getting louder and more insistent, but I can’t stop now. I have to push myself that extra mile. This is what it’s all about. If it were easy, everyone would be running marathons.

  I can’t breathe. I’m going to have a heart attack or a stroke.

  I feel sick, so sick that the voice inside my head is screaming at me to stop, but it’s too late.

  My tuna melt makes a reappearance behind a tree.

  Someone walks past me and pulls a disgusted face.

  I am a disgrace.

  With any luck, my application has been rejected.

  *

  The washing machine is on, I’m showered and dressed and eating some toast and Marmite watching MasterChef when James comes home.

  ‘Good day?’ he asks, before handing me my mail. I felt so ill by the time I reached the front door that I couldn’t even bend down to pick up the post.

  ‘Yes, not bad,’ I fudge. ‘You?’

  ‘I didn’t get in, Flo.’ He sits down and kicks off his shoes.

  ‘Didn’t get into what?’

  ‘The marathon.’

  I sit up straight. ‘No! You didn’t? Why?’

  ‘It’s not a huge surprise, they only accept one in five.’

  ‘I can’t believe it,’ I murmur, before thinking this must be another sign, a message from the universe that this marathon business was not meant to be. I certainly can’t do it without James. I need to think of a new goal.

  ‘You know what? I was thinking of other ways I could raise money for charity.’

  ‘I can still train you, Flo.’

  ‘I could bake some cakes, hold a few coffee mornings or I could do a knitting challenge—’

  ‘A knitting challenge?’ he repeats open-mouthed just as my phone rings.

  It’s Helen, calling from the HDA charity.

  ‘Take it,’ James urges, ‘or I will.’

  ‘I’m sorry it’s late, Florence, I tried calling you earlier,’ she says, ‘but I didn’t want to leave you a message.’

  She sounds far too perky for my liking.

  ‘I thought you’d be excited to know you have a place. Your application has been accepted.’ She waits. ‘You’ll be running the London Marathon next April.’ She waits again. ‘Isn’t that great news? Florence? Hello? Are you still there?’

  James takes the mobile from my hands. ‘Hello,’ he says, ‘this is her flatmate. That is great news. She’s absolutely thrilled, so thrilled she can’t talk. She’s in shock.’ He hands the phone back to me, willing me to say something.

  ‘Thank you,’ is all I can say eventually, ‘but are you sure?’

  ‘Positive! Congratulations, Florence.’

  Numb, I hang up.

  ‘You take my place,’ I suggest to James. This is the perfect solution. ‘We could call Helen back to explain?’

  James shakes his head. ‘Explain what?’

  ‘That I can’t run after all. I’ll come last.’

  ‘You won’t. But even if you did, someone has to.’

  ‘I probably won’t even get to the end. I’ll be wheeled off to hospital.’

  ‘Flo, what’s going on? You were dying to get a place. You put so much effort into your application form. What’s changed?’

  I hide my face in my hands before telling him about my run home, and how I threw up like a drunken teenager after a night out in the pub.

  ‘Flo, I warned you to go slow.’

  ‘I know.’ I shrug. ‘I’m sorry, James. I’m obviously not cut out for this. I’m not a runner. I’m not an athlete.’

  ‘You don’t have to be the next Mo Farah,’ he says. ‘Listen, we’ll draw up a programme. You have six months to get fit, which is more than enough time. We can do this, okay? Providing we do it properly.’

  I draw comfort at the word ‘we’.

  ‘Three miles was way too much to attempt on day one,’ he stresses. ‘In week one, you should just be doing steady walking, a few easy jogs, not sprinting to and from the office like a maniac.’

  I nod. I can do steady walking.

  ‘Perhaps it’s just as well I didn’t get in this year,’ James decides, a smile never far from his face. ‘I can focus all my attention on you. We’re going to get there, Flo. Your form impressed them. You were chosen above many other applicants, and you know as well as I do you’ll only regret it if you don’t grab this chance. You can do this. Say it, say “I can do this”.’

