Forget Me Not (2 page)

‘Disappearing,’ I heard myself now say. ‘Quickly fading from view.’ I thought, bitterly, of Xan.

Then I remembered again the advice my mother had given me, at twenty, when I’d first had my heart broken. ‘Jason seemed very … pleasant,’ she’d said carefully, as I’d sat on my bed, in floods. ‘And yes, he was good-looking, and well dressed – and I suppose he had that lovely car.’ I thought, with a pang, of his Lotus Elise. ‘But he really wasn’t right for you, darling.’

‘How can you say that?’ I’d croaked. ‘You only met him once.’

‘But that was enough for me to see that he was, well, what I’d call – to use a gardening analogy – a flashy annual. They make a great impression, but then they’re gone. What you really want, Anna, is a hardy perennial.’ I’d had a sudden image of myself marrying a
Forsythia
. ‘A hardy perennial won’t let you down. It will show up year after year, reliable, and trustworthy – and safe. Like your father,’ she’d added. ‘Always there for me. Whatever …’

I picked Milly up. ‘I didn’t do what Granny advised,’ I whispered. ‘But it doesn’t matter, because it means I’ve got
you
. And you’re just’ – I touched her nose with mine – ‘the sweetest thing. The bees’ knees.’

‘Bizzy nees.’ She giggled.

I hugged her, then put her down. ‘Now look at these little flowers, Milly. They’re called snowdrops. Can you say that? Snowdrops?’

‘Snowtops …’

‘And these purple ones here are called crocuses …’

‘’Kisses.’ Her breath came in tiny pillows on the frosty air.

‘And this, you may be interested to know, is a miniature wild cyclamen.’

‘Sick …’ Milly giggled again.

‘Granny used to say they had windswept little faces, as though they’d stuck their heads out of the car window.’ As we stood up, then walked across the lawn, I imagined myself, as I often did, years hence telling Milly what had happened to my mum.

You had a wonderful granny
, I could hear myself say.
She
was a lovely, vibrant person. She was interested in lots of
things and she was especially interested in gardening. She
knew a lot about it and was very good at it – she’d taught
herself the names of all the plants and flowers. And she would
have taught you them, Milly, like she taught me, but sadly
she never got the chance, because a year before you were
born she died
…

I heard a step and looked up. Dad was coming through the french windows, holding a cardboard box. Like the house, he had an air of neglect. He used to look well-preserved for his years, young, even. At nearly seventy, he was still good-looking, but had been aged by grief.

I never thought I’d be without your mother
, he’d say for months afterwards.
She was twelve years younger than me.
I simply never thought it. I don’t know what I’ll do
.

Now, after three years, he did. He’d finally felt able to sell up and was moving to London, just a mile away from Milly and me. ‘I’ve loved this house,’ he said as he came and stood next to us. ‘We’ve been here so long. Nearly four decades.’

I imagined what the walls had absorbed in that time. Talking and laughter; weeping and shouting; the cries of childbirth, even. I imagined us all embedded into the very fabric of the house, like fossils.

I heard Dad sigh. ‘But now it’s time to uproot and move on.’

‘It’s for the best,’ I said. ‘London will be distracting. You’ll feel happier there – or, at least, better.’

‘Maybe,’ Dad said. ‘I don’t know. But it’ll certainly be nice being so near to you and Milly.’ I noticed the silvery stubble on his jaw. ‘I hope you won’t mind me dropping in from time to time.’

‘I wish you wouldn’t say that,’ I protested gently. ‘You know you can come whenever you like. I’ve encouraged you to do this, remember?’

‘I won’t be a nuisance.’ I rolled my eyes. ‘And I’ll babysit for you. You should take me up on that, Anna. Babysitting’s expensive.’

‘That’s kind, but you’ll need to get out yourself – see your friends – go to your club, plus I’ve got Luisa now, haven’t I?’

‘That’s true.’

I reflected gratefully on what wonderful value for money au pairs are. I could never have afforded a part-time nanny – especially with the fees for Milly’s new nursery school. But for seventy pounds a week, I get up to five hours’ help a day from Luisa, plus two babysits. She’s a godsend.

‘Not that I go out that much,’ I told Dad. ‘I usually work when Milly’s asleep. I can get a lot done then.’

‘You should go out more,’ he said. ‘It would be good for you. Especially in your situation.’ He set off down the garden – Milly and I following – then he stopped to hold back an overhanging spray of winter jasmine. Everything looked so unkempt.

