Before She Was Mine (21 page)

‘At least you’ve done something with your life,’ I said. ‘Unlike me. Miss Dead-end.’

‘Don’t be daft.’

‘Miss Job-with-no-prospects, Miss Still-living-at-home-with-her-mum. Miss Single.’

‘The nursery suits you. Better than some stodgy office. You like being outdoors and making things grow, rolling along with the seasons.’

‘All those science A levels I’m not using.’

‘OK, think about this, Frey. How would your mums have managed this year if you’d been at the other end of the country, holding down some research post in a lab or
something?’

Nicky took a long drink. Then she said, ‘Michael’s got the measure of you.’

‘Oh, Michael. Yeah, he always knows everything.’

‘He knows
you
. He once told me you were one of these people who works on a slow burn. One day you’d go whoosh and take off, like a damp firework everyone had given up
on.’

‘So now I’m a soggy Roman candle?’

She grinned. ‘I really like Michael. He’s straightforward, blunt.’

‘He is that, yes.’

‘I mean, you’re lucky to have found him. I bet you can tell him anything, can’t you? He’s got that levelness about him. I could do with a male friend like
that.’

The baby’s face flashed before my eyes again. ‘He’s all wrapped up with Melody right now.’

Across the bar, Marie was laughing, her cheeks shiny and plump with health. I didn’t dare let my focus rest on her rounded shape.

‘Anyway,’ I said, ‘I’m quite taken with that image of a rogue rocket. I’ll be holding onto it.’

‘You do that.’

We finished our drinks, ordered more. I stood at the bar, calm amid all the chatter and movement and light, all the planning and debate and flirting and fret.

You lot, you want to watch out,
I thought.
I could go off in your faces at any moment.

After Nicky and I had parted ways, I took myself home via the narrow streets round the back of the post office so I could walk past Oggy’s. For old times’ sake, I
told myself. Because this route was only a minute longer than going via the high street; because I was bored and a bit drunk and it felt nice to walk alone in the clear air of the night.

Once I got to the railings by the house next door I halted. There was a light on in Oggy’s top-floor flat. For some reason, that cheered me up. It was a little beacon of normality in a
dark, confused world. I remembered my first visit here, how proud and strangely shy he’d been, showing off the odds and ends his mum had donated and the items he’d picked up off the
market or scrounged. I’d been impressed, though looking back a lot of his ‘refurbishment’ was stuff like draping a duvet cover over the knackered sofa, or sticking down a carpet
sample over the hole in the lino by the kitchen door. Decorating for him meant Blu-tacking posters over the stains on the wall. Really, his flat was just his teenage bedroom translated.

Later, when he got his rep job, he did make a stab at proper decorating. We weren’t together then, but I know he had a carpet fitted and he re-painted the woodwork himself. The last time I
was there the place had been fairly tidy and, though there was still a definite junk-shop feel to the furniture, and I doubt if he could have laid his hands on more than two matching plates, it
wasn’t a bad effort for a single guy without a clue.

God, we’d spent some evenings up there, creating disgusting cocktails, telling rude jokes, providing alternative commentaries to crap TV shows. One time I cooked an enormous lasagne and
Nicky and some weedy guy came round to share it and we ended up playing Shag, Marry, Shoot. And there was a birthday party where a bloke with one of those very thin beards had a good go at chatting
me up, and Oggy threw a glass at the wall out of temper.

I remembered nights kissing on his sofa by the light of his electric fire, and others listening to him try to pick out
Badge
and
Sunshine of your Love
on an old acoustic he’d
blagged off a mate. I remembered him saying no one cooked chilli as good as me, and the afternoon I was hunting for some paracetamol and I came across a drawer full of my cards and notes which
he’d kept. Oggy was my formative years; my formative years were Oggy.

I wondered what his flat looked like these days. Would there be a strange toothbrush in the bathroom, Tampax in the cupboard, flimsies drying on the radiator? I’d had toothbrush rights,
once.

All of a sudden I was seized with such a longing to be up there, behind his stripy curtains, sharing a beer and a laugh and a cuddle. Our last dating session, I’d helped him begin a
stop-frame animation called
Kitchen Wars: the Mightiest Battle of All
, fruit versus veg, with tomatoes changing sides halfway through. There were weapons – asparagus spears, carrot
batons, sprouts played the part of cannonballs – and individual bouts e.g. melon versus cauli for the heavyweights, apples versus beetroot in the medium class. I carved crocodile jaws out of
a parsnip, and he’d been particularly impressed. Had he ever finished the film? Had anyone else shaped his root veg for him?

