I fight back my tears. James is right. What has got into me?
‘Flo, you are the centre of Granny Peg’s life. You’re my sister’s best friend. And I know my existence wouldn’t be half as much fun if I couldn’t wake you up at the crack of dawn and make you come out for a run with me.’
I smile at that.
‘So if you start talking like this again, saying you’re not worth saving, I will personally box you round the ears.’ He pulls me into his arms before we both wince, watching the man with the snow-white hair, inevitably fall, landing on his bottom, though it’s not long before his daughter – or she could be his third wife, as James guesses – holds out her hand and helps him back up. He dusts himself down and they laugh as they continue to skate.
‘Want a go?’ James asks me.
I shake my head. All I want to do is be here, with James, held in his arms. ‘I don’t know what I’d do without you,’ I murmur into his coat.
‘You’d be fine,’ he replies, stroking my hair.
‘The news has made me think I might look for a new job, finally do something with my art.’
James’s grip around me tightens. ‘That’s a great idea.’
I realize I have been exceptionally lucky to have my current job. It helped me through my grief for Mum. And then, when I needed it most, Harriet welcomed me back with open arms. I shall always be in debt to her, but I want to feel that adrenaline I used to feel when I was in college, working on my mood boxes and designing sets for plays.
I see the passion James has for being a vet. On one of our runs, he told me about the first time he’d drilled a hole into the side of a dog’s head after only six months of surgical experience.
‘When I was studying, Flo, we did things because someone told us to,’ James had explained, ‘but when you’re working for real, you have to make these massive decisions on your own. The owner is putting their most precious friend into my hands, and here I am with a drill and it only takes one tiny little mistake . . . but when you save an animal’s life, it’s the best feeling in the world,’ he said.
My work wasn’t saving lives, but it was something of my own, and I want it back. Going back to my art would be like coming home.
‘Maddie will love that too,’ James says. ‘I’m sure she’d help. You must have spoken to her today?’
I nod. ‘She asked me to stay for New Year at your parents.’
‘Oh right.’
‘Will you be around or are you doing something with Chloe?’
‘She’s away.’
I sit up abruptly. ‘Hang on, weren’t you supposed to be seeing her tonight?’
‘She cancelled.’
‘Oh. I thought you said last night it was her Christmas—’
‘She thinks she caught some nasty bug.’
‘They’re going around.’
‘Besides, after the news, it was good to be here with you.’
I rest my head against his shoulder again. ‘Well, it was lucky for me.’
‘Flo, I know you said last night you were thinking you might take the test now—’
‘I don’t know. I think I still do,’ I say, though I’m wavering again. ‘It’s not a cure.’
‘Sure, though in time they could develop it—’
‘But it could take years.’ I stop, realizing how selfish I am sounding. I only have to think of Iona’s father, sitting in his nursing home, day after day, watching these medical advances slowly unfold while his brain cells are dying, never to return. All those years he has lost with his family. I only have to think about Granddad too, and how he never had a moment like today, with scientists saying this is the biggest advance in their field for half a decade, and that it’s of groundbreaking importance to families.
‘Maybe it won’t be too late for me, James, or Iona.’
‘It’s never too late, Flo.’ He stands up and holds out his hand. ‘So come on, get your skates on. If that old man can do it, so can we.’
65
Peggy
I feel stupidly tearful as I wave Flo goodbye. It’s not as if I won’t see her or speak to her for weeks.
She’s taking the tube to Paddington, before catching a train to Abergavenny, to spend the New Year with James and Maddie at their parents’ home. As she’s just about to turn the corner, pulling her small suitcase on wheels, she stops and waves. ‘See you next year, Granny,’ she calls.
I wave back, saying, ‘Off you go, have fun!’ It’s important for her to see the New Year in with her friends, but this Christmas has been the happiest one we have spent together since Beth died.
The two of us went over to Ricky’s for Christmas Day lunch. And when I say lunch, we didn’t actually sit down until four in the afternoon, after we’d watched the Queen’s speech and opened presents.
