‘You’re right,’ I said finally. ‘It’s time to tell her.’
Once Flo knows, will she want to see a genetic counsellor? I will explain that I believe there is no right or wrong answer about finding out. People can lead happy lives not knowing they are at risk. I have lived a happy life knowing. The important thing is just to live.
But am I living? Am I really living at the moment?
‘What are you thinking about?’ Amanda asked.
‘Mark,’ I admitted. ‘I didn’t go to France because I always thought I needed to be here for Flo, and I do, but in a way he’s right: she does have her own life to lead. She’s been offered a job in Copenhagen.’
‘That’s wonderful,’ she said, sensing there was more.
‘She told me she wanted to live abroad, that she was looking for work in maybe New York or San Francisco.’
Amanda waited. They do that, these counsellors, they have a canny ability to know when to ask the questions and when to keep quiet.
‘I still see her as my little girl, with two long plaits, wearing her favourite poppy dress or her lilac dungarees,’ I said. ‘The little girl I taught to ride a bike.’ I smiled nostalgically. ‘But she’s twenty-one now. She’s a big girl.’
I showed Amanda the card I had bought for her, a pretty one of a woman walking through a field of poppies, carrying a basket of flowers. I read out what I’d written inside.
Amanda doesn’t need to convince me anymore to tell my daughter. I am determined to.
I’m expecting Flo to hate me for a while, feel angry, betrayed. I imagine she’ll use me as both a punchbag and a shoulder to cry on. But I will be with her, every step of the way, and we will get through this, I’ll make sure of that. All I can pray is that she’ll forgive me in time.
‘I’ll stay for however long it takes,’ I vowed to Amanda and to myself, ‘for however long she needs me, but it doesn’t mean I have to put my own life on hold, for ever, does it?’
Amanda shook her head.
‘I want to make the most of the years I have left,’ I said, thinking of Dad, and how much we travelled as a family after he retired. We grabbed life by the scruff of the neck and gave it our best shot while we still could.
‘I think I’d regret it if I didn’t give Mark and me a chance. I don’t want a future without the man I love.’
I tried calling Mark tonight, but he hasn’t rung me back. He must be away, or perhaps something has come up with his sister. I don’t want to email him or leave a message. I need to hear his voice. I’m longing to tell him that, once the dust settles, I’ll pack my bags. I ache for him to know I love him and that I don’t want us to spend any more time apart.
I’ll call him again tomorrow.
82
Peggy
I shut the door.
Flo has left. I packed her off with a slice of malt loaf and a banana for the tube journey, and she has gone.
Alone, I switch on the television and see that charming newsreader, Sophie Raworth, being interviewed. I give Elvis his breakfast and make myself a cup of strong coffee. I barely had a wink of sleep last night, and I can’t imagine Flo had much either, since we were both terrified of oversleeping.
I set three alarm clocks this morning, all for six. To be honest, it was a relief to hear them go off at once, since I was wide awake anyway.
What if Flo is sick or has a heart attack or collapses in the heat?
We had breakfast at six thirty. I made Flo a bagel with scrambled eggs, which she washed down with plenty of water. Like me, she was a bundle of nerves, having spent most of last night panicking about hitting the wall, which she explained was when your body and mind go on strike and you literally cannot run a single step further. But she was also extraordinarily emotional, saying she had read Beth’s second-to-last diary entry, which has revealed how her mother had planned to move to France. I realized just how much I’d missed in Beth’s life. My daughter, at long last, had found love and was on the verge of moving abroad. If only she’d had the chance to be happy with Mark.
‘Why didn’t I just do a cake sale, Granny?’ she asked, laughing hysterically before bursting into tears. And I hate to admit it, but at that moment, I would have preferred a cake sale too, especially if it were lemon drizzle.
I was relieved when Maddie arrived. I knew she’d be better equipped to calm Flo down and hold her hand before the race. I’m relieved James is coming to support her too. She needs him.
