Lifesaving for Beginners (36 page)

I don’t clamp my hands against my ears.
I say, ‘No.’

Mum continues as if I hadn’t said anything.
‘Her mother died recently.
Her .
.
.
adoptive mother, I mean.’

Something twists inside.
A feeling.
Sympathy, perhaps.
For this woman who keeps turning into a real person, no matter what I do.

‘She died in that car crash.
The one you were in.
Isn’t that strange?’

‘That’s .
.
.
so strange.’

‘Perhaps it’s fate.’

‘You don’t believe in fate.’

She doesn’t respond to that.
Takes a drink of wine instead.
Then she says, ‘She found out she was adopted afterwards.
By accident, really.’

‘Her parents never told her?’

‘No.’

‘Why would they do that?’

Mum shakes her head.
‘People make odd decisions every day.’
I glance up but she’s not looking at me.
She says, ‘I’m sure they had their reasons.’

I nod.
I don’t know what else to do.

Mum says, ‘You have to contact her.’

‘I thought you didn’t do this.’

‘Do what?’

‘Interfere.
You say you don’t believe in interfering in people’s lives.
People can make a mess of their own lives without any help from you.
That’s what you say, isn’t it?’
My voice is louder than it has any need to be.
I try to get a hold of it.

She says, ‘This is different.’

I don’t say anything.

‘Faith is my granddaughter.’

She looks like a grandmother when she says that.
There is something frail in her bearing.
As if she might break a hip if she fell.

I say, ‘Did you see her?
In the hospital, I mean?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘The day she was born.
Did you see her then?’

‘Of course I saw her.’

‘I didn’t.
I never saw her.’

‘What do you mean?
You must have seen her.’

‘I didn’t.
They took her away.
And then I signed the papers.
And then you drove me home.’

‘You must have seen her.
You gave birth to her.’

‘I didn’t even know she was a girl.’

‘You must have known.’

‘Why do you keep telling me what I must have seen and must have known?
I’m telling you I didn’t.
I told them not to tell me.
And I’m not being
fanciful
.
I’m merely stating a fact.’

Mum opens her mouth, then closes it.
She reaches for her glass.
Changes her mind.
Looks at me.
Says, ‘Maybe if you’d seen her, you might have changed your mind.’

‘I never made up my mind.
You did that.
You made all the arrangements, remember?’

‘I only did what I thought was best.’

I say, ‘When did you decide?
About the adoption, I mean.’

‘I .
.
.
as soon as I found out.
When Ed brought me round to Mrs Driver’s house and I saw you, on the couch.’

‘You were very composed.’

‘Somebody had to be.’
She seems angry now.
She hurls the words, like stones.
Throws them at me.

‘I was scared.
I was fifteen years old.’

‘You were old enough to know better.’

‘I was a child.
I didn’t know anything.’

‘You knew enough to get yourself into that state in the first place.’

‘That’s charming, so it is.’

‘Somebody had to take charge.
Make a decision.’

‘You could have discussed it with me.’

‘You were in no position to discuss anything.
You were hysterical.’

‘I was in labour.’

‘Somebody had to come up with a plan.’

‘Well, you certainly did that.’

‘I thought it was for the best.’

‘You keep saying that.’

She glares at me but says nothing.

I take a drink.
Put my glass down.
Pick it up again.
Take another drink.
A longer one.
I say, ‘And now what?
You’re disregarding all that and you think I should make contact with her and we’ll be like the Brady Bunch and live happily ever after?’
My voice shakes.
I think I’m angry.
I feel like breaking something.
Hurling something heavy against a window.
There’s an ashtray somewhere.
A Waterford Crystal one.
That would do.

For the first time since she arrived, she looks at me.
Really looks at me.
Looks at my face.
She says, ‘Yes.’

I say, ‘No.’

She puts her head in her hands.
For a moment, I think she’s crying.

‘I’m sorry, Mum.
But I can’t.
I just .
.
.
I can’t.
I wouldn’t know what to say.
Where to start.
I wouldn’t be able for that.’