I smile. Ricky and Shelley did themselves proud. We had roast turkey with all the trimmings, and Christmas pudding with brandy butter. Shelley even lit the pud.
We raised our glasses to absent friends. Mia sat with us in her high chair. She didn’t know what the heck was going on, but she loved unwrapping the presents, paper flying everywhere.
I let her open all of mine. Ricky and Shelley gave me a guidebook on the best hotels and bed and breakfasts in Rome, along with a travel journal notepad.
‘I’m not sure when I’ll go,’ I’d said.
‘How about next May?’ Flo suggested, handing me an envelope. Inside was a card, with our flight information. ‘I’m free if you are?’
As I walk back into the sitting room, with only Elvis and the Christmas tree shedding its pine needles for company, I don’t allow myself to feel sad for a moment longer.
I am lucky.
To think, this time last year, Flo still didn’t know the truth, Ricky and Shelley hadn’t moved next door and there was no news about a breakthrough drug. Flo could be in New York, oblivious, and I could be sitting in my armchair, drinking myself silly, not knowing whether it was Monday or Friday.
Flo appears to be stronger by the day, putting her relationship with Theo behind her, though she is still unsure whether or not to take the test. With Beth it must have been an impossibly hard decision, though her driving force was marrying Graham and wanting to have more children. With Flo, she doesn’t have that motivation yet, so maybe that’s why it’s hard for her to make up her mind once and for all.
I thought it would be difficult going to Flo’s counselling appointments, that it would be painful to talk about Tim and Beth again, but it hasn’t been as hard as I’d feared. In many ways it helps to ease my guilt. At least being there for Flo somewhat makes up for not being there for Beth.
I wonder if there were many times when Beth nearly told me, before changing her mind. Probably just as many as I nearly told Flo. After all, in our own way, Beth and I were close. There must have been occasions when she feared she wouldn’t be there for Flo, to see her get married or have children. There must have been moments when she looked in the mirror and saw her father, and needed to talk to someone, apart from her counsellor, about her own fears for the future.
Often it keeps me awake, wondering how Beth faced this alone.
Flo reinforced Beth was great friends with Mark, so at least she had him to turn to. A pity he was married.
She’s taking her time reading her mother’s diaries, which I think is wise.
‘It’s like a book, Granny,’ she once said. ‘A book that’s hard to read, so hard that often I need to put it down, but I know I have to finish it eventually.’
Maybe one day I shall be brave enough to read them too. Flo assures me it is helping her, that I did the right thing in finding them for her.
I wrap up warm before Elvis and I walk to the cemetery. London is rather beautiful at this time of year, since it’s deserted and peaceful. It’s probably just as well I’m having a quiet few days, since I had another funny turn on Boxing Day, my heart racing, my head so light I thought I was going to faint.
I don’t think all
the champagne and wine, or the unusually late nights helped.
Flo made me lie down until it passed, which it did, but nevertheless it’s rather scary when it happens, making me think I could have a heart attack or stroke at any minute.
And the last thing I want to do is peg out – excuse the pun.
I’ve got to stick around, for Flo, and to my surprise I realize I want to stick around for myself too.
66
Beth’s Diary, 2009
I can’t sleep. Not after the day I’ve had.
My diary is the only thing that keeps me sane. I swear I’d go mad if I couldn’t write things down.
I called Mum today, first thing this morning.
‘We need to talk,’ I said, determined to tell her, once and for all. I have reasoned with myself that Flo is in a good place right now. She’s eighteen, her A levels are behind her, she’s still madly in love with Freddie, and she has been accepted into a theatre design course in Kent, one of the best drama and art schools in the country.
I could make the excuse that I don’t want to tell her before she goes, in case she gave up her place, but my conscience is creeping up on me, and so are my symptoms.
