Lifesaving for Beginners (48 page)

She sits up a bit straighter and holds out her hand and I stretch my hand across her belly, careful not to touch her bump.
She shakes my hand and shakes her head, all at the same time.
She says, ‘Celia,’ like it’s an order rather than her name.

I’m about to say something, I don’t know, like, ‘When is your baby due?’
but she cuts me off with: ‘You wrote all those books.
And nobody knew who you were.’
She drops my hand but she is still shaking her head from side to side.
‘What a strange thing to do.’
She has a curious look on her face.
As if I’m something the cat has dragged in and she’s trying to work out what it is.
I find myself thinking about what the man said.
About the handprints on the porch window.

When it is quiet in a room like this, it is exceptionally quiet.
Deathly quiet.

I say, ‘When are you due?’
Are you due .
.
.
you due .
.
.
due .
.
.
due .
.
.

‘I’m overdue, can’t you tell?’
Overdue .
.
.
can’t you tell .
.
.
you tell .
.
.
tell .
.
.
tell .
.
.

She sighs.
‘I thought the stress of having this lot up for Christmas would do the trick.
But it hasn’t worked.’

Faith says, ‘Give it time.
We’ve been here only a couple of days.’

In a way that is not meant to be kind, Celia says, ‘It feels like you’ve been here for weeks.’

One of the doors into this cavern of a room bursts open and a boy runs in.
He is wearing goggles.
There are swimming trunks over his jeans.

When he sees me he stops and takes off the goggles.
‘Hello.
You’re Kat.
I saw you on the telly.’

I find myself smiling.
‘You must be Milo.’

‘I am.’
He walks towards me and reaches his hand out.

I take it.
‘You have a good handshake.’

He smiles.
‘How’s Ed?’

‘He’s much better.
He got home from hospital yesterday.
Or the day before yesterday, I think.’

Faith says, ‘Milo told me he had an operation.’

I look at her.
Force my voice to sound ordinary.
‘Yes.
On his heart.
He had a pacemaker put in.’

Celia says, ‘He’s the autistic boy, isn’t he?’

‘Ed is my brother.
He’s got Down’s Syndrome.’

Milo says, ‘He’s brilliant at Super Mario Galaxy.’
And now I know what Dad meant when he said that Milo was one of those kids you’d want on your team.
I smile at him again and he says, ‘Would you like a cup of tea and some chocolate?’

I look at Faith and she looks at me and nobody says anything, and then Faith says, ‘Could you make a pot, Milo?’

Faith’s father chimes in, ‘And some Christmas cake.
There’s some in the cupboard.’

Celia says, ‘You’re not supposed to eat Christmas cake, remember?’

‘It’s not for me, darling.
It’s for everyone else.
It’s Christmas Day, after all.’
He smiles a tight, tired smile that slides off his face as soon as it reaches it.

‘Well, Kat doesn’t look like the type of woman who eats cake.’
Celia looks at me.
‘You don’t mind if I call you Kat, do you?’

‘That’s my name.
And I happen to love cake.’
This is not strictly speaking true.
I love cigarettes and I love red wine, but in the absence of both, then Christmas cake and tea made by a ten-year-old boy will do.
Besides, Celia is the type of woman who makes me want to disagree with everything she says.

‘I’m Hamish, by the way.
Faith’s dad.’
I shake his hand.
I like that he doesn’t say ‘adopted Dad’.
Or ‘adoptive’ or whatever the right word is.
He just says ‘Faith’s dad’.
And he says it in a way that brooks no argument.
Not even from Faith, who, I am guessing, might be the argumentative type.
‘Sit down, for goodness’ sake.’
He puts his hand right into the hollow at the small of my back, the way men of a certain age and disposition do, and leads me to the table, where he settles me into a chair.
It’s one of those chairs that’re all style and no comfort.
White and hard.
Faith is standing at the door, as if she is about to leave.
I have to think of something that will make her stay.
And I have to try to get rid of Hamish and Celia.
Even though I don’t know what to say to Faith, I do know that there are things I need to say.
I am hoping these things will come to me when the moment arises.

