The Second Child Page 10

  Phil looks about to argue with him, but stops himself.

  ‘And me?’ I prompt him. This has to come out. He blanches even paler and looks down. ‘James?’

  ‘You’re always so sad. It’s like you’re not really here. I talk to you, and you look at me, but I can tell that you’re not really listening. You’ve been like it before, but never this bad.’ He rubs his eyes, scrubbing the tears away. Then he says. ‘Sometimes I think neither of you would notice if I wasn’t here.’ To which, of course, the only possible reaction is sadness, followed swiftly by a deep regret about all the pressure we’ve loaded on James’s shoulders, thinking that we were protecting him.

  ‘Is this why you didn’t come home?’ I ask.

  He looks from me to Phil, his face muscles working beneath his pale skin. ‘It doesn’t feel like home any more, not with you two fighting all the time.’

  Phil and I sit on either side of him, both patting him ineffectually, saying ‘Sorry’ over and over again, but he needs more from us.

  ‘It’s going to be okay. I promise,’ Phil says shakily.

  James’s response is fierce. ‘How? Tell me how it’s going to “magically” be okay?’

  ‘Well… we’ll do what we’ve always done: stick together, work it out.’ Phil is floundering.

  ‘Is that what “this” is then?’ He gestures angrily at us both. ‘You two “sticking together”, “working it out”?’ There’s a sarcasm in his voice that I’ve never heard before. I can’t bear to look at him, to see him struggling and so upset. I ache to put my arms round my son and hug him close, make it better, scale it down for him, but James is no longer a child and a cuddle is not going to be enough.

  That’s when he pushes Phil’s hand away and asks, seriously, despairingly, ‘What’s going to happen to me and Lauren, if you don’t love each other any more?’

  After Lauren has gone to school, Phil calls into work and cries off. He makes James get dressed, then herds us all into the van for a ‘mystery tour’ – he refuses to say where. ‘Where’s the mystery in that!’ He drives carefully. When we get stuck behind a caravan on one of the narrow lanes that climb out of the valley, he slows and waits until there’s a long, clear stretch of road before overtaking. As he drives he keeps glancing in the mirror, checking on James, who’s sitting in the back, earphones on, staring at nothing. I have no idea where we’re going, but I’m glad we’re together and we’re going somewhere.

  We take an unlikely-looking turn through one of the blackened stone villages above Halifax and keep climbing, twisting higher and higher. At last we crest the ridge, Phil indicates and pulls the van into a small lay-by. There, fronted by a scatter of plastic chairs and tables, is a burger van. I shoot Phil my ‘really?’ face; nearly an hour in the car for this.

  ‘Trust me. Come on.’ And so we obediently climb out. Phil orders for us: two number twos and a number six, with three teas. He chats away to the owner of the van as if he’s a regular. The owner is, incongruously, a tiny Chinese woman. She and Phil appear to understand each other perfectly well, despite her speaking very little English. She has her hair scraped back into a bun that’s so tight it seems to have stretched her face completely flat. She smiles shyly at me as she slides our orders across the serving hatch, two bacon butties and a breakfast special. The smell is amazing. Balancing our napkin-wrapped baps on top of our Styrofoam cups, we follow Phil around the side of the burger van. It’s then that I realise why he’s dragged us up here because, without any warning, a view opens out below us that is breathtaking. The Calder Valley has never looked so good. The bulky mass of Halifax hunkers in the bottom of the valley, fringed by the outlying villages and farmland. As the sides rise and steepen, the fields give way to scrubby moorland and the blackened, sharp sandstone of the Pennines. You can see for miles.

  Phil turns and grins. ‘God’s own, and the best bacon sarnies outside your mother’s kitchen.’ We drag three chairs round onto the grass and sit, chewing and slurping and looking at the view. It’s easy to see why Phil decided to bring us all the way up here. He knew we needed to escape from the house and the pressure that has been brewing within it for the past few weeks.

