The Story of You (11 page)

On the lawns opposite, two old women were shuffling along, hunched over. A guy who looked like he hadn’t put his teeth in was staring at us from across the way.

‘You must be looking forward to getting out,’ I said, and she laughed. ‘Wouldn’t you, after being in the nuthouse all summer?’

‘What you looking forward to most?’ I said, and this smile spread, slow and wide, across her face.

‘Talking to my daughter,’ she said.

‘You’ve a daughter?’ I said, even though I knew she did from reading her notes, but I wanted her to tell me the story herself.

She reached inside her pocket and drew out a plastic cardholder with Hello Kitty on the front, opened it up and pulled a photo out.

‘Isn’t she beautiful?’ she said, showing me a picture of a dark, petite teenager.

‘She is,’ I said. ‘She looks like you.’

‘D’you think so?’

‘Definitely, same little face, big eyes. What’s her name?’

‘Cec – Cecily,’ she said. ‘I named her after my dad – Cecil. He died falling down an escalator.’ I watched as she sucked on her cigarette. Was that story even true?

‘Has she been to visit you here?’ I said.

‘Nah, she’s really busy with her boyfriend, you know – typical fourteen-year-old. And who’d want to come and visit someone here?’

She paused for a moment and slipped the photo back in its card.

‘Also, she’s very talented, she wants to be an illustrator.’

‘Wow, you must be very proud of her.’

‘Oh, yeah, very. Shame, really, she can’t say the same about me. Have you got kids?’ she said, eventually, turning to face me.

‘No,’ I said. It had started to spot with rain. ‘No, I haven’t. Not yet.’

Joe didn’t reply to my email, apologizing for my wanton behaviour at the funeral, for two days. I was beginning to think he never would, and also that that would be a shame; it was lovely to be back in touch with him. Perhaps we could be friends now? Perhaps, after sixteen years, we were ready for that?

Then he did reply. Only it wasn’t the reply I was expecting.

6 April 2013

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Do you want to know what the best escapism is?

you+kissing+barn+JackDaniel’s+nakedflesh. That really helped.

The Evil Dead
– though good – doesn’t cut it, I’ve found.

Clearly my strategy to nip any flirting in the bud had washed right over him, but what was surprising was how I reacted.

Oh. I
see.
Well, I’m glad. Even if that escapism took the form of helping you drink a bottle of Jack Daniel’s, then taking all my clothes off in a barn, like some wanton milkmaid.

I thought I’d be scared off but I found myself flirting back!

It didn’t take long for Joe to respond in similar fashion.

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

I know. I was being naughty (although the image of you as a wanton milkmaid is a
great
one) …

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Why have you sent me a picture of a shark?

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Oh. That’s a nurse shark. I meant to attach a pic of a nurse. I’m on Ethan’s desktop. He’s still obsessed with animals, in particular sharks. I’m obsessed with nurses …

And there followed three wonderful weeks of emails between us – deep and meaningful emails, shamelessly flirtatious emails, silly emails – and it was wonderful. All the clichés were there. I was
that
girl in the heady first weeks of a new relationship (albeit a long-distance, electronic one that I constantly told myself I wasn’t getting into at all. This wasn’t a relationship, Joe was just my friend); giggling at my desk at his messages, staring into space in meetings. ‘She’s got her Joe face on,’ Leon would say. ‘I know, you can practically see the dirty workings of her mind,’ Kaye would tease, narrowing her eyes. She was one to talk: Kaye has the dirtiest mind in the world – a penchant for the puerile. She knew that Joe was my first love. She just didn’t know the rest of it.

A month after his mum’s funeral, on 3 May, Joe emailed me to say he was coming to London to stay with his school friend, Bomber:

I’m staying at Bomber’s on the weekend of 24 May – we could meet? In actual real life?

My heart was in my mouth but I wrote back immediately:

Great. Be lovely to see you and I promise to behave this time. Luckily, there aren’t many barns in this part of the world …

*

To my Robyn, my Bobby, my middle one.

