One Moment, One Morning

  I’d better phone Vic, then, she concludes. Vic is an old friend, whom Lou has known since school. She’s still got a few minutes.

  ‘Vic, it’s Lou.’

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘I’m afraid I’ve got some really annoying news.’

  ‘Oh, what?’

  ‘I can’t make your party.’

  ‘Bugger. Why?’

  ‘It’s my mum.’

  ‘Not again.’

  ‘Yes, again.’

  ‘What this time?’

  ‘She wants me to go and help with my Auntie Audrey and Uncle Pat. Uncle Pat’s not been well and she’s asked them to hers as they’ve barely been out of their house for months.’

  ‘Why does she need you there?’

  ‘To look after them. They are quite hard work.’

  ‘Can’t she do that?’

  ‘She says not. Her hip’s bad, you know.’

  ‘But you always go. Can’t your sister Georgia help?

  ‘You know she won’t be able to. She might be able to drop by, but she’s got kids and things – she’s bound to have stuff arranged already.’

  ‘But so have you! I’ve had this party planned for ages.’

  ‘I know, I know, I’m sorry.’ There’s guilt wherever Lou turns. And it’s not as if she isn’t disappointed anyway. Vic knows so many colourful people that her parties are usually a riot.

  ‘It’s my birthday on Sunday. It’s rare it falls on a weekend.’

  More guilt. ‘Vic, honestly, I’d so much rather be with you – it goes without saying, surely. But I can’t say no. You know what my mother is like. She’ll be a nightmare for months if I don’t go.’

  Vic sighs. ‘I suppose so. It’s a shame, though. There was another reason I wanted you to come.’

  ‘Oh, yeah?’

  ‘I had someone I wanted you to meet.’

  Lou stops twiddling the phone cable. ‘Really?’

  ‘Indeedy.’

  ‘Who?’

  Vic isn’t gay herself, but she works in the theatre and has heaps of gay friends, although most of them tend to be men. ‘This lovely woman I met recently backstage.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yes. A friend of one of the actors. She’s just your type.’

  ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘Sofia.’

  ‘Is she Italian or Spanish or something?’

  ‘Yes, Spanish, but she’s lived here for years.’

  ‘What’s she like, then?’

  ‘She seems like a very nice person. Funny and intelligent and, well, just lovely.’

  ‘What does she look like?’

  ‘I said, she’s just your type. Pretty.’

  ‘Pretty in what way?’

  ‘Short dark curly hair, brown eyes; honestly, she’s really attractive. I’d fancy her myself if I was gay.’

  ‘Mm, she sounds great. What does she do?’

  ‘She works for a web company. She’s a director, I think.’

  So, bright too, and seemingly capable. Lou has had it with needy types. It is all most appealing. ‘How old is she?’

  ‘Thirtyish, I’d say.’

  That’s a couple of years younger than Lou, but not too young. ‘Where does she live?’

  ‘Acton, at the moment. But she works in East Croydon.’

  Lou races ahead. She’s at her happy ending already: ‘Ooh, so if we got together she could commute!’

  ‘My thoughts exactly.’

  Lou remembers her obligations. She kicks the cabinet again. ‘Damn!’

  ‘Well, it’s your loss . . .’

  ‘Can’t I meet her some other time?’

  Vic exhales theatrically. Her profession is no coincidence – there’s more than a little drama queen in her. ‘I suppose so, if you must.’

  ‘Aw, Vic, go on, you know I haven’t had any sex for months. Set us up.’

  ‘What, on a blind date?’

  ‘Oh, no, that’s a bit embarrassing. Can’t we go out, you, me and her or something?’

  ‘I’m not introducing you if this is all just going to be about sex.’

  ‘You’re a fine one to talk!’

  ‘No, I know, but still, I’m not. She’s a nice girl, Sofia. I’m not having you break her heart.’

  ‘Of course I’m not going to break her heart!’ Lou protests. Though in some ways she is flattered Vic would think her capable of such a thing; treating women mean is hardly her style. In truth, she’s usually the one who gets hurt, not the other way round.

  ‘All right,’ Vic relents. ‘I’ll see what I can do. You’d better tell me when you’re free, then.’

  ‘Friday night?’ says Lou hopefully. She doubts Vic will be around at such short notice.

  ‘Hmm, as a matter of fact, I might be available . . .’ Vic is toying with her, Lou can tell from her tone. She’s loving it.

  Thank goodness Lou told her mother she couldn’t go to hers until Saturday. ‘Why don’t you come down to Brighton?’ she suggests, eager. ‘We could go out.’

  ‘Well . . . I was supposed to be painting my flat – I want it to look nice for the party. And as you’ve let me down, I’m not sure I should be quite so accommodating . . .’

  ‘Oh, Vic, honestly! Since when did decorating ever take precedence over anything?’ Vic’s flat is a tip; she has lived there nearly ten years and has barely cleaned it in that time, let alone decorated. ‘Anyway, aren’t you better off painting it after the party? It might get damaged.’

  ‘Maybe you have a point,’ Vic concurs. ‘I’m not getting drunk, though – I’ll have to host the next day.’

  ‘No, no, we won’t,’ assures Lou, though she knows Vic will.

  ‘And you’ll have to invite someone else too. I’m not going out in my prickly green suit with just the two of you. That won’t be much fun for me.’