She nods.
Her head is still in her hands but I see now that she’s not crying.
I am glad.
I can deal with anger and resentment.
But sadness is a different animal altogether.
Sadness can encourage you to make promises you can’t keep.

She takes her hands away.
Bits of her face are red where her fingers have gripped too tightly.
She stands up.
‘I’ll go.’

I stand as well.
My legs shake and I think it might be relief.
She looks at me.
‘You’re not going to change your mind, are you?’

‘No.’

I go to the cloakroom and fetch her coat and her hat and gloves.
It seems like she arrived a long time ago, but when I look at my watch I see that only twenty minutes have passed.

She pauses at the door.
‘It’s easier to do the wrong thing, you know.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Maybe I did the wrong thing.’
There is something vulnerable about her expression.
Lost.

I shake my head.
‘You did what you thought was best.
At the time.’

‘Maybe I was wrong.’

There is nothing to say to that so I say nothing.

She pulls at the cuff of her glove so that the tips of her fingers strain against the leather.

When she speaks again, she sounds like her usual self.
‘You should spend some time with Edward.
He hasn’t been himself lately.’
My stomach rumbles when she says it.
As if I’m starving and Ed is a portion of chicken tikka masala.
Or an onion bhaji.

‘I will.’
And I mean it.
I’ll ring him tomorrow.
Maybe I’ll pick him up and bring him somewhere.
The Christmas market at the docks, perhaps.
If it’s open yet.
He loves Christmas and I love mulled wine.
It’ll suit both of us.
Take our minds off things.

‘I’ll ring him tomorrow.’

‘Will we see you on Sunday?’

‘Yes.
Of course.’

For a moment, I think she’s going to add something but then she turns and walks down the hall.
She passes the lift and opens the door that leads to the stairwell.
She never takes lifts.
Says they’re like people: unpredictable.
From the back, she looks more like herself.
Her back is straight and her head is high.
There is a sureness in her step.
Her heels rap sharply against each step as she descends.
I stand at the door and wait until the sound fades away.

Dad says, ‘Are you sure you’ll be able to manage?’

Faith says, ‘Yes.
I already told you.
I’m fine.
I’m fine now.
It was very good of you to pick us up from Gatwick.
You didn’t have to wait in Brighton for us to come back.’

‘I was anxious to hear how it all went.’

‘You should go.
I expect Celia wants you home.
In case the baby comes early.’

‘I can stay till tomorrow if you want to go out with Rob tonight?’

‘No.
No thanks.’

‘OK then, I’ll get ready to hit the road.’

Dad never says ‘leave’.
He never says, ‘I’ll get ready to leave.’
He says ‘hit the road’ or ‘sling his hook’ or ‘make like a bee and buzz off’.
Something stupid like that.
That time, when he left to go to Scotland to do sex with Celia, he said, ‘I’m headin’, buddy.’
Mam was crying in the kitchen and I wanted to say, ‘I’m not your buddy,’ but I didn’t say that.
I didn’t say anything in the end.

He rings Celia so he can tell her that he’s leaving.
He says, ‘I’m outta here after lunch.
How are you, pet?’

He never called Mam ‘pet’.
He called her ‘Beth’.
Sometimes, he called her ‘love’.
Like that time in the hospital when he was getting something taken out.
His appendix or his tonsils or something.
Afterwards, he said, ‘Would you pour me a wee dram of that grape juice, love?’
in the kind of voice Damo puts on when he’s pretending to be sick so he misses art.
He hates art.
He says it’s for girls and gays.
You won’t know you’re gay till you’re about sixteen, Damo says.
I hope it doesn’t happen to me.

Mam said, ‘Do I look like Florence bleeding Nightingale?’
but I think she was just messing because she poured him a glass anyway.