  James eats steadily and slowly and some colour edges back into his cheeks. When he’s finished, he balls up his napkin and wipes the grease off his chin and his fingers. ‘Sorry.’ His voice sounds less raw.

  ‘You don’t have to say sorry, mate. It’s us who are sorry.’

  ‘I mean for going AWOL. I’m sorry I worried you.’ I reach out and touch his knee lightly. ‘I just couldn’t come home. The vodka was a stupid idea.’

  ‘That we agree with. Getting pissed never helps.’ Phil’s voice is gentle.

  ‘I need to ring Ali and Jess and apologise.’

  ‘Yeah, you do, but not now. That’ll wait.’ Phil’s tone grows serious. ‘James, you’ve got to believe us: me and your mum, we’re okay. We really are.’ I look across James at Phil, and he must catch something in my expression because he corrects himself. ‘But you’re right, we haven’t been treating each other very well. I’m not sure why.’

  It’s my turn. ‘We’ve both been really knocked by what’s happened and worried about what’s going to happen, and I think…’ I look to Phil for reassurance that I’m getting this right, ‘I think we’ve been a bit lost in our own feelings and worries. We’ve not been thinking about you and Lauren enough. Especially you.’

  ‘Or each other.’ Phil looks at me and something buried but deep-rooted pushes back towards the surface. ‘Me and your mum love each other, nothing is ever going to change that… At least, not if she realises that it’s her turn to get another round in.’ We both smile, willing James to accept Phil’s weak joke for what it is – a peace offering and a promise to try harder.

  When I come back with the teas and a couple of chocolate bars for the boys, they’re both slouched in identical positions in their flimsy chairs facing the view, the sky high and cloud-filled above them, and I overhear Phil say, ‘It was love at first sight. Well, it was for me; unfortunately, your mum was going out with a slimeball called Adam when I met her, but it didn’t take her too long to realise the error of her ways. I had this technique, you see, of following her around, doing anything she wanted me to do, making myself indispensable. Of course you have no self-respect or dignity to speak of, but trust me, it works. Forget six-packs and rugged good looks; adoration, that’s the way to go with women.’

  I walk over to them, pass them their drinks and extra calories and take my seat. Talk of Phil’s seduction technique ceases. Five seconds later the balmy calm is broken by a deep, satisfied burp. Phil apologises with a grin. I shake my head and laugh. ‘How could I resist such charm?’

  And, to my relief, James laughs too.

  16

  Safely Home

  PHIL

  THE DRIVE home is relaxed. James falls asleep within seconds, full of fat and fluids and, hopefully, some reassurance, they’re the only antidotes we can offer him, and Sarah watches the scenery rather than the brake lights. It feels like we’ve patched up some wounds or at least stopped inflicting them on each other. At the junction at the bottom of the hill, as we wait to pull into the traffic, Sarah reaches up and rests her fingertips briefly on the back of my neck. It’s the first time she’s touched me in weeks.

  ‘We are going to be okay, aren’t we?’ she asks.

  ‘Yes. We are,’ I reply. Because I love you and always have done, I add in my head. A space opens up and I pull out, and Sarah tilts her head back and closes her eyes, trusting me to get her and James home safely.

  SARAH

  The sun through the windows is warm and I feel drowsy. I feel relaxed for the first time in ages. I close my eyes. Phil drives smoothly, carefully, no sudden breaking or accelerating.

  The temptation to drift off is strong, but even stronger is the echo of what Phil said to James, the simple statement that for him it was love at first sight. I reach out and touch the bare skin just a
bove his collar.