There was the muffled clunk of a door round the back of the building, then the sound of footsteps down the flat’s side access path. I panicked in case it was someone come to tell me off
for behaving like a stalker – or worse, Oggy’s girlfriend. How incredibly sad would I have looked? But it wasn’t her, and it wasn’t a stroppy neighbour come to say
they’d rung the police. It was Oggy. He was in his slippers, and holding some kind of parcel at arm’s length.

His head dipped uncertainly as he squinted against the glare of the street light. ‘Freya?’

‘I was passing,’ I said feebly.

‘Yeah? And I was binning some stinky fish. It must be fate.’ He flipped open the lid of the wheelie bin and dropped the parcel in. ‘How you doing?’

‘Ah, you know.’

‘Uh huh.’ I watched him brush his palms together, then sniff them. ‘Phew. I’m going to have to fumigate the place. Or buy one of those poncey perfumed candles. Mackerel
and lavender, mmm.’

‘Sardine and vanilla.’

He moved towards me. ‘Are you pissed? You look a bit out of it.’

I shook my head. ‘How’s Hogden? I haven’t heard from him this week.’

‘He’s had a lot on. Fleas, mostly.’

‘Do you really see him every night?’

‘Nah. He hasn’t shown up for about a month or so. I reckon he might have moved on to a better area. Higher quality slugs, less dog shit.’

‘But your texts.’

‘I hate to break it to you, Frey, but they weren’t really from Hodgen.’ He made a mock-contrite face. ‘I’m sure he’s fine, though. He’s probably
romancing some lady hog as we speak. Hey, how
do
hedgehogs screw?’

‘The female flattens her spines so the male can climb on without getting impaled.’

‘Just as well. Ouch, otherwise. Might end up with a nasty little prick.’

‘Nature always finds a way.’

Oggy stepped closer. I caught a faint whiff of fish. ‘We could go look for hedgehogs now, if you wanted.’

‘Where?’

He cast his eyes upwards, towards his lighted window.

‘In your flat?’

‘You never know. There might be a little one hiding in a crevice somewhere.’

‘What about your girlfriend?’

Oggy smiled and laid his finger on his lips.

‘What about her, though?’ I persisted.

‘She isn’t here.’

Then he stepped away and beckoned for me to walk up the path.

And, like an idiot, I did.

Case Notes on: Melody Jacqueline Brewster

Meeting Location:
42,
Love Lane, Nantwich

Present: Miss Melody Brewster, Mrs Abby Brewster, Mrs Diane Kozyra

Date:
2.30
p.m.,
11/2/87

Began the session by explaining to Melody that the report on baby Fay has been accepted at panel. She seemed pleased and asked me what would happen next. I advised that she
needed to be thinking of what kind of adoptive family she’d like, and what she wanted for her baby’s future. She said she was frightened to picture anything too specific in case it
didn’t come off.

I reminded Melody that she’d wanted musical foster parents, so perhaps that was something she valued for Fay. After some thought she asked if we could get a house with a piano because
she’d always wanted one but her mum said there wasn’t room in their house. So we began a list which I’ve left with Melody in the hope she can add some ideas to talk about next
time.

Before I left I spoke to Mrs Brewster without Melody present. I asked whether she thought her daughter was in better spirits. Mrs Brewster said that they were having a lot of rows over
trivial incidents, and that Melody ‘seemed able to be pleasant with everyone but her’. I advised her it would take time for Melody’s emotional state to return to normal.

Next visit:
20/2/87

Signed: Diane Kozyra

‘How’s she doing?’ I asked Michael as we drove out of the forecourt, on our way to Melody’s.

‘Bad,’ he said. Then, ‘Slightly better than she has been.’

‘That’s something.’

I knew how much he’d done for her since she’d lost the baby. At least two nights a week he’d been staying round at hers, to make sure she was eating and sleeping at proper
times. As well as replacing the kitchen calendar, he’d contacted Joe both to fill him in and tell him to keep away; dropped notes through the neighbours’ doors; spirited away her
pregnancy books and magazines. Even gone online to unsubscribe her from all the New Mother forums and mailings she’d signed up for. ‘I’d never have thought of that,’ I said
when he told me.