As I wrap my hands around my coffee mug, the warmth comforting, I think about Beth and Tim, and how I wish they were here with me today. Perhaps they will be looking down cheering her on. I cling to that thought as I stroke Elvis, and continue to watch the marathon coverage on the television.
It’s almost ten o’clock when Ricky comes over, dressed in his bright green ‘I’m supporting TEAM HDA’ T-shirt.
‘We look like twins,’ he says, gesturing to our matching tops, his smile as bright as the sun, lifting my spirits immediately. ‘Shelley will bring Mia towards the end,’ he informs me. ‘And a few of my footie mates will join us too, and maybe Vic from the band.’
‘The more the merrier,’ I say, marvelling at how relaxed Ricky looks in his cap and shorts, carrying his guitar. He looks as if he’s about to spend the day on the beach.
‘She’ll be fine, Peggy. She’s prepared,’ he reassures me, my nerves building as we watch the Queen on the television, looking resplendent dressed in pink, with a matching hat and white gloves, preparing to press the button from outside Windsor Castle any moment now.
The national anthem plays, filling me with pride, but the sight of the crowds only adds to my anxiety for Flo. She’ll be standing among over forty thousand people.
The Queen presses the button.
‘Let’s go,’ I tell Ricky, switching off the television.
He takes me by the arm, gently. ‘Breathe, Peggy. Breathe. Drop your shoulders. They’re practically touching your ears, mate.’
I do as he says.
‘Over three hundred thousand people applied to run this race,’ he reminds me. ‘Flo is one of the lucky ones who got a place, and she’s going to do us all proud, right? Especially you. She’ll be fine. Have faith. Got any brandy?’ he adds, making me laugh at last. ‘Just a spoonful?’
I laugh again. He’s right. This is an experience of a lifetime for Flo. A privilege. And I couldn’t be prouder.
Though all that comes out of my mouth is, ‘Off we go!’ I pick up the picnic basket and hand Ricky my fold-up chair. ‘The sooner this race begins, the sooner Flo will finish.’
83
Flo
Iona and I shuffle forward. We must be getting closer to the start line as it’s well past ten o’clock now. Since arriving, after being assembled into the right place and saying a tearful farewell to Maddie, it’s been a waiting game, runners exchanging stories, crying and hugging, sharing tips of how to survive this heat, dishing out extra safety pins to make sure our running numbers stay secured to our vests; someone even offered me some Imodium tablets, which I took gratefully.
There have been a lot of nervous visits to the loo. Some runners joined mile-long queues; others opted to squat instead, au naturel. Iona and I did the latter, looking at one another, both of us wondering what the hell we were doing. But it’s easy to remember why we’re here when we speak to the other competitors.
I’ve met a guy in his thirties called Charlie, running for his wife, Cass, a doctor who has a spinal cord injury and is in a wheelchair. He showed me a picture of their assistant dog – a yellow Labrador called Ticket – who is coming to cheer him on today.
I’ve met Finn, who has a teenage son with Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder (ADHD). Katie told me about her disabled sister, Bells, and Gilly, who’s running for spina bifida, a condition her little sister, Megan, died of when she was two. There’s Ward, running for his stepdaughter, Isla, who has cerebral palsy.
Put us together in a tube carriage on a Monday morn
ing and none of us would utter a word to one another, but all barriers are broken down in an environment like this. I found myself telling Charlie about my mother and Granddad, feeling again Mum’s pain that after all those years, she never got to be with the man she loved.
I told Gilly I hadn’t yet made up my mind whether to take the test or not.
‘One day you’ll just know,’ she said.
Iona and I catch a glimpse of the journalist and writer, Bryony Gordon, running in her underwear. In many ways I envy how much cooler she must feel, though it’s still brave of her to be wearing nothing but a pair of black knickers and a bra. I love her spirit; how she raises awareness around mental health and body image. It’s only now that I see what a waste of time it is to obsess over such things. It’s about being alive, taking risks, and being happy with ourselves – inside and out – that’s what really matters.