‘Thanks for all the sorting out you’ve done over the past month,’ he added as we walked on. ‘I know I’ve said it before, but I’ve really appreciated it.’

‘All I did was a few runs to Oxfam, and I didn’t clear everything.’

‘Well, it was wonderful just having you here. I’d have got very down doing it on my own.’

I thought, irritably, of my siblings. Mark’s in the States, fair enough; but Cassie could have helped. She only came once, to clear her own room. Not that Dad seemed to mind. But then he indulges Cassie, as though she’s nine years old, not twenty-nine. Being the ‘baby’, she’s always been spoilt.

Our feet crunched over the gravel as Milly and I followed Dad down the long, narrow path, past the silver birch and the greenhouse. I had a sudden image of my mother in there, in her straw hat, bent over a tray of seedlings. I imagined her glancing up, then waving to us. We walked on, and I assumed that Dad was taking the box to the garage to put in the car. Instead, he stopped by the bonfire patch and began to pile bits of wood on to the blackened earth with a fork.

‘I saw Xan yesterday,’ I heard him say as he splintered an old crate underfoot.

My heart stopped for a beat, as it always does at Xan’s name.

‘Where was that, then?’ I smiled a bitter little smile. ‘On the nine o’clock news? The one o’clock?
Panorama?
’

‘
Newsnight
.’

‘Oh.’ A solitary magpie flew overhead. ‘What was he talking about?’

‘Illegal logging.’

‘I see …’

‘Poor you,’ Dad said. He leaned on the fork. ‘You cope very well, Anna, but being a single mum’s not what your mother and I would have wished for you.’

What you need is a hardy perennial. Someone who’ll always
be there for you. Whatever
…

‘Don’t misunderstand me,’ Dad added quickly. ‘I love Milly so much …’ He reached out to stroke her head and I noticed how frayed the cuffs of his shirt were. I made a mental note to take him shopping for some new ones. ‘But I wish you had a better set-up, that’s all.’

‘Well … I wish I did too.’

‘It can’t be easy.’

‘It isn’t.’ In fact, it’s hard, I reflected grimly. However much you love your child, it’s hard bringing them up on your own. It’s hard not having anyone with whom to share the daily anxieties, or the responsibility, or the joys, let alone the long, lonely nights when they’re tiny babies, or the naked terror when they’re ill. ‘But this is the set-up I’ve got. And there are plenty of kids who have
no
contact with their fathers.’ I thought of Jenny, my friend from NCT. ‘And at least Milly does have
some
sort of relationship with her dad’ – I bit my lip. I had uttered the dreaded ‘D’ word.

‘Daddy!’ Milly yelled, right on cue. ‘
Daddy!
’ She’s only met Xan six times in her two and a half years, but she adores him. ‘Dad-
dy
!’ she repeated indignantly. She stamped her feet, dancing on the spot with frustration, then threw back her head. ‘Dad-
deee
!’ she yelled, as though she thought she might summon him.

‘It’s all right, darling,’ I soothed. ‘You’ll see Daddy soon.’ This wasn’t so much a white lie, as a neon-flashing Technicolor one, as I hadn’t the slightest idea when we’d next see Xan. Milly has to make do with seeing him on TV. She’s elated for the few moments he’s on-screen, then she bursts into tears. I know just how she feels.

‘Dad-
eee
…’ Her face had crumpled and her big grey-blue eyes had filled. My father distracted her by getting her to help him pick up leaves. I stooped to pick some up too and, as I did so, my eye fell on the cardboard box, which seemed to be full of old papers. On one yellowing envelope I saw my mother’s neat italics.

‘Good girl,’ I heard Dad say as Milly scooped up twigs in her mittened hands. ‘Let’s pick up these leaves over here, shall we – they’re nice and dry. That’s it, poppet. Now, go and stand next to Mummy while I light the fire.’

‘I always thought I’d be just like Mum,’ I said, almost to myself now, as Milly wrapped her arms round my knees. ‘I thought I’d have a completely conventional family life – just like she did.’ Dad didn’t reply. He was trying to strike a match, but they kept breaking. ‘I thought I’d have a husband and kids. I never imagined myself bringing up a child alone, but then …’ I shook my head.

‘… then life happened,’ Dad said quietly. The match flared and he cupped it, then put it to the pile.

‘Yes. That’s what happened. Life.’ We heard the crackle of burning leaves and a thread of pewtery smoke began to curl upwards, scenting the air.