  It wasn’t love at first sight for me. It wasn’t even vague interest. I barely registered Phil at first, because when we met him I was in the midst of a full-on, all-consuming relationship with Adam, my dream boyfriend. Adam was a medic; good-looking, well educated, full of easy confidence. His failings – his chronic self-absorption, his total unreliability, his snide view of almost everything and everyone – didn’t, at the time, seem too high a price to pay for such reflected glory. Phil shouldn’t have stood a chance, and yet he did. He laid siege like an old-fashioned knight, with humour and generosity and cheap bunches of flowers, and with his sheer ebullient presence. And of course when Adam proved to be the shit he’d always been, Phil was there. As he has been ever since, steadfast, loyal and, above all, loving.

  I keep my eyes closed and consciously conjure up memories of Phil, recalling his strengths and his forgotten kindnesses. I think about his quiet patience after Mum died, right at the beginning of our relationship, and his willingness to wait for me to realise what he was offering me. I remember how nervous and serious he was at our wedding, the awestruck joy on his face the first time he held James, his unshakeable belief that being a good husband and a good dad are the mark of a man, not his bank balance or his golf handicap. And I think about his laugh, which has been silenced of late, his crappy jokes and his unwavering insistence that the glass is half-full, even when there’s actually nothing left at all.

  The sensation of swinging round the big roundabout on the route back into Leeds tells me that we’re nearing home. I float back to the surface of the day, my mind easing slowly out of the past. I glance across at Phil, looking at him properly for the first time in months, possibly in years. He concentrates on the road, unaware of my scrutiny. It’s hard to see the person you love the most, their sheer presence and predictability rubs them out, little by little, day after day, but sitting there in the car, I see Phil for what he is, the only person that I truly, completely trust.

  We pull up outside our house and he switches off the engine. He turns and smiles at me. He seems in no rush to get out of the car. Neither am I.

  ‘Just look at him.’

  I release my seatbelt and twist round. James is lying across the back seat, fast asleep, a heap of relaxed limbs. I feel my heart stretch and expand. ‘Do you think he’s going to be okay?’

  Phil looks at me steadily. ‘I think he’ll be fine, as long as we are.’

  17

  News

  PHIL

  AFTER FIVE long weeks of waiting we’re finally called back into the hospital to be told who our daughter is.

  As we walk into the room the overwhelming sense is of too many bodies, too close together, in too small a space. Everyone is introduced to us, but I relegate most of them to the edges of my consciousness; lawyers and social workers, they’re irrelevant. I’m angry that Ms Tharby thought it appropriate for so many people to be present is, but for Sarah’s sake I keep my irritation to myself. All that matters is that we find out who she is and where she is, and today, finally, we’re going to. Ms Tharby orchestrates the room, getting everyone into their allotted places. When she’s satisfied with the seating arrangements she signals the start of the meeting, then she talks, ad nauseam. She keeps banging on about reciprocity. She seems to like this word, as she uses it two or three times, enunciating it very clearly as if she’s proud of her grasp and articulation of the challenging situation we have found ourselves in. Another ripple of irritation courses through me, but it quickly fades, replaced by stronger emotions, curiosity and excitement.

  On the table there is a slim, blue file. It’s closed. This is the file that contains the details of our daughter – our biological daughter – and her parents.

  SARAH

  Ms Tharby’s lips are painted a deep plum colour to match her suit. I watch her mouth spewing out words. Everyone else in the room is watching us. It still doesn’t seem real, despite the presence of all these people; it’s too much like a scene from a drama. I can’t bear the weight of their expectation, their sharp faces and their blatant anticipation. It makes me want to slide out of my seat and crawl away from them. It’s all wrong, the whole thing is all wrong. This shouldn’t be some kind of bizarre spectator event.

  On the table in front of Ms Tharby there’s a file, the file that contains our daughter, the child I had and gave away.

  Ms Tharby finally stops talking and reaches for the file. Once we look inside there can be no going back, our family will change for ever. Are we ready for that? I reach over and take hold of Phil’s hand, seeking reassurance. He grips it tightly. No more uncertainty, no more wild imaginings and no more endless speculation. They have found her.

  As I hold my breath and watch Ms Tharby push the file across the table towards us, I’m acutely aware that at this very moment, in another room, there’s another couple and another file.

