I Unlove You (27 page)

A
few months ago, I wouldn
’
t have noticed
either the woman or the baby, my mind occupied with a book or my
music. Each week brings more babies into my life.
I
’
m positive they
’
ve always been
there, but never as prominent as they have of
late.

Two
years ago, a little boy - maybe two or three years-old - came up to
me as I drank coffee on my own. Hidden behind my book, I reached
for my cup, and there he was, peeking above the spine and paper.
Silently, he stared at me, no social boundaries holding him back.
Every social boundary held me back, fidgeting and lifting my book
to block him from sight. But I knew he remained
there
…
looking at me
…
burning through me
…
knowing I had no idea
what to do.

I
don
’
t know why small children unnerve me, or why they
sense my discomfort, but it
’
s no longer as
strong.

A
few days ago, crossing the street during my lunch break, a young
mother stopped beside me as we waited for the lights to change.
Glancing down, her daughter looked up at me, in much the same way
that boy did two years ago. Gazing into her beautiful blue eyes, I
did something I
’
ve never done
before: I smiled.

I
don
’
t think I
’
ve ever smiled at a
baby. I didn
’
t intend to on this
occasion, but I did. Instead of fiddling and fidgeting with my
phone, I locked my gaze on hers until she departed with her mother
amongst the crowd of street-crossing bodies. I
couldn
’
t take my eyes off her, much like I
can
’
t take my eyes off this tiny little boy
now.

Reaching for his teddy, he gurgles and squeals. Chubby
thighs and chubby arms, tiny feet with the tiniest of toes. How can
they be so small? How can I, a man so inept in so many ways, create
something so perfect and petite as toes like those? My son will
soon have toes like that. I suppose he already does, safe and sound
in his mummy
’
s tummy.

I
wonder where his mother bought that blue onesie with the pirate on
the breast, because I want one too. Imagine, a whole set of blue
clothes with pirate ships and diggers, racing cars and electric
guitars. If only his stroller was closer, I
’
d see the
colour of his eyes. Are they blue or brown or
green?

I
wonder what it
’
s like to touch feet
so small, or kiss a newborn cheek like my father told me about.
I
’
ve never held a baby, not really. I want to. I need
to. I soon will do.

The
train continues to rumble, the clitter-clatter of metal on metal,
the
‘
swoosh
’
of air battering the glass. So many
people surround me, the air still heavy and damp. I should remain
miserable like before, but I don
’
t. I
’
m fixated on
this little boy and his pursuit of a teddy just out of reach. Maybe
my own little bundle will look like this? I could bring him on
trains, too, and enjoy father-son outings to
Leeds.

“
Come on,
kiddo,
”
I
’
ll say.
“
Are you ready to go on
your first train journey?
”

Crouching down at Sowerby Bridge station, I place my finger
amid his tight grip.
“
This is the train Daddy catches every
day,
”
I
’
ll continue, rubbing his soft nose with my
little finger. Staring up at me, he recognises my face, and
understands I
’
m an important part
of his life, but who am I? Why am I always around? What makes me
important?

As
we go into a tunnel, the train darkens for a few seconds before
escaping back into the light. I close my eyes and picture
B
, facing
me in bed as our son nestles between us. In nothing but a white
vest, he kicks his legs and arms, gurgling as he focuses above.
Stroking her finger up and down his arm, much like she does with
mine, I lay on my side and watch.

It
’
s not even a memory, not at all real, but I love
it. I love the moment and the peace. A family. My family. Alone and
safe in bed, surrounded by a world that doesn
’
t matter,
because all that does is us.

Hiding under another tunnel, the carriage goes dark, this
passage longer than before. The little baby hides among his
stroller, only his red teddy on show. The rattle grows, as does the
shaking from side to side. The whoosh of cool air spills into the
carriage, cooling me and soothing me, and in an instant
it
’
s light again and there
’
s that little
boy.

Perfect. Beautiful. His father awaits him, his pride and
joy. Soon, it
’
ll be me.
I
’
m ready. I am.

SEPTEMBER 10
^TH
- THE PUB:

The
last of summer clings to the air; cloudy skies above and damp
ground below. Still mild and pleasant, the sun soothes when it
escapes from behind a cloud. A reminder it isn
’
t winter
yet, but that summer
’
s no more. Some
people, in some countries, look forward to autumn and its crisp,
refreshing touch, although I can
’
t understand why
anyone in Yorkshire would.