Dad spreads butter and jam on a slice of white bread.
It’s a good job Celia’s not here because she says he’s not supposed to have butter.
Or white bread.
And he’s not supposed to eat between meals.
I don’t know if he’s allowed to have jam.
He picks up the bread and takes an enormous bite out of it.
Then he washes it down with a can of Coke that’s not Diet Coke like he’s supposed to drink.
He looks at me and smiles.
‘I suppose you’re hoping for a wee brother.’

I shrug.
‘I don’t mind.’
Actually, because I already have two brothers, I was kind of hoping for a sister, to even things out.
I don’t say that to Dad.
He thinks boys should like brothers and girls should like sisters.

‘Maybe we should have a talk, son.
Before I go.
About, you know, the birds and the bees and all that.’

I know all about the birds and the bees.
Although Damo didn’t call it that.
He called it screwing.

I say, ‘I already know.
We did it in school.’

That is kind of true.
Damo told me in school at lunchtime.
He drew diagrams with his finger in the muck.
For someone who hates art, he’s pretty good at drawing.

Dad looks at me and for a moment I think he’s going to tell me anyway but then he shrugs his shoulders and says, ‘OK-sey,’ instead of ‘OK.’

I say, ‘Do you want me to help you pack?’
Now that I know he’s going, I sort of can’t wait for him to be gone.
Once he’s gone, it’s fine.
I just don’t like knowing he’s going when he’s still here.

He laughs and tosses my hair out of my eyes with his fingers.
‘Trying to get rid of me, are you, son?’

‘No, I just .
.
.’

‘I’m not away till after lunch.
There’s one other thing I have to do.’

‘I could make you a sandwich.
Ham and eggy mix.
I think there are some rolls in the breadbin.’
Eggy mix is Mam’s invention.
It’s hard-boiled eggs, mashed in a bowl, with anything you like chopped up and thrown in.
Then you mix it all up with mayonnaise and maybe some mustard.
My favourite mix is chives and green peppers.
I don’t bring eggy-mix sandwiches into school, on account of the smell.

Dad winks at me.
‘We’ll let Faith worry about lunch, son.
That’s what the ladies do best, isn’t it?’

If Mam were here, she’d say, ‘MCP,’ which stands for Male Chauvinist Pig, and he’d laugh and say, ‘I suppose you’ll be burning your bra next,’ and Mam would laugh and pretend to whack Dad over the head with her rolled-up newspaper.
Later on, when they fought all the time, she wouldn’t laugh.
She’d just say something like, ‘You’re a great role model for a seven-year-old boy, aren’t you?’
Then Dad would tell me to go to my room and I don’t know what they said after that, but whatever it was it was loud because I could hear them shouting from my room, even when I closed the wardrobe door.

The other thing that Dad has to do before he leaves turns out to be about Christmas.
He says we have to go and buy a tree.
A real one, even though there’s an artificial one in the attic that Mam has used every year since Dad went away.

He says, ‘You have to have a real tree at Christmas, son.’
But he doesn’t say why.

I say, ‘Don’t you think it’s a bit early?’

‘It’s never too early for Christmas, son.’

We go to a garden centre and he tells me I can pick whatever tree I want.
They all look the same to me.
I point at the nearest one.

He says, ‘That’s a sorry excuse for a tree, son.’
I point to the one beside it and Dad sighs and shakes his head and then he picks a tree near the back.
It’s so big, he can’t lift it.
He has to drag it to the man, who takes the money and doesn’t give him any change, on account of how big the tree is.

Dad says, ‘That’s highway robbery!’
But he ends up sort of saying it to himself because the man has gone over to another customer, who is buying the first tree I pointed at.
He gets change.

There’s no roof rack on Dad’s car so he has to lay the tree across the back seat with the top of it sticking out of one window and the bottom of it sticking out of the window on the other side.

I say, ‘We’ll have to be careful of cyclists.
And pedestrians.
And lamp posts.’

Dad says, ‘Get in.’
I have to sit in the front on account of the tree.

I sit up really straight so that I look like I’m twelve, or a hundred and thirty-five centimetres, in case we’re stopped by the police because of the Christmas tree poking out of both sides of the car.

We don’t get very far before Dad starts talking again.