  What must they be expecting, what must they be feeling and what will they do?

  18

  Another File

  ANNE

  I ARRIVE on my own. They show me through to a small side room. There’s a table, four chairs and a glass wall, which looks out across an open-plan office. I take one of the empty chairs, my back to the glass. Across from me sits Andrew Brennan and a woman I’ve not seen before, presumably his boss. Andrew takes the lead, starting off with the usual pleasantries about my journey and the weather. The woman taps her fingers lightly and he moves on. He thanks me for my patience with the process. I barely listen. The file rests on the table in front of them, in front of her. I look at it and she puts her hand on top of it, proprietorial. The gesture propels him into less smooth waters. He tells me they’ve received a message saying that Nathan will not be attending the meeting today. Mr Brennan ends this statement with a question mark. I nod, confirming that yes, Nathan, my ex-husband, has no intention of ‘attending’, today… or any other day. He masks his shock at this lack of paternal involvement by talking about a parallel process for ensuring that Mr Elkan has access to all the information that he may, in time— The woman steps in.

  ‘Ms Elkan, what we have here is the profile of your biological daughter and her family. As you are aware, we’ve been putting these profiles together over the past few weeks. I want to reassure you that the same questions have been asked of both families and the same background data has been collected. The disclosure process has been identical. Thank you for cooperating so fully, I appreciate that it can’t have been easy.’ She meets my eye, and I see kindness. ‘I think it best if Andrew and I leave you alone to look at the file. There’s a lot of information in here, an awful lot to take in.’ Her hand still rests on top of it, as if she’s reluctant to relinquish her hold over it. ‘Take as much or as little time as you want to today. I’m around, should you have any immediate questions. Which I suspect you may. I’ll call back in to see you in a little while. We’ll obviously need to speak further, about the next steps, but that can wait. We are here to help in any way we can.’ Finally she turns the file round and slides it towards me. She rises and they both leave. The door closes softly behind them.

  There’s a glass of water on the table and someone has left a top window ajar to let a little air into the room.

  It’s a thick file. I sit and stare at it. The life I should have had exists within its confines. I take a shaky sip of water and lift the cover.

  The bombardment begins.

  There are pages and pages of black-and-white type separated by coloured dividers. I don’t know where to start, so I select a tab at random. A section falls open, Medical Information, and I find myself staring at a set of surgical notes and a sheaf of photocopied X-rays. The X-rays show a child’s hands; the delicate bones float, ghostly white, against the black background, eight straight little fingers and two badly deformed little thumbs. I flip over the pages quickly and bury the image back in the file. The next section is some sort of timeline, a map of her life. The age spans are highlighted in bold – 0–2 years
, 3–5 years, and so on and so on – an avalanche of words and dates, hospital stays, surgeries, school admissions, physio appointments. My eyes skim the dense text, unable to settle on one spot. Certain words seem to rise from the pages darker, bolder, more insistent than the rest… special, complex, severe, limited, need, needs. I turn whole sections of her life over, unwilling to dwell long enough to assimilate what I’m reading. Then I notice the tab marked Photos. I steel myself and lift away the weight of words.

  I hear myself take a sharp, shallow breath as I look at my daughter for the first time in fourteen years.

  I thought I’d prepared myself for this, but how could I?

  The shock bludgeons me. I shift through the images slowly, hoping to blunt their power, but as I see her change from a baby to a child to a teenager, it only gets worse. I feel myself shrinking inside my skin, growing smaller and tighter, trying to retreat from the evidence in front of me. My daughter is not like other children. As I look at the photographs I don’t notice the colour of her eyes or the shade of her hair, I’m not drawn by her smile or the shape of her face, I don’t try and guess at her personality from her expression or judge her confidence by her stance. Because all I can see is the wheelchair, the heavy body and the blankness in her eyes.

  All I can see is her disability.