There’s a period of about thirty seconds when no one says anything.
It’s excruciating.
It’s like writer’s block, only worse.
Page one of one.
The blank page.

Say something.

I can’t think of a thing.

That’s when Hamish pipes up with a timely, ‘So, tell us a little something about yourself, Kat.’

‘Well .
.
.’
And that’s when Minnie says, ‘They don’t want to know your favourite colour, Kat.’

‘I had Faith when I was fifteen.’

I see Faith’s fingers tighten round the handle of the door, but before she can open it and leave the room Celia smiles and says, ‘We had a name for girls like you in school.’
And I nearly kiss her because Faith releases the handle from her grip and approaches the table.
She doesn’t quite sit down but she hovers beside a chair, as if she might.

In my head I’m saying: ThankyouCeliathankyouCeliathankyouCelia.
In real life, I say, ‘I thought I was in love.’

Celia makes a sort of snorting noise.
Faith pulls the chair out and asks, ‘What was his name?’

‘Elliot.
Elliot Porter.’
It feels strange.
Saying his name out loud like that.
After all these years.
I feel nothing.
I thought I would feel something.
But I don’t.
He was only sixteen back then.
Just a kid.
Maybe he’s changed.
People change, don’t they?

If Thomas could hear what I was thinking, he’d say, ‘You’ve changed.’
I’d deny it but he’d say, ‘You have.
You’re giving people the benefit of the doubt.’

That’s true.
I never thought I’d turn out to be someone like that.

‘I didn’t realise I was pregnant until I was about seven months.’

Celia does a proper snort this time.
She says, ‘I knew after three days.
Hamish came in reeking of that terrible aftershave he used to wear and I just threw up everywhere, didn’t I, Hamish?’

Hamish nods briefly and says, ‘Go on.’
Celia gives me a look that could curdle milk.

Faith perches on the edge of the chair.
She looks at me for the first time.
Really looks at me, I mean.
She says, ‘Did you ever think about keeping me?’

I say, ‘No.’
I say it as quickly as I can.
To get it over with.
‘Things were different then.
It was 1987.
I went into labour on my friend’s couch.
It was the first my mother knew of it.
I was in shock.
We all were.
We did what we thought was the best thing at the time.
For everyone.
I’ve never really thought about it until now.
I haven’t allowed myself to.’

Faith says, ‘What’s different now?’

‘I don’t know.
I think .
.
.
maybe .
.
.
I am.’
And it’s only when I say it out loud that I realise it’s true.

That’s when Celia doubles over and emits a screech.
It is animalistic in its intensity.

Faith rolls her eyes.
‘Here we go again.’

Celia throws herself off the chair, onto all fours, and screams, ‘The baby, Hamish.
The baby’s coming.’

Hamish kneels on the floor beside her and gathers as much of her as he can into his arms.
‘Hush now, hush now, ma wee darlin’.’

Milo approaches the table carrying a tray with a teapot and mugs and spoons and a plate piled high with Christmas cake.
He says, ‘Is Celia having the baby again?’

Faith says, ‘Yes.’
Then she turns to me and whispers, ‘This isn’t the first time she’s gone into labour.’
She puts the word ‘labour’ in inverted commas.
Faith is nearly smiling and, again, I feel an enormous rush of gratitude towards Celia.

I take the tray from Milo.
‘Should we phone for an ambulance?’

Hamish looks up.
‘No, they said we’re not to call for an ambulance again.’

Celia lifts her head.
‘But I really AM in labour this time.’

Faith says, ‘That’s what you said the last time.’

Milo says, ‘Yeah, but remember
The Boy Who Cried Wolf
?
There really was a wolf that last time.’

Hamish says, ‘Shut up the lot of you.
Just .
.
.
help me get her into the car.’