The other day I drove to the supermarket, got out of the car and my legs literally gave way. I didn’t fall over, thankfully, but a few people stared at me as if I’d been at the bottle and shouldn’t be behind a wheel.
I put on a brave face all the time – no one would ever know – but when I’m alone, I’m consumed with worry that I’ll miss out on so much of Flo’s life. That I won’t be there when she gets her first job, nor will I be sitting in the front seat of the church when she marries. What if I don’t have the chance to hold her first baby, my grandchild, in my arms?
Something has creatively died inside of me, and I know it’s because I need to tell Mum before I go out of my mind. I have to release this burden and ask her to be there for Flo when I won’t be able to. I need to feel at peace to sleep at night.
I don’t think Mum has ever truly understood the impact Dad’s illness had on me. Or if she did, she wasn’t able to express it. She rebuffed the idea of some counselling sessions after Dad died.
‘He’s gone,’ she said, ‘and no amount of talking can bring him back.’
It’s hardly surprising she is the way she is. She had a tough upbringing, her mother abandoning her and her father returning from the war a relative stranger. I don’t blame her for being so buttoned up, but things will be different for Flo and me. I can talk to her, guide her, see if she wants to be tested or not. I’d never make her promise not to find out. No one understands like I do what Flo will have to go through.
So I sat in the café waiting for Mum, playing with the menu, my stomach tangled with nerves. She was late, for starters, which worried me, since Mum is a stickler for time. When she did arrive, she looked pale but typically said she was perfectly all right, nothing that a nice glass of wine couldn’t fix.
As we were making the usual small talk all I could think was ‘Say it, Beth’. And literally I was about to, I got so far as ‘Mum, there is something I haven’t told you, something important’, when she stood up, scraped her chair back and said calmly but firmly that she needed to go to A&E. She could feel her heart racing. Something wasn’t right.
The restaurant called us a taxi immediately and we were driven straight to the hospital. She was seen quickly, since her history of high blood pressure coupled with her age put her at risk of a heart attack or stroke. What made me cross was that I discovered this wasn’t the first time she’d had a ‘funny turn’, as she described them. She confessed to the doctor that they had been going on for four months, saying it literally felt as if her heart was jumping out of her chest – ‘racing like a Porsche,’ she said – and each time she experienced it, she had to sit down because she felt so light-headed and out of breath.
‘Why didn’t you tell me before?’ I asked, when the doctor left the room.
‘I thought it would go away,’ she said, her head down, suddenly looking vulnerable.
As the doctor carried out a series of tests, including an ECG, I left the room to call Mark. I wasn’t sure he’d pick up, since I’ve been keeping my distance for months, not returning his calls. Friendship is no longer enough for me. It hurts too much saying goodbye. Yet he was the only person I wanted to see today.
He did pick up and his tone was aloof, until I told him what happened.
‘I’m on my way,’ he said, and the moment I saw him striding through the double doors, towards the reception area, I got up from my seat and rushed into his arms, where I stayed, feeling safe and loved. He bought me a coffee from the vending machine, and we sat down and talked.
‘Try not to panic until we know what’s going on,’ he said, holding my hand, his touch comforting.
‘Will you stay with me?’ I asked. ‘Just until—’
‘Of course,’ he said. We sat in silence, until he broke it saying, ‘You haven’t been in touch for a while.’
‘I’ve been busy,’ I fudged, staring ahead. ‘What with work and preparing—’
‘Beth.’ He looked into my eyes, before taking my face in his hands. ‘I’ve missed you.’
‘I can’t do this anymore,’ I whispered, placing my hand over his. ‘It’s hard pretending. I’m sorry, I know you’re married, but I love you.’
It seemed an eternity before he replied, ‘I love you too, Beth, but—’
We couldn’t finish the conversation as the doctor appeared, but how I hated the word ‘but’. But we can have no future. But I’m married. But I could never leave my children. But you have HD.
Mark said he’d leave us to talk in private and that he’d call me tomorrow. He kissed me on the cheek. His hand lightly brushed against mine.