He says, ‘I presume you’ve written your letter to Santa?’

I say, ‘I don’t believe in Santa.
I’m ten.’

‘You’re ten?’

‘Well, I’ll be ten on Christmas Day.’

He looks at me, which is dangerous because you should be looking at the road when you’re driving, especially when you have a Christmas tree sticking out of your car.

He shakes his head.
He says, ‘It seems like only yesterday when you were born, son.’

Adults always say that it seems like only yesterday when things happened, even though they happened years and years ago.
And they always say that time flies.
I don’t think that’s true.
I think time drags and drags, which is good because I don’t want it to be Christmas Day.
It won’t be the same.
This year, I’m not going to call it Christmas Day.
I’m just going to call it Sunday.

Another thing that I’m never going to do when I’m an adult is tell the same story over and over again.
Like Dad.
He says, ‘You had to be lifted out through the sunroof.’
That means that Mam had a Caesarean section, which is when the doctor cuts a bit of your stomach and takes the baby out that way.
Mam was in labour for seventeen hours before that.

Dad says, ‘Your mother was in labour for seventeen hours before the doctor took you out.’

The next thing he’ll say is that Mam shouted so loudly that the foundations of the hospital shook and he thought the whole place would come tumbling down.

‘Your mother screeched so loudly I thought the roof would cave in.’
Sometimes, he changes it.

At the traffic lights, everybody stares at us and stares at our car, with the Christmas tree poking out either side.
I duck down as if I’m looking for something on the floor.
I sit back up when we start moving.

Dad says, ‘So?’

I say, ‘What?’

‘Don’t say “what”, say “pardon”.’

I don’t say anything, and after a while, Dad says, ‘So what would you like?
For Christmas?
And your birthday, of course.’

‘I’d like a new pair of goggles.’

‘Goggles?’

‘For my lifesaving class.
The ones I have still work but they get fogged up really quickly now.’

‘You’re still into that?’

‘Yeah.’

‘You must be brilliant at it by now.’

‘Well, Coach thinks I’m OK.’
Actually she said I was one of the best in the class, but I’m not a show-off, like George Pullman.

‘That’s great.
What class are you in now?’

‘I’m still in the beginners’ class.’

‘Beginners’?’

‘Yeah.
But I’ll be doing my exam in the spring.
Coach thinks I’ll pass and then I’ll move up to intermediate.’

‘I should hope so.
After all this time.’

‘Lifesaving is pretty tricky, you know.
Even lifesaving for beginners.’

‘So that’s all you want, is it?
Just goggles?’

‘They’re the Speedsocket Mirror ones.
They’re dead expensive.’

‘Still.
That doesn’t seem like a lot.’

‘That’s what I’d like.’
The Speedsocket ones are twenty-three pounds, but I don’t say that in case Dad says, ‘Highway robbery!’
again.

‘Shouldn’t you be looking for a sword?
Or a bow and arrow, or something?
I thought that’s what nine-year-old boys were into.
Stuff like that.’

I say, ‘I’m into lifesaving.
We learn CPR and everything.’

Dad looks at me again, but the road we’re on is fairly quiet.
He says, ‘I hope you don’t have to do mouth-to-mouth resuscitation on any of the boys in your class.’
He laughs after he says this, like he’s cracked a joke.

I say, ‘We practise on dummies, mostly.’

He says, ‘Well, we’ll see what we can do about the goggles, OK?’
I nod.
I don’t know why he’s saying ‘we’ when it’s just him.
Maybe he means him and Celia.
Or maybe him and Faith?
I don’t think Faith has done any Christmas shopping yet.

‘The thing is, son .
.
.’

I wish he’d call me Milo.

‘The thing is .
.
.
well, we .
.
.
Celia and me, I mean .
.
.
we’d like you to come and stay with us for a while.
After Christmas, I mean.
And after the baby is born.
When everything settles down.
Celia was saying that—’

‘No.’

‘What do you mean, no?
I haven’t even finished what I was saying.’