Maybe after months of intense heat and scorching sunlight,
grey clouds are a relief. Maybe if my walk to the train station
involved crisp leaves underfoot, I
’
d smile. With the
leaves soggy and decomposing, and the air too cool too soon,
summer
’
s already a longing memory.

Sitting at a table in front of the
floor-to-ceiling blue shutter doors, I lean on my elbow and search
outside the pub. A few weeks ago the benches and stone walls
overflowed with people. For once, we received a summer of sorts, a
proper summer, the first real summer in years. Each day, beer
garden crowds basked in the warmth, sipping beer and lounging in
shorts.

I long to head back in time and
experience it again, for it passed in a flash. Too fleeting, as I
stressed and worried, focusing on my troubles instead of that
around me. By the time I escaped my burden, the weather had already
turned. Each sunny morning offers hope, but I know how September
plays out. Like its juxtaposed twin, March, each glimpse of summer
drowns in drizzle and increasing winds.

No
matter how the day begins, I leave the house with my blue anorak. I
don
’
t trust the weather otherwise, having been stranded in
showers far too often. It doesn
’
t seem to rain,
rather exist in the air. Even now, gazing out of the pub window,
the damp ground indicates the wet stuff, although I
don
’
t see any fall; tiny, invisible spray spitting in your
face from all directions.

I sigh.
“
Summer
’
s well and truly
over, isn
’
t it?
”

“
Afraid so,
”
B
says, half hidden behind her menu.

Rushing past, a couple in matching red jackets dash towards
the entrance, pushing through the heavy doors and heading straight
for Harriet, who mans the bar on her lonesome. Surrounded by
several regulars I don
’
t know the names of,
but have spoken to countless times before, she strides back and
forth, topping up their pints and mopping up their
mess.

I
take a sip from my own pint, facing
B
in a bid to forget
how depressing outside is. From here, she doesn
’
t look
pregnant. With the same neck, face, shoulders, and arms,
it
’
s hard to understand how a little person lives within
her. Below the table
’
s another story, a
bulging bump resting out of sight. No longer a secret from anyone,
but no longer news either.

“
I
’
m starving,
”
she says, her pupils
darting back and forth.
“
Do you know what
you
’
re having?
”

“
The usual.
”

“
Of course,
”
she continues.
“
What a
silly question.
”

I
smile and reach for her arm.
“
Nothing else comes
close to the haloumi and hummus.
”

“
How would you
know?
”

“
I
’
ve had other things
in here.
”

“
When?
”

“
Long ago,
”
I say, hooking my index finger
around hers.
“
It was all terrible.
”

She
rolls her eyes, placing the menu on the table.
“
The food here is not
terrible.
”

“
The haloumi and hummus
isn
’
t.
”

“
You
’
re
terrible.
”

“
But you love
me.
”

Biting her lip, she picks her menu back up.
“
I do
wonder, sometimes.
”

“
Ouch. I hope you
don
’
t say such horrible words when Little Man
arrives.
”

“
I
’
ll let him judge for
himself.
”

I smile, grabbing her hand once
again and glancing over her shoulder.

Smiling and laughing feels natural again, my mind no longer
swarming with doubt and unease. I still worry. Just this morning I
awoke with a start, for some reason thinking about baby monitors
and whether I
’
d know if he stops
breathing in the middle of the night. Yet it passes by, because
before long I picture him in my arms and know we
’
ll figure
it out. It
’
s what people do,
after all.

“
Where
’
s this sudden
confidence come from?
”
Joey asked last week, a few tables across from
where I am now.

“
I
’
ve no idea what you
mean,
”
I said, flipping through a book of baby
names.

“
Your smile, for one.
You
’
re reading a baby book. Yet you grin like
it
’
s porn.
”

“
You grin when watching
porn?
”

“
That
’
s none of your
business.
”

“
Your sex life is none of my
business for once? Good to know.
”

“
Porn is not sex. Porn is porn.
Porn has its place in the world, but what goes on there stays in
here,
”
he said, pointing to his head.
“
And
don
’
t change the subject.
”

“
Nothing
happened,
”
I said, underlining the name Dalton.
“
I feel good.
Everything feels good at the minute.
”

“
Why now? Something must have
happened.
”