Iona has talked about her father, who is coming with his carer today, along with Iona’s fiancé, Steve, and her mum. We’ve also bumped into a few of the HDA runners we’ve chatted with online on our Facebook page. It was like saying hello to family. We hugged one another and shed more tears.
I hadn’t expected to feel this emotional before the race. What was I going to be like by the end?
‘Have we started?’ I ask Iona, as we shuffle forward, but this time we don’t stop. She gives me the thumbs up. We’re running. We’re not stopping this time. We really have begun, though it’s not long before I need the loo again.
*
I stop and bend over, clutching my stomach.
‘Go on,’ I urge Iona. We’re only at mile five. I can’t believe it. In my recent training sessions I haven’t needed to stop at mile five once, and yet my head is pounding as if it’s about to explode, my stomach is bloated and I feel faint.
‘Try to walk slowly with me,’ Iona suggests, gently taking me by the arm. The sound of the crowds chanting and cheering, along with the thousands of runners, makes me feel giddy.
‘I can’t go on,’ I say. ‘Go, Iona.’
‘I’m not leaving without—’
But before she can finish her sentence I have thrown up by the side of the pavement.
I am vaguely aware of other runners stopping to ask if I need help. Spectators crowd round me. One hands me their bottle of water.
‘I want my mum,’ I whimper in a pathetic crumpled heap. Iona crouches down to my level, stroking my back. ‘Well, you’ll have to make do with me instead. I’m not leaving.’
‘But what about your time?’ I whisper, holding my stomach, the dizziness slowly subsiding. I know she was aiming to run it in five hours twenty.
‘I don’t care,’ she says. ‘It wouldn’t be the same without you.’
I look at her, realizing this isn’t about a finishing time anymore. It’s about surviving the next twenty-one miles in blazing heat, and it will be a lot easier with Iona by my side. I stagger to my feet.
‘Thank you,’ I say, as the crowds cheer us on. ‘You can do it, Flo!’ some random stranger shouts as we jog past.
‘What a friend!’ shouts another. ‘Go Iona!’
Iona and I make it to mile eight, the sweltering heat from the pavement and from the other runners intensifying. We have trained in one of the coldest winters, and yet now it feels as if we are running in the Sahara.
At the last water station, we not only drank water but chucked it over ourselves too.
We keep to the left, and when I see James’s face among the spectators and Maddie waving her banner, it makes me want to burst into tears again. I rush over to give Jane, Stu, Maddie and finally James, a hug, holding on to him for a second longer. I wish I didn’t have to let him go, though I daren’t linger, because if I do, I won’t be able to start again.
‘See you at the next stop,’ I say, blowing them a kiss and waving them goodbye. But I have to turn round once more. I need to see his face.
I catch James’s eye, ‘Keep going,’ he calls out. ‘You can do it.’
84
Peggy
‘Where is she, Ricky?’ I pester him yet again. He told me he had downloaded some app on his mobile, which can track Flo’s progress. All he has to do is put in her name and running number and her location pops up like magic.
Tower Bridge is heaving. Anyone who says the Brits are reserved needs to watch a marathon.
‘Here comes the bride!’ sings Ricky, strumming it on his guitar too, as a man dressed in white wearing a veil runs past us.
‘Get me to the church on time!’ sing Ricky’s footie mates – before another runner performs a rather wonky cartwheel, everyone cheering and clapping.
‘Go, carrot man!’ I find myself calling to the person dressed in an orange costume with something green sprouting from the top of his head. Ricky and his friends turn to me in surprise.
‘BOB, BOB, BOB!’ I chant with the crowds. I haven’t the foggiest which one Bob is, but if I’m going to endure waiting for Flo, I’ll be much happier joining in. Though it’s not long before I gasp, watching a runner stop abruptly, clutching his thigh in agony, hopping on one foot. The poor man must have cramp. I wave my arms and pump my fists when he begins to run again. The crowd applauds him as if he’s a hero. And in many ways he is. All these thousands of runners putting one foot in front of another for a person they love or a cause they believe in are heroes, including my Flo.