  ‘I can do this,’ I repeat.

  ‘Louder.’

  Maybe one day I’ll run a marathon, Mum.

  ‘I can do this,’ I repeat, the shock and fear beginning to thaw. ‘I earned my place,’ I remind myself.

  I must have done something right.

  53

  Peggy

  I never knew buying a pair of trainers could be this complicated, I think, listening to the sporty-looking salesman, who looks as if he lives in the gym, explain to Flo the importance of investing in the right running shoe. I’m rather fixated on the bulging muscles of his arms, which seem to have a life of their own. ‘If you overpronate—’

  ‘What does that mean?’ I ask him, standing next to Flo.

  ‘Pronation refers to the way your foot rolls inwards for impact distribution upon landing,’ he says, his eyes still remaining firmly on my granddaughter’s.

  Pah! You’re invisible when you’re my age, though I should be used to it by now.

  ‘Overpronators roll their foot inwards,’ he goes on, ‘so they need a more structured cushioning shoe. Supinators need a lot of cushioning to avoid impact injuries, and neutral pronators can wear a variety of shoes.’

  ‘Do you understand a single word he’s saying?’ I nudge Flo, who is nodding up and down with puppy-like enthusiasm as he speaks.

  This is harder than learning Italian.

  ‘Granny,’ she blushes, before she relegates me to a chair in the far corner of the shop, making me feel like a child who has been given a time-out. But I have to say, it is a relief to sit down.

  ‘Right, let’s get you on to the treadmill, Flo,’ Mr Muscleman says, leading her towards a hefty-looking running machine.

  As I watch Flo have her gait analysed, I feel absurdly proud that she is going to run the marathon for the Huntington’s Disease Association charity. I have already bought a diary for next year and firmly put ‘FLO’S RUN’ on Sunday 22nd April.

  While running twenty-six miles isn’t on my bucket list – and never will be – I understand Flo’s passion to do this. It’s a project. Already Flo has a detailed chart on her bedroom wall: an eighteen-week programme devised by James, with instructions for each day. It was James who also insisted she buy the right kit, so Flo bought some running leggings and tops to replace the tracksuit she’d bought almost a decade ago.

  Once she’s off the machine, I watch her try on a pair of bright orange trainers and walk up and down in front of the long mirror.

  I imagine choosing a pair of trainers is rather like choosing a mattress. Given
we spend a third of our life sleeping, it makes no sense to buy a nasty old cheap mattress. So if Flo is going to be running for the next six months, she needs a decent pair of shoes.

  I watch Flo try on another pair.

  ‘I’m running for Huntington’s Disease,’ I overhear her tell Mr Muscleman.

  ‘I’ve never heard of that,’ he replies, and as Flo explains exactly what it is, it feels surprisingly liberating knowing it’s out in the open now. Flo hasn’t crawled under a rock or given up, and with each day that passes we are healing the damage I caused, and Flo is slowly getting over Theo. I know it will take time, but we’re good friends again, shopping together on a Sunday afternoon. As I watch Flo walking towards the till with the salesman, the two of them laughing and flirting with one another, I realize both Beth and I should have given this girl far more credit.

  ‘How much?’ I ask, jutting out my chin, as I join them both.

  ‘One hundred and sixty pounds,’ he says to me with a bright smile, waiting for my credit card. I’m not so invisible when he wants my money. Funny that.

  Flo must pick up on my shock as she says, ‘I can pay for them, honestly, Granny.’

  ‘Put your wallet away,’ I insist. ‘I’m doing this. I’m sure they’re worth every penny, and they’ll last you for life.’

  He shakes his head. ‘They’ll last for her training and the marathon itself, but if you catch the bug, Flo, which I’m sure you will, you’ll need to invest in another pair after that.’

  ‘Right.’ I clear my throat, reminding myself it’s only money. I thrust my card in his direction.