As I watched him leave, I felt a fresh wave of grief and regret that he and I could never be. I took a deep breath before turning back to the doctor, who said she needed to carry out more tests, including a twenty-four-hour ECG.
‘I think your mother could have atrial fibrillation,’ she said.
‘What’s that?’
‘It’s an irregular rapid heartbeat that can cause tiredness and symptoms like being out of breath. We need to refer her to a cardiologist.’
‘This sounds serious.’
‘Most cases aren’t life-threatening – some people can have it without even knowing – but given your mother’s history of high blood pressure we need to treat this more cautiously.’
‘Absolutely. What can I do to help?’ I asked.
‘Well, we’ll know more after the tests. She could need an operation. But for now it’s important your mother has plenty of rest and no stress.’
Mum and I took a cab home. She went straight to bed, saying she was fine and that I could go home. I didn’t need to treat her like a toddler.
So I came back here, thinking the day couldn’t get much worse, only to find Flo sitting slumped at the kitchen table, in tears.
‘Freddie broke up with me,’ she said, as if her entire world was over. I held her in my arms, wishing I could make the pain go away. ‘I want to die, Mum.’
‘No, Flo, it’ll get easier, I promise. It hurts so much right now, but—’
‘I can’t live without him, Mum.’
I could feel her heart breaking, just like mine.
67
Flo
I wake up on New Year’s Eve disorientated, wondering where I am, before slowly remembering. I stretch out my arms. I slept like a log, the mattress as soft as a marshmallow.
James and Maddie’s parents moved out of London five years ago. Their mother, Lucy, was longing to return to her roots in Wales, so their father sold his veterinary practice in Barnes and they packed their bags. I remember James saying they were both like fish out of water in London and that Wales would always be their home. The river, unspoilt countryside and wildlife were in their blood. Their new home is close to where Lucy was brought up, a small market town called C
rickhowell, and overlooks the Brecon Beacons and Black Mountains.
Reluctantly, I get out of my warm, cosy bed and open the curtains, which look out on to a backyard, home to a rundown caravan, wonky washing line and a family of noisy chickens. It’s no wonder they’re noisy when I see Rocket, their mad miniature Dachshund, chasing them in a frenzy before Lucy emerges from the kitchen shaking a drying-up cloth at him.
‘Shoo, shoo! Morning, Flo!’ She waves at me from across the yard, wearing a flowery apron over dungarees. ‘Come and have some breakfast, duckie. I’ve just made some coffee, and the eggs should be delicious as they’re freshly laid.’
‘Sounds perfect,’ I say, thinking that whenever I’m here I feel as if I’m safely back in the palm of the Bailey family.
‘Don’t bother getting dressed,’ she continues. ‘You’re the first one up. I have a family of layabouts!’
‘No, you don’t, Mum,’ James calls, standing behind me, dressed in his tracksuit and T-shirt. I hadn’t even heard him come in. ‘Shouldn’t you knock?’ I ask, trying to sound put out, but failing miserably. ‘I could have been in the shower—’
‘We live together.’ He shrugs. ‘I’ve seen it all before.’
‘You haven’t.’ I hit his arm playfully.
‘I did knock,’ he adds. ‘You didn’t hear. You’re getting deaf in your old age.’
‘That’s because of the chickens.’
‘They’re a rowdy bunch,’ he agrees. ‘Breakfast first and then—’
‘We’re on holiday,’ I protest, knowing it’s a lame excuse.
‘We need to stick to the programme.’
‘Oh come on, James. Can’t you smell the sausages and bacon?’ I rub my tummy.
I don’t feel like sticking to the diet and eating a bagel with peanut butter, or lumpy porridge with berries, or a poached egg. I feel like a fry-up and lots of caffeine.
He looks at me, clearly tempted. ‘Flo, we won’t feel like running tomorrow morning,’ he reminds me. ‘Let’s have something quick to eat and then go.’
If You Were Here Page 23
