Lifesaver (3 page)

Still, I thought, at least Lil and I were friends again. Got to try and be positive about something.

I was just concluding a more successful attempt to make myself a cup of coffee when I heard a sickeningly loud grinding, churning sound from outside. The bin men! If their cart was churning, it meant that they’d already picked up our neighbours’ black bags and were getting ready to leave for another week, the cart’s huge metal fangs sinking relentlessly down as it accelerated slowly past.

I sprang into action—it was almost a relief to make a sudden move - leaping out of the front door, throwing the lids off the bins, and charging into the road, two full bin liners in each hand. The bin men cheered half-heartedly as I tossed the bags into the cart’s grinding maw, and I smiled equally half-heartedly back again, before turning to plod back to the house in the warm and intensifying drizzle.

It really was about time I got dressed. Even I thought it was a bit shaming to be outside in just a dressing gown and sparkly flip-flops—but then the neighbours already thought we were slatterns. Our house was a lovely tall Victorian semi, but neither Ken nor I had had the heart to do anything to it, despite the elaborate plans we’d made when we first moved in, when I was seven months pregnant. Wisteria choked the gutters and covered the upstairs windows at the back; the once-white paint on the front door and the garage door was as patchy and flaky as psoriasis, and weeds sprouted enthusiastically from the gravel in the drive. I bent down and yanked out a dandelion, as if this might atone for my state of public undress.

The neighbours never mentioned Holly. They hadn’t known me well enough to come over and commiserate when it had become apparent that there was a bump and then no baby; and as time had gone on, it had clearly become harder for them to address the issue. So they’d never bothered. Consequently we hadn’t made any friends in the street. Ken didn’t care, of course, because he was never there; but there were times I thought it would have been nice to have someone over for coffee and a chat about the poor quality of the street lighting in Grosvenor Drive, or the copious amounts of dog poo on the pavements.

As I was chucking the weed behind our now-empty dustbins, the postman cycled up. His long lank hair was tied into a ponytail, and the ever-present roll-up stuck to his lips like it was part of the uniform. He parked his red bike by the gate, rootled around in his bag, and handed me a pile of envelopes of different sizes, the top one softened and damp from the insidious rain, its address blurred.

He never spoke, this postman, but nodded and smiled at me instead, which made the roll-up between his lips flap up and down and occasionally scatter ash. Our post always smelled of cigarette smoke, but at least he was friendlier than most of the neighbours.

‘Thanks,’ I said, wiping dandelion milk off my fingers onto my dressing gown before thumbing through the stack: subscription Vogue, book club magazine, postcard from my brother Olly, on holiday in Ibiza with his boyfriend Russ, Airmiles junk, and a letter, addressed to me; a thick, real envelope, hand-written in unfamiliar writing. My brain clunked through the various processes of elimination one made when receiving unexpected correspondence, discounting all the potential candidates: Agent? No, she’d have rung. Party invitation? Possibly, although the envelope wasn’t the right shape for an invite. Distant relative? Unlikely - I recognized most of my relatives’ writing.

There was something vaguely thrilling about receiving a proper letter in an email age. I hoped it wouldn’t turn out to be something tedious like an invitation from my doctor’s for a smear test.

Back indoors, I sat on the bottom stair and examined the envelope. There was no forwarding address on the back, and I couldn’t make out the postmark. The writing was fat and loopy; unusual. I had no idea who it might be from.

Relishing the experience, I slid my thumb underneath the glued down flap and ripped, slowly, pulling out two folded sheets of lined paper—covered, curiously, with handwriting different to that which was on the envelope. It appeared to be from the Gillingsbury Technical College, which confused me even further—until I began to read.

27th July 2002

Dear Mrs. Sozi,

You don’t know me—us, I mean. My name is Adam Ferris, and my son’s name is Max. He’s four years old, and the reason I’m writing to you now.

Two years ago, Max was extremely ill with Acute Myeloid Leukaemia. You saved his life with the bone marrow donation you so generously gave him. As I’m sure you’re aware, the Anthony Nolan Trust do not permit any contact between donor and recipient for at least two years after a transplant, but I’ve wanted to get in touch ever since Max got the all-clear eight months ago. I put a note in my diary to remind me of the exact date at which I’d write this letter to you, because it makes me so happy, and so grateful, to be able to do so.