I’m closest and, even though I’m pretty sure he didn’t mean me, I bend down and arrange Celia’s arm round my neck.
Hamish hooks her other arm round his neck and, together, we half drag, half carry the howling Celia to Hamish’s jeep, already blanketed with snow.
Just as we are hoisting her across the back seat, water gushes from between her legs.
At first, she is delighted.
She says, ‘LOOK!
My waters have broken.
I TOLD you I was in labour!’
to no one in particular, before she realises the import of the leakage and begins to wail and thrash.
She locks her arms round Hamish’s neck and refuses to let go.

‘You have to let go now, pet.
I need to drive to the hospital.’
His voice is muffled because his mouth is crushed against Celia’s cardigan, which is a mohair one.
Incredibly itchy against his face, I’d say.

In response, Celia emits a long wail, like a foghorn.

Hamish manages to push his mouth away from the cardigan long enough to shout, ‘Kat!’
There’s a long hair hanging from his lip.

‘Yes?’

‘Can you drive one of these things?’

‘Well, I .
.
.’

‘Could you drive us to the hospital?’

For a moment, I’m too surprised by the request to reply.

‘She has a death grip on me and there’s so much snow.
Faith is nervous about driving the jeep at the best of times.’
His look suggests that this is not the best of times and I can’t say I blame him.

‘Well, I .
.
.’

‘It’s not far.’

‘I don’t know the way.’

‘I’ll direct you.
Please, Kat.
I need to stay in the back with Celia.
She’s petrified, the poor wee mite.’

‘OK.’
There’s nothing else I can do.

In the end, the baby comes at a minute past midnight so, technically, his birthday is Boxing Day, but because I hadn’t gone to bed yet when he was born, it was still Christmas Day so me and the baby are sort of half-brother twins.

The baby is called Christian but Celia says we’re not allowed to call him Chris or Christy.

In the hospital on Boxing Day, Dad lets me have a go of feeding the baby.
He says I have to make sure the teat is full of milk, which is trickier than it looks.
I’m not allowed to hold the baby yet in case I squash him, on account of him being so small.
The bottle is nearly as big as the baby.
He sucks pretty well, though.
Dad says he’s going to be a great grubber.

‘You’re a big brother now, Milo.
You’ll show this young fella a thing or two, won’t you?’
It’s actually nice being somebody’s big brother, even if you’re just a half one.

Kat and Faith are outside, in the corridor, when I come out.
Kat stayed in a hotel last night.
Faith went to the hotel this morning.
She didn’t even have any breakfast before she left the house.
She just got up and went to the hotel.
She looked like she’d gone to bed in her clothes and didn’t bother going to sleep.

Kat says, ‘I just wanted to say goodbye, Milo, before I went back to Ireland.
It was lovely meeting you.’
For a moment, I think she’s thinking about hugging me or something, but in the end, she doesn’t.

Faith says, ‘I’ll be back in a minute,’ and disappears down the corridor.

I look at Kat.
‘Will you come and visit again?’

She smiles.
‘I’d like to.’
She looks better than yesterday.

When Faith comes back, she is holding three cans of Coke and three chocolate muffins.
‘Are you hungry?’

I say, ‘I’m starving.’

Faith says, ‘I was talking to Kat.’

Kat says, ‘Yes.
I am,’ even though she doesn’t look like the type of person who eats chocolate muffins.
I reckon she’s more of a salad and fruit type of a person, like Miss Williams.

I eat with my hand under my mouth so I can catch any crumbs.

I say, ‘I’m glad the baby is a boy.’

Kat and Faith say, ‘Why?’
at the same time, which makes them sort of smile at each other.
They seem a bit shy, like new kids in class.

‘Dad says I can teach him everything I know.’

Faith says, ‘Ha!
That won’t take long.’

‘I know loads of stuff.
Lifesaving, for example.’

Kat says, ‘Ed’s been talking about doing a lifesaving class ever since he met you, Milo.
He wants me to do it with him.’

‘Have you ever done lifesaving before?’

‘No.’

‘I bet they have lifesaving-for-beginners classes in Ireland.
They do in Brighton.’

Kat smiles.
‘I’ll Google it when I get home.
Although I’d feel a bit old, doing a beginners’ class.
I’m nearly forty, you know.’