‘We had to do it with Kim. Or rather, she had to do it.’

A memory of Melody from last summer, standing by the war memorial in town and applauding some scruffy busker. She was wearing a patchwork maxi skirt with a frill round the bottom, very gypsyish.
I’d said to her, ‘Please don’t dance, not here.’ And she’d done a little twirl just to wind me up.

‘It’s good she’s back at work,’ Michael was saying.

‘Is she fit enough?’

‘The doctors seem pretty pleased with her, physically. Just her mental state, that’s what we need to watch. I warned her not to accept any pills if she was offered but they never
suggested any. I think they’ve got stricter guidelines these days.’

We crossed the roundabout onto the A road. The hedges were lush, quivering with birds. The sky was an uninterrupted blue.

I said, ‘I expect she’s too busy to think much when she’s in the shop.’

‘That’s right. And they’re a nice bunch in there. Sympathetic, without being over the top. She can have hospital counselling if she wants. There’s a group that meets up
every month.’

‘Can’t imagine that’ll be a barrel of laughs.’

‘It’s hardly meant to be. The question is, would it help?’

His tone was so snappy I blushed, turned my head and looked out of the window.
Why bother asking my opinion? You’re so close to her, you tell me
.

Michael cleared his throat. I reached forward and turned the radio on.

‘Sorry,’ he said, after an interval of two songs. ‘It’s been, you know. Not much fun. Dealing with it. And I’ve had Kim round asking for money.’

‘Did you give her any?’

‘Some. Don’t look at me like that, she had nowhere else to go.’

‘Wonder why. I hope she said thank you.’

‘She posted a load of chopped-up photos through my letterbox. Anyway, enough of my social life. How are you?’

‘Me?’

He shot me a glance. ‘Yes, Frey. I’m asking how you’re doing. What have you been up to?’

Everything sounded like a reproach.
What’s been so urgent in your hectic lifestyle that you haven’t had one hour in three weeks to pop round and see your birth mother?
‘I’ve been busy,’ I said.

‘Yeah?’

Don’t mention Oggy; for God’s sake don’t say you’ve been seeing him again, even though this other girl’s definitely still around, sometimes leaves messages on
the answerphone when I’m there in his flat and it’s the crappest way to behave, like I’ve no respect for her or for myself but oh, the relief of having somewhere to go to get away
from all the shit that’s going on, of having a bolt-hole, of having a laugh, of having a sex life again.

I said, ‘I’ve been busy with the wedding, fittings and such. Nicky’s on the phone every day, nearly. And I’ve been helping Liv. I went with her to choose a
wig.’

Michael nodded, and I felt safe again. ‘That must have been difficult for her.’

‘The wig woman was a bit snotty. Liv had to show her proof that she was really entitled, when the chemo would start, what type of drugs she was having. Like anyone would fake cancer just
to scam an NHS wig. But she got an OK one, an ashy-blonde bob. It makes her look so different. Well, weird, because her face is the same. It’s hard to describe.’

‘She’s started the chemo?’

‘One session down, eleven to go.’

‘How was that?’

‘Boring, mainly. She had to sit in a room with big armchairs all round, and drips. What was freaky, though, was when the nurse first came with the bottle and she’s handling it with
rubber gloves because it’s so toxic, and Liv leans over and says, “That’s going inside me!” But it doesn’t hurt, apparently. You feel it creeping up your arm like cold
water, and later on she said her throat felt tight, and she had a nasty taste in her mouth. Afterwards we went to the café and she had a peppermint tea. When she got home she went straight
to bed.’

‘I bet she was glad you were with her.’

‘Yeah, I think so. Next time we’ll take magazines and wildlife reports and puzzle books. We’ll be better prepared.’

‘Geraint could go along to some of the appointments.’

‘He’ll have to. I can’t take every session off work. But you should have seen his face when I told him that. He looked sicker than Liv.’

‘Some people do find it hard,’ said Michael, and I briefly wanted to punch him.

‘You don’t
always
have to be fair.’

‘OK, then. If you say so. I’ll be a model of intolerance.’ But he was grinning. We were back on track.