Dad straightened up. ‘Have you taken absolutely everything you want from the house? Because what doesn’t go in the removals van will be disposed of by the cleaners. I left out a pile of your mum’s gardening books I thought you might want. Did you see them?’

‘Yes, thanks. I just took three, and her trowel and fork – I wanted to have those.’

‘That would make her happy,’ he said. ‘She’d be so pleased at what you’re doing. Not just because she loved gardening so much, but because she thought the City was too hard for you – those long hours you had to do.’

‘I do long hours now.’

‘That’s true.’ Dad began to fan the fire with the rusty lid from an old biscuit tin. ‘But at least you’re not a wage slave any longer – it’s all for you and Milly. Plus you enjoy what you’re doing more.’

‘Much more,’ I agreed happily. From the holly we heard the chittering of a wren. ‘I love being a garden designer.’

‘A fashionable one according to
The Times
, eh?’ That unexpected bit of coverage had really lifted my confidence; Sue, my former PA, had spotted it and phoned me. ‘And those appearances on GMTV must have helped.’

‘I think they did.’ I’d recently done five short pieces about preparing the garden for spring.

‘And what happened with that big contract in Chelsea you were hoping to get?’

‘The one in The Boltons?’ Dad nodded. ‘I’ve done the survey and I’m taking the designs over on Saturday. If it goes ahead it’ll be my biggest commission by a very long way.’

‘Well – fingers crossed. But if you’re ever stuck for money you know I’ll lend you some. I could be a sleeping partner in the business,’ he added with a smile.

‘That’s kind, but I budgeted for the first two years being a bit tough and you know I’d never ask you for help.’ Unlike Cassie, I thought meanly. She’s always touching Dad for cash. Like that time last year when she simply
had
to go and find herself on that Ashtanga Yoga retreat in Bhutan – Dad had ‘lent’ her most of the three and a half grand. ‘Anyway,’ I went on, ‘things should be a little easier this year.’ There was a soft pop as sparks burst from the fire, like lava from a tiny volcano.

‘Well …’ There was a sudden, awkward silence. Dad cleared his throat, then I saw him glance at the box. ‘I … imagine you’ll want to be getting back now, won’t you?’

‘I … guess so.’ I looked at my watch. It was only 3.30. I still wasn’t quite ready to say my final farewell, plus I was enjoying the warmth of the fire.

‘I know you don’t like driving in the dark.’

‘That’s true.’

‘And then it’ll be Milly’s bedtime.’

‘Mm.’

‘And I’ve got things to do, actually.’

‘Oh.’ Dad wasn’t usually in a hurry for us to leave – quite the opposite. ‘OK, then… we’ll be on our way.’ I looked at the cardboard box. ‘Are you sure you don’t need help with anything else before I go?’

‘No. I’ve just got to deal with this before the light goes.’

‘What is it?’

‘Just … old correspondence.’ I suddenly saw that a red stain had crept up Dad’s neck. ‘Valentine cards I’d sent your mum – that sort of thing.’

I didn’t remind him that today was Valentine’s Day. Not that I’d received so much as a petal, I thought ruefully. I was a romance-free zone.

‘She never threw them away,’ I heard Dad say. ‘When I finally went through her desk I found them.’ He shook his head. ‘Every Valentine card I’d ever sent her – thirty-six of them,’ he went on wonderingly. ‘She was very sentimental, your mum. Then I sorted through some old letters that she’d sent me.’

I did up Milly’s top button. ‘But why would Mum write to you when you were married?’

Dad fanned some smoke away. ‘It was when I was in Brazil.’ He looked at me. ‘I don’t suppose you remember that, do you?’

‘Vaguely … I remember waving you off at the airport with Mum and Mark.’

‘It was in 1977, so you were five. I was out there for eight months.’

‘Remind me what you were doing.’

‘Overseeing a big structural repair on a bridge near Rio. The phone lines were terrible, so we could only keep in touch by letter.’

Now I remembered going to the post office every Friday with our flimsy blue aerogrammes. I used to draw flowers on mine, as I couldn’t write.

‘It must have been hard for you, being away for so long.’

‘It was,’ Dad said quietly.

‘So that was before Cassie was born?’

He snapped in half a small, rotten branch. ‘That’s right. Cassie was born the following year.’

I looked at the box again – a repository of so much emotion. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to keep them? It seems a pity.’

‘I will keep them.’ Dad tapped his chest. ‘Here. But I don’t want to sit in my new flat surrounded by things that make me feel …’ His voice had caught. ‘So … I’m going to look at them one last time, then burn them.’