‘You don’t look that old.’

‘Well, I am.’

‘Coach always says it’s never too late.’

‘That’s what Thomas says too.’

Faith says, ‘Is Thomas your boyfriend?’
Girls always want to know about boyfriends and kissing and stuff.

Kat shakes her head.
‘He was.
For a long time.
We were pretty close, actually.
He even asked me to marry him.
After the accident.’

She looks at Faith then.
‘I’m so sorry, Faith.
About your mother.’

Faith nods.
‘So am I.’

I say, ‘Ed said you were in the same accident.
The same one as my mam.’

‘Yes.
I was.’

‘How come you didn’t die?’

‘I don’t know.
Thomas said it was a miracle.’

Faith says, ‘Thomas sounds lovely.’

‘He is.’

I say, ‘Then why didn’t you marry him?
After the accident.
When he asked you.’

Faith says, ‘Milo!’

‘What?’
I ask, even though you’re supposed to say ‘pardon’.

Kat says, ‘I don’t really know, Milo.
I was worried.’

I don’t ask her what she was worried about.
But I know that it’s a horrible feeling.
Being worried.
Nobody says anything for a while.
Kat’s only eaten half of her chocolate muffin.
The rest of it is on a napkin on her lap.
I don’t ask if she’s going to finish it.
I think Faith would kill me if I asked her that.

When Kat stands up, the rest of her muffin falls on the floor, which means that Faith definitely won’t let me eat it now.
I pick it up and put it in the bin.
It nearly kills me.
Kat says, ‘Thanks, Milo.’

‘You’re welcome.’
I try not to think about the chocolate muffin in the bin but it’s hard.

Kat says, ‘I should be going.’

Faith doesn’t say anything.

Kat says, ‘Do you want me to drop you home first?
I could ask the taxi driver to drop you and Milo off at the house on the way to the airport.’

Faith shakes her head.
‘We’ll wait for Dad.’

Kat picks up her handbag.
Unzips it.
Then zips it again.
She looks like she’s looking for something but she can’t remember what it is.
Then she says, ‘I’d love you to come to Dublin sometime.’
She says it really quickly, like she’s in a hurry.

Faith says, ‘We already came to Dublin.’

Kat goes red, like Miss Williams when Damo told her about a bit of her skirt being stuck up inside her knickers that day.

‘I know.
I’m sorry.
I wasn’t .
.
.
I should have come to see you.
I did the wrong thing.’

Faith nods, like she’s agreeing.

I say, ‘I wouldn’t mind going again.
To Dublin.
We didn’t get to do much sightseeing the last time.’
Faith glares at me.
I reckon I’m in for it when Kat leaves.

Kat looks at Faith.
‘Will you think about it?
Milo could come too.
I’ll pay for the flights.’

Faith crosses her arms.
‘We can pay for our own flights.’

‘I know, but I just .
.
.
I really want you to come.
Both of you.’

Faith says nothing for ages and then she says, ‘OK.’
I don’t know if that’s OK, you can pay for the flights.
Or OK, I’ll come to Dublin.
Or OK, me and Milo will come to Dublin.
Or what?

Kat looks at her watch.
She says, ‘I’d better get going.’

It’s only when Kat puts her hand on Faith’s hand that I notice they have exactly the same fingers and thumbs.
Really long, pointy ones.
Mam said that Faith should have been a pianist.
But having long fingers is handy when you’re playing the violin too.

Kat says, ‘I’ll see you.’

She picks up her case and walks down the corridor.

When I look at Faith, there’s a tear hanging off the edge of her jaw.
I say, ‘Are you crying because you’re happy or because you’re sad?’
Sometimes adults cry when they’re happy.
Damo’s mam does that all the time.
Like when she watched Kate and William’s wedding on the telly, she roared crying.
She used up a whole box of tissues.

She wipes her face with the back of her hand.
‘I think I’m just tired.’

‘I think you’re happy.’

‘Why would you think that?’

I shrug my shoulders.
‘I don’t know.
It’s just a feeling I have.’