What is it they say about the middle child? That ‘difficult’ middle child? Well, for starters, you know, I’ve always hated labels. Also, we’ve had our moments, darling, I know we have, but you’ve never been anything but my amazing middle child to me. My firecracker. My super-duper girl.

I remember the day you were born (how could I forget?!). Slipping out like a lamb in the back of Dad’s Land Rover. How many times have I told you that story? You loved me to tell you it, again and again. You always loved my stories and now they are yours to keep.

You made your entrance in a memorable way; and you’ve been that way ever since. People remember you, Robyn. Remember that. You will always be one of life’s special ones.

I can’t believe this is goodbye, my love. I’m so sorry I didn’t get to know you longer. But I have always said to you girls (admittedly, more lately), ‘It’s not the days of your life that matter, but the amount of life you pack into those days.’

And we’ve packed it in, haven’t we? We’ve some good stories to tell, you and I. Stories that will last forever.

Do you remember when I brought Niamh home from hospital? How you were so smitten, you didn’t want to go to school for days? Later, she would sit in her high chair and do that hilarious cackle as you did impressions of all the family – little dances and made-up songs (usually rude, but still!). I am so proud of what a brilliant big sister you have been, and I know you will continue to be. Niamh loves you to bits, you know, even if she is bonkers most of the time. Although, I think you have probably taught her all she knows.

Also, Leah loves you – I know it may not feel like it sometimes, but she does. I know this for a fact. In fact, I shall let you into a secret: You know when you didn’t get into the Lancashire Swimming Squad? She burst into tears over her tea. You were over at Beth’s and she was inconsolable. So, you see, you may not know this yet (although knowing you, you probably do), but you don’t actually have a choice in how you love your siblings. You feel what they feel. That’s just the way it is.

Be patient with Leah for me. She finds life harder than you. Please try not to take her personally, because I guarantee you, behind all that angry stuff at the moment is just a scared, sensitive girl who loves you. Who needs you. And you could teach her a thing or two about how to live with her cup half full instead of half empty. About how to enjoy life, Robyn. You’ve always been so great at that.

You are going to make someone the best mother one day, darling. You were born to be a mum. You are also going to make someone a wonderful partner or wife; and you do not need me to tell you this, but only ever marry for LOVE. Love is all that matters at the end of the day. Your dad and I have despaired of one another at times, but it’s always come back to love. So never settle for second best. Certainly never go for a Man City supporter or a southerner (I’d never forgive you! I’m joking of course). Basically, find someone who loves you at your best and your worst and never let them go.

Life is going to be good to you, Robyn, darling. Fortune favours the brave. Of the three of you, I am least worried about you because I know you are going to be fine. I know you are strong. Of course, I’d be lying if I said that this will not affect you in some way for the rest of your life, but it won’t hurt forever like it does now, and it doesn’t mean you can’t be as happy. In fact, if I were to say one thing to you, do not use this as an excuse to be unhappy. I’d be so disappointed.

Look after your dad – he loves you so much too, remember, even if he’s terrible at showing it sometimes. Don’t let him swear too much in front of Niamh (it’s too late for you and Leah, I’m afraid). He may go to pieces but, one day, he will be happy again, and whatever it takes (I think you will know what I mean here), I want him to be happy.

Also know this: Even though I have to go now, if I could have a life again, a much longer one but without knowing you, I’d still choose this one in the blink of an eye.

Be happy for me, darling. Be strong.

I love you, always.

Mum x

*

5 May 2013

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

I’m really sorry, Joe, I can’t meet you on the 24th now. Something’s come up.

R x

Can I take your name?

The girl on the other end of the phone was called Faith and sounded young, younger than me.

‘
Robyn King.
’

‘And your date of birth?’

‘
11th January 1981.
’

‘And you’re calling to enquire about terminating your pregnancy?’

Two women walked past my kitchen window pushing prams. I swear, it was like a film. I half imagined a director to shout, ‘Cut! The prams are too obvious.’