  ‘Training socks,’ he says to Flo, ignoring my card, before leading her off to another section of the shop, while I’m assigned to the chair in the corner, invisible once again.

  *

  ‘Due cappuccini, per favore,’ I say to the waiter in the café, relieved to be out of the running shop. ‘E vorrei vedere il menu del pranzo, per favore?’

  ‘Certamente,’ the waiter says with delight. ‘Un momento.’

  Flo continues to stare at me, wide-mouthed, until she says, ‘When did—’

  ‘A month or so ago.’ I didn’t say anything to Flo just in case I was rubbish and had to pull out. ‘I’ve also signed up to do Pilates once a week, and I’ve booked tickets for the ballet this Christmas,’ I show off now, telling Flo how magical my evening with Ricky had been watching Swan Lake.

  Flo continues to look at me with surprise, before that surprise turns to something close to pride. ‘To us, Granny,’ she says, when the waiter returns with our cappuccini. She holds her mug towards mine. ‘And thank you for my trainers and my high-tech socks.’

  ‘Everyone needs a pair of high-tech socks,’ I say, before we laugh, and for the next hour or so we eat lunch and talk about nothing important, but it’s the best lunch I’ve eaten in years, because for the first time in a long while I feel completely at peace.

  ‘Granny, I meant to tell you: I have my first appointment with the genetic counsellor next week. It finally came through.’ She squeezes my hand. ‘I was wondering if you would come with me?’

  I hadn’t thought about the test for weeks, not since the bust-up with Theo. And then, what with Flo’s breakdown and the marathon news taking over, I’d almost forgotten about it completely.

  I feel that panic returning, rising in my chest. I pick up my glass of water, my heart racing, my head feeling light. I realize I’m having a wobble.

  ‘If it’s too upsetting, I’d understand,’ Flo says gently. ‘Are you all right, Granny?’ She waits. ‘I could ask James or Maddie. I can even go on my own.’

  ‘No,’ I say, when I’m ready to talk, remembering all those years I wasn’t there for Beth. All those times I could have been sitting next to my daughter, while instead she faced it alone. ‘I’ll be there, Flo, come what may.’

  54

  Beth’s Diary, 2004

  I saw Amanda today and she asked me if I’d had any further thoughts about telling Flo and Mum.

  ‘Flo’s just had her first period,’ I said. ‘She’s feeling anxious about that, and Mum has rebuilt her life after Dad.’ I told Amanda how much Mum was enjoying her new part-time job working for a charity that built retirement homes for the over-sixties, joking that she’ll move into one soon. ‘She’s doing well, and I don’t want to do anything to jeopardize that. I like being normal,’ I confided. ‘My work is going well, I’m happy.’

  ‘But it’s a lot to shoulder on your own, Beth.’

  Mark also tells me I should lean on friends. I guess the truth is I don’t want anything to rock the boat. I’ve got used to the way things are. There’s a certain comfort in being in control: it’s only my hands on the steering wheel and I’m going in the direction I choose.

  Amanda understood, but she said that, in her experience, the sooner you talk to your child the better, stressing that if I continue to hide it from Flo, the message she could get is that HD is scary or even shameful. By talking about it, it becomes normal.

  Amanda wants me to put faith in my daughter. She claims children have an extraordinary ability to deal with difficult situations. She suggested reminding Flo about her grandfather first, asking if she remembers him being in a wheelchair, and then explaining it was because he had HD. By doing that, I’ve at least introduced her to the name of the condition. Slowly drip feed information to her, like feeding a baby. I know this all makes perfect sense. If I were Amanda, I’d be saying the exact same thing to me too.

  I told her that Mum had a recent scare with her heart. For weeks she’s been getting headaches and chest pain, and when she casually dropped into conversation that she’d also seen some blood in her urine, I took her off to see the GP immediately, cross that she’d kept it from me – not that I’m one to talk.