‘Where is she, Ricky?’
‘She’s doing well,’ he informs me looking at his mobile screen. ‘She should be here any moment now.’
I take a deep breath again before scanning the runners. We are just beyond the bridge. I can’t miss her. I can’t.
‘There she is!’ I scream, pointing to Flo running towards us with Iona. I turn to hug Ricky and all his friends cheer.
She’s safe. She’s well. She’s still on her feet, and not only that, she’s smiling. She’s laughing. Oh, this is wonderful!
‘Flo!’ I jump up and down before telling everyone standing close to me, ‘That’s my granddaughter!’
She sees me. She hears Ricky playing on his guitar, ‘Here Comes the Sun’ by The Beatles, which we discussed would be her special song. She rushes over.
‘Keep going!’ I say, smothering her with as many kisses as I can. ‘You’re about halfway there.’
I hadn’t expected her to look this relaxed and happy. To be honest, I don’t know what I expected, but after seeing many joggers clutching limbs or limping, someone even passed out on the side of the road, this is more than I had hoped for.
‘I still can’t believe I’m running the marathon,’ she says, unable to wipe the grin off her face.
85
Flo
This is too hard. You can’t do it.
The voice inside my head taunts me, my feet unable to lift off the ground.
You still have eight miles to go; you’re never going to make it.
I bend over in pain. I have stomach cramps.
But then I remember what James told me, now challenging the voice in my head, It doesn’t matter if you walk or crawl across the finishing line. All you have to do is finish.
I can do this.
I am promptly sick. Again.
*
The sight of Iona’s family around the eighteen-mile mark lifts my spirits. I watch as she throws her arms around her father, who sits in his wheelchair, his stillness reminding me of Granddad. I watch as she kisses her fiancé, both of them in tears.
‘Florence!’ I hear someone call. I look around me. No one calls me Florence. Nor do I recognize the voice.
‘Florence,’ he repeats. I see a man with grey hair waving at me. He looks familiar, but I can’t quite place him.
‘It’s Mark,’ he says, as I approach cautiously. ‘Your mother’s old friend.’
‘Mark?’ I repeat in shock. Of course it’s Mark. How could I not have recognized those blue eyes? Reading Mum’s diaries and now seeing him standing only inches from me is surreal.
‘How did yo
u know? I can’t believe—’
‘My son, Ben.’ He gestures to the tall fair-haired man standing next to him, a younger version of himself, ‘He saw your fundraising page. Now probably isn’t the best time to chat, but maybe—’
‘Did Mum ever tell you? Did you talk?’
‘Talk? All the time, Flo. She was my best friend.’
He doesn’t understand.
‘She made the decision to come to France.’
He shakes his head. ‘No, she needed to be with you.’
‘She called you. She’d handed in her notice.’
He looks confused. ‘She left a message for me, just before—’ Colour drains from his face.
‘She changed her mind, Mark.’
‘I was away. By the time—’
‘She was going to tell you she wanted to be with you.’
He turns away, Ben putting an arm around his shoulder.
‘I have to go,’ I tell them. ‘Where are you staying? Give me your number, or I can give you mine? I can explain everything.’
‘I’m sorry.’ He faces me again, inhales deeply.
‘She loved you,’ I say, softly. ‘Your friendship meant the world to her.’
‘Go,’ he says, barely able to utter more, Ben writing down my mobile number on the palm of his hand. ‘Go, Flo,’ both father and son now urge.
I rejoin Iona, before glancing over my shoulder one last time, to see his face among the crowds.
He waves at me then shouts, ‘She’d be proud.’
I look up to the bright blue sky, fighting back my tears, unable to believe I’ve just seen Mark, the man who appears in almost every page of Mum’s diary, the love of her life.
If only I could tell Mum about today, that her message got through to him in the end. If only she knew he was here.
‘They’re with us,’ says one of the HDA runners who stops to talk to me. ‘I promise you, Flo, they’re with us. You’re doing really well by the way,’ he adds.
If You Were Here Page 28