I could fill pages with thank yous, but it still wouldn’t come close to expressing my gratitude to you. You have given my little boy’s life back. You have given him back to me, when I thought he was going to be taken away—oh hell, and now of course I’m crying, writing this… How could I not? Max means everything to me, you see. He’s my only child. My wife and I are separated and, although I know she loves him very much too, she handles things differently. We haven’t seen her for some time. Anyway, I’m sure you don’t want to hear about that! I suppose I just feel sort of close to you, now that you are a part of my son—the part which saved his life.

I know nothing at all about you, Anna (I hope you don’t mind me calling you that), not even your actual address—as you will see, this letter will have been forwarded to you by the Anthony Nolan Trust. You may well have a family of your own—in which case, you will certainly understand the extremes of fear and joy I’ve been through since Max was diagnosed at the age of two. I must admit that I’m very curious, and would love to get to know a little more about you. Of course we will respect your wishes if you decide not to be in touch with us—at the Trust they tell me that this is quite common, understandably, especially in cases where the transplant fails. Time will tell with Max, but at the moment, thank God, he is most definitely in remission, and as healthy, happy and bouncy a kid as you could ever meet. So if you do fancy writing back, or emailing, please do (address at top of page: it’s my work email - I teach pottery and ceramics. Not full time, but it gives me plenty of time to be a dad). Max and I would both love to meet you one day to say thanks in person.

Yours truly and eternally gratefully,

Adam (and Max) Ferris

I was barely aware that, as I slowly read each word of the letter, I had walked up the stairs, along the landing, and into the smaller of our two spare bedrooms. It wasn’t intended as a spare bedroom, but I’d insisted that the elephant and butterfly frieze, matching curtains and primrose yellow walls be obliterated by yards of bland biscuit coloured emulsion. The carpet was still the same blue one we’d bought for Holly, though. The only visible reminder of the nursery, and the only freshly-decorated room in the house. There was a brand new bed in there, but nobody had ever slept in it.

I missed that elephant frieze, the walls still seemed bare without it. But I didn’t regret the decision to rip it off. Some people kept their children’s bedrooms as shrines, but that made no sense to me. I supposed it might have been different if the room had held memories of Holly herself, but she’d never even got to see her elephants and butterflies.

I dropped the letter on to the soft blue carpet, then slid down the wall next to it, putting my head in my arms. I couldn’t hear anything except the blood roaring in my ears, and the faint sound of a plane high in the sky.

Gradually, I became aware that I was beginning to smile. I re-read the words two, then three times, and even as my throat was constricting, my smile got slowly wider. It was the first time I’d smiled in that bedroom since it had been redecorated.

‘I think I’ve died and gone to hell,’ Vicky yelled over the din, as we stood in the entrance hall of UltraBowl. Even Crystal, usually so confident, clutched my hand and shrank into my legs. The noise was intense; teenaged boys with shaven heads crouching in the saddles of stationary motorbikes, their eyes glued to the screens and their bodies swaying as they roared around one-dimensional corners of non-existent speedway tracks; slot machines bleeping and crashing; snooker balls cracking on ten tables to our left… I began to feel out of place for not wearing an oversized death-metal band t-shirt or body piercings.

‘Perfect place for a four year old’s birthday party, isn’t it?’ I said.

‘Nooo, Auntie Anna, it isn’t,’ said Crystal, appalled. ‘Mummy, don’t make me have
my
party here. I want to go home!’

‘I’m only joking, darling, don’t worry. I’m sure Mummy will stick with the bouncy castle and the Polly Mixtures the clown, won’t you, Vic?’

Relieved, Crystal turned her attention to picking a scab on her elbow.‘Where’s the party, Mummy?’

Vicky pointed towards a sign saying Kiddies Korner in flashing neon. ‘Over here, I think…on’t pick it, Crystal, or it won’t heal.’

We weaved around a cluster of slot machines, over the casino-patterned carpet and up a short flight of steps, where the noise changed. The clamour of the machines faded to a mercifully dull roar, but it was supplemented by the sugar -fuelled screams of six children’s birthday parties all taking place simultaneously, each in its own truncated bowling lane. Score monitors above each lane blared out more noise, and over the top of it all some distorted but thumping pop was hovering, like toxic emissions.