  I gatecrashed the appointment because I was anxious Mum would skim over her problems, pursing her lips and sticking out her chin, saying she was perfectly all right.

  Anyway, the GP sent her off to have various tests, and she was diagnosed with high blood pressure, which doesn’t sound too serious, often people don’t feel any symptoms, but it can be a problem if you have a mother who doesn’t follow doctor’s orders to cut back on alcohol, caffeine and chocolate.

  ‘What’s life without a bit of Toblerone?’ she snapped back at the poor woman only trying to do her job. ‘I have two triangles after supper every night.’

  When the GP suggested she learn to manage her stress:

  ‘Stress?’ Mum replied, before cackling, ‘The only stress I have is if I don’t count my trumps or go to bed with an ace!’ I turned to the blank-looking doctor informing her that my mother was talking about playing bridge.

  Anyway, Mum took away a leaflet giving her dietary and exercise advice, but I imagine it went straight into the bin. She spent so much time caring for Dad that I think she’s forgotten how to look after herself.

  I stressed to Amanda that, not only do I need to have faith that Flo can deal with this, I need to believe that my mother is strong enough to go through it all over again.

  Mum pretends to be a tough old nut, but in reality she’s vulnerable like the rest of us. As Dad used to say, ‘She’s as soft as they come’.

  55

  Flo

  The hospital waiting room is empty, quiet except for the sound of a ticking clock. I glance at Granny, knowing this can’t be easy for her, and as if sensing my thoughts she turns to me and says, ‘We’re going to be fine, Flo. Let’s hope she’s nice.’

  At that moment, a door opens and a petite woman dressed in pastel pink, which looks striking against her short dark hair and olive toned skin, calls out my name.

  ‘Hello, I’m Dr Fraser.’ She shakes my hand.

  ‘This is my grandmother,’ I introduce them. ‘I hope it’s okay if she comes in with me?’

  ‘Of course. Would you like to come this way?’ She turns on her heels before Granny and I follow her into her office.

  ‘Excuse the mess, I’m alwa
ys drowning in paperwork,’ she says, referring to the pile of sheets on her desk, alongside her computer, medical books and a mug of tea.

  Granny and I sit opposite her. When she smiles, I notice soft eye make-up framing vivid brown eyes and that her fine silk scarf matches her jacket. I imagine she’s in her early forties.

  The first thing Dr Fraser wants us to do is sketch a family tree, to understand how I have possibly inherited the gene. Granny explains that Tim’s mother could have had an affair.

  ‘You’d be surprised how much this happens,’ Dr Fraser says. ‘Many women had affairs during the Second World War while their husbands were away, and unknowingly gave birth to a child at risk.’

  After we have completed the family tree, ending with Mum’s diagnosis, Dr Fraser puts her pen down. ‘So tell me how you feel, Florence. What have you been thinking about in the lead-up to this appointment?’

  ‘I’m trying to decide if I want to take the test or not. I go round and round in circles, especially at night.’

  ‘That’s normal,’ she reassures me.

  ‘I was certain I wanted to know at first.’

  ‘Why was that?’

  Her tone is soft, but probing. I sense she is watching my every move, expression, mannerism, even the way I am coiling a strand of my hair tightly around my fingers right now.

  I stop, placing my hands on my lap. ‘I wanted the problem to go away as quickly as it had come. I didn’t want to believe it could happen to me, if that makes sense? I was in denial.’

  She nods as if this is familiar territory for her.

  I look at Granny, fearful I might hurt her with what I’m about to say next, but she nods discreetly.

  ‘When I was growing up, Mum didn’t tell me she had HD, not even that her father had it. I had no idea that I could be at risk until a few months ago.’

  ‘How did that make you feel?’

  How do I begin to answer that?

  ‘Angry,’ Granny suggests for me. ‘It’s fine, Flo, say it. I don’t mind. It made her feel very angry,’ she tells Dr Fraser.

  But Dr Fraser’s eyes don’t leave mine. She wants to hear me say it.