‘
Yes, that’s right.
’

‘Can you remember, approximately, the first day of your last period?’

I could do better than that. I’d spent the last two weeks since I found out, counting on my fingers – on cars going by as I sat on the bus, people’s feet on the Tube, the little staples that run around the office carpet.

‘
Ninth of March? I’m seventeen days late
.’

‘So you’re about eight to nine weeks into your pregnancy.’ She said it so breezily. ‘Have you been to your GP?’

‘
No, but I’ve done three pregnancy tests and they were all positive.
’

I could hear Faith typing, putting all my details into her computer. ‘Three. Positive. Tests. Okay, Robyn … well, I think we can safely say you’re pregnant …’

I felt like I might throw up.

‘
Well, no, not really
,’
I said. ‘
I don’t think we can safely say anything, can we? You don’t understand, I can’t have a baby. I took the morning-after pill because I was taking absolutely no chances
.’

She didn’t say anything. I knew what she was thinking: ‘But you already took a chance, didn’t you, love?’

I can’t say I blamed her, I was thinking the same thing.

She was much less breezy now. She lowered her voice as if this were a secret we were sharing.

‘The morning-after pill is only around ninety-per-cent effective, Robyn, okay?’
No. It’s not okay. None of this is okay!
‘So, it’s rare, but sometimes it doesn’t work. The other thing is that it becomes less effective the longer you leave to take it.’

I thought, I didn’t know this. I’m thirty-two and I
didn’t know this
.

I started crying now.

‘How long after having unprotected sex did you take the morning-after pill?’

‘
Not the day after, but the one after that. It was hard for me to get hold of it immediately, you see, because I was up in Cumbria, in a village …
’

I remembered how I’d sat there at Dad and Denise’s dining table, stuffing lasagne down my gullet, the night after the funeral, when I could have got on a bus, I could have gone into town, to A&E, an emergency pharmacy …

Her silence told me there really wasn’t any point going on.

‘Do you feel you’ve considered all your other options? Adoption, fostering, continuing with this pregnancy …?’

This pregnancy. It was really happening then. I had this strange, out-of-body experience then, like I was looking at myself from the outside in; like I was one of the women outside, watching me, as I stood crying in my kitchen, planning to get rid of my baby.

‘
Yes, although I wouldn’t exactly say they were options
.’

A tear fell then, right onto my top.

‘We offer counselling before and after. Do you think you might benefit from that?’

I thought about this.

‘
I don’t want it before, thanks
,’
I
said. ‘
As for after, I don’t really know how I’m going to feel then, do I?
’

I don’t
know why I was taking it out on her. It wasn’t her fault.

Silence on the other end as I cried. She must get this all the time, I thought, Faith. Grown women snivelling down the phone at her, like they’d never heard of the facts of life.

She was quiet for a while as I sobbed.

‘Have you talked through your feelings with somebody, Robyn, or do you have someone you could talk to now? A partner, a best friend, your mum …?’

I just wanted to get off the phone now.

‘
Yes. I’ve got people I could talk to
.’

I was on the phone for another ten minutes, while she went through the ‘options’ I had available to me. There was the ‘surgical abortion’; I could choose to be put to sleep, or be aware but sedated for that one. Then there was the ‘medical abortion’ option, but I’d have to make my mind up very quickly for that as it was only ‘available’ up to eight weeks and six days; like the turkey option at the office Christmas do. I’d take two pills, several hours apart. This would bring on a miscarriage: heavy bleeding and cramps and possibly sickness and diarrhoea too, whilst the pills were doing their thing. Apparently, it might not even work, but at least it was ‘non-invasive’, she said.

I stood in my kitchen after I put the phone down, unable to get the image out of my mind of an eight-week-old foetus being sucked out of me. Most of all I was so angry.
So angry
I had let this happen – How could I have taken a risk like that? When I finally moved, I realized I had bitten my fingernail down so much that the raw skin was exposed underneath and little spots of blood were starting to show. I went to find a plaster in the bathroom. Then, I got in the shower. I didn’t know what else to do.