Crystal stood uncertainly in her party dress, clutching her gift for the birthday girl. The raw pinkness of the skin under her picked-off scab made my throat hurt, it looked so vulnerable.

‘At least it’s not bleeding all down her party dress,’ said Vicky, catching my gaze. ‘Look, Crystal, there’s Lottie!’

Lottie was a sturdy child with pierced ears. She was wearing crimson nail polish, high wedge heels, an armful of sponged-on tattoos, and pink lipstick.

‘Happy birthday, Lottie,’ said Vicky as Crystal handed over the gift. Lottie snatched it without a word and dumped it on the pile of other presents under a bench, before marching back to the top of the bowling lane, elbowing Crystal out of the way.

‘She’s the only four year old with cellulite that I’ve ever seen,’ Vicky whispered to me.

‘I’m sure Lottie will love your present,’ she said, bending down to comfort Crystal. ‘She’s just over-excited.’

‘I still want to go home,’ said Crystal mournfully.

After the inauspicious start, though, things eventually improved. Crystal watched the other children roll bowling balls down metal ramps into the lane, and after a few minutes she allowed me to lead her over to them and show her how to do it. We scored a strike immediately, which cheered her up no end, so I left her there, happily joining the back of the queue for her next triumph.

‘That’s my girl,’ called Vicky, giving her the thumbs-up.

‘Bowling’s good fun, really, isn’t it?’ I commented. ‘Pity about the racket though.’

‘And the…
pond-life
,’ added Vicky snobbishly.

We were sitting on a wobbly bench at the side of the lane, watching the children all become noticeably more hyperactive as they slurped lemonade from huge paper cups brought over and distributed by Lottie’s mother. I couldn’t bear to see Crystal drink that crap, but I knew I shouldn’t say anything to Vicky. I couldn’t, however, manage to prevent myself from muttering, ‘I wish they at least had a choice about what to drink.’

Vicky glared at me. It was an old bone of contention, and I didn’t really blame her. I knew I got on my high horse about Crystal’s diet, and I did appreciate how difficult it was to get a small child to eat broccoli and not Jaffa cakes, but sometimes I couldn’t help myself.

‘Anna, it’s supposed to be a treat. It’s a party - it’s practically inevitable that Crystal will get hopped up on additives. Anyway, I bet if there was a choice, it would only be between Coke, Diet Coke or 7-Up. They don’t do organic elderflower cordial in these sorts of places.’

Well, they should, I thought, just about managing to button my lip. I wished it had occurred to me to bring a bottle of mineral water.

Vicky changed the subject. ‘So how’s things? All set for your audition? I’m so envious.’

‘Mm,’ I said, although I wasn’t thinking about the audition. I was thinking about the letter from Adam Ferris, tucked in the inside pocket of my handbag. I looked at Vicky, at her familiar, tired but pretty face. Part of me really wanted to tell her—I had a thrilled fearful excitement in my stomach, like the butterflies on Holly’s frieze—but another, bigger, part made me keep quiet. Maybe I’d tell her later, once I’d decided what to do. Some things were too big to tell; at least until you’d got them sorted out in your own head first. That was how I felt about Max.

‘Don’t be jealous. I’m sure I won’t get it.’ Now it was my turn to change the subject. ‘How’s my little Pat?’ I took a long slug of Crystal’s lemonade, thinking that the more of it I drank, the less it would be able to poison Crystal.

Vicky sighed. ‘He’s hideously clingy at the moment. I can’t put him down. When I left him next door before you came round, he screamed so loudly I thought the windows were going to blow out.’

For a minute I thought she was about to cry, but when I reached a tentative hand over to squeeze her knee, she moved her leg away, so I withdrew it again.

I thought about Pat, thirteen months old and utterly adorable. If he were mine, I wouldn’t care how clingy he was. The clingier the better…ow wonderful, to be that loved. I couldn’t say that to Vicky, though.

We sat in silence for a while, watching as Lottie lugged a large ball to the top of the metal chute and shoved it down. When it knocked down six of the pins, Lottie did a little Indian war dance of delight, her bottom wobbling. She ran around and hugged all the nearby children, a podgy Beckham who’d scored a goal for England. I turned to remark on this to Vicky, but her face had that closed-down expression on it again.