  ‘OK.’ Lou racks her brains. A suitable candidate is not that simple: a lot of her friends are paired up; another couple could exacerbate Vic’s sense of exclusion. Plus Vic’s a strong character; some of her quieter single friends might find her overwhelming. ‘What about Howie? You met him before – at that Murder Mystery gathering, remember?’ Howie lives locally and there’s the chance he might be available, especially as he’s just dumped his boyfriend of several years and is up for socializing at the moment.

  ‘Let me ask Sofia before you speak to him. Even if she is free, she may not want to come all the way to Brighton.’

  On this score, Lou appreciates she is being truthful. ‘Sure, fine. I’ll keep it open until you let me know. I must get on now, anyway – my next student’s due any second.’

  * * *

  ‘Right, children,’ says Karen, going over to the television. Luke and Molly are sitting on the sofa, legs swinging as they don’t yet reach the floor, mesmerized by the closing credits of Dora. ‘That episode is finished, so there will be no more telly for a bit.’

  She switches it off. ‘Aw,’ says Luke.

  ‘Now, Molster, in a while, Luke and Granny are going to say goodbye to Daddy. And we can go too, but only if you’d like that. So you need to listen to me very carefully before you make up your mind.’

  But Molly just sits there wide-eyed. Her face – so heart-wrenchingly reminiscent of Simon’s – has borne the same perplexed expression for most of the morning. Karen is not sure if she understands or if it is all simply too much.

  ‘Daddy is going to be buried soon,’ Karen explains.

  ‘But not in the garden,’ remembers Luke, soberly.

  ‘No, not in the garden. And when he is buried, he’ll be in a special box, called a “coffin”.’

  ‘Like Charlie’s?’ They’d buried the cat in a large shoebox.

  ‘Yes, I suppose you’re right. A coffin is a bit like that. Anyway, when we see Daddy in his special box, he won’t be the same as you’re used to. He will be like Charlie was, when Charlie died. So although you can say things to Daddy and tell him goodbye, he won’t be able to say anything back to you,
because Daddy is gone to—’ – she flounders and then uses the only word that seems appropriate – ‘heaven.’

  ‘Up in the sky,’ nods Luke.

  ‘Yes. So what we’ll be seeing is only part of Daddy, not all of him.’

  Molly looks anxious. ‘Is he missing some bits? Like Princess Aurora?’ Princess Aurora is Molly’s favourite toy. But the doll long ago lost the ball in her hip joint, so only has one leg.

  ‘No, no,’ Karen corrects her. ‘He’s all there, nothing like that. It’s just his body will be there, but not his character.’ As soon as she’s uttered this, she knows it’s too big a word for Molly.

  But somehow Molly seems to have understood the essence. ‘I want to say goodbye too,’ she proclaims.

  ‘Are you sure? We don’t have to go. You and I could just stay here and – oh, I don’t know,’ – Karen plucks an idea from the air – ‘make biscuits. Then Luke and Granny can have them when they get back.’

  Molly shakes her head. ‘I want to go with Luke and Granny.’

  So far as Karen can tell, she has grasped it. ‘Right, that’s settled then. Who’s my gorgeous girl?’ She picks her up from the sofa and gives her a hug and a kiss.

  But then, as she leans to ruffle Luke’s chestnut hair, she sees it’s his turn to look troubled. ‘What’s the matter? You worried about going now?’

  ‘Mummy, will Daddy be all right in a shoebox?’

  She understands his thinking. The thought of Simon alone in hard, frosted earth upsets her too.

  Luke continues, ‘When we buried Charlie, we gave him his favourite blanket.’

  ‘Ah, yes.’ Bless him; he’s following the Charlie parallel right through to its conclusion. ‘Are you thinking it would be nice to give Daddy something to cuddle, sweetheart?’ They can hardly bury Simon with a rug matted with fur, however. She tries to think what might work instead.

  But before Karen can come up with a solution, Luke jumps up from the sofa: ‘I know!’ and runs out of the room.

  Molly wriggles out of Karen’s arms, slides down her leg and follows her older brother. There is a thump thump thump up the stairs to their room. She can hear Luke saying something to Molly, and her replying. A minute or two later, and they are both back down. When she sees what they have in their hands, Karen has to force herself not to cry.

  It is Blue Crocodile and Princess Aurora.

  ‘The undertaker says to give them another hour,’ says Phyllis, replacing the phone.

  ‘Oh?’

  Luke is struggling into his lace-ups at Karen’s feet; Molly is all buttoned up and duffel-coated, arms scarcely able to bend for padding, waiting to go.

  Phyllis lowers her voice so the children can’t hear. ‘They’ve only just got the body after the post-mortem. I presume they have to dress it.’

  ‘Ah,’ says Karen. They must have sliced Simon’s beautiful barrel chest, and maybe more besides. She reels. The thought makes her sick, giddy.

  ‘Love,’ Phyllis touches her shoulder, ‘I know, it’s horrid. Here. Sit down.’ She pulls back a chair.

  ‘Thanks. Sorry.’ Karen puts her head in her hands, waiting for the dizziness to pass. When she lifts her head she sees Molly watching her, alarmed.

  ‘I’m all right, darling,’ she smiles.

  Molly is clutching Princess Aurora close to her chest, tight, for comfort.

  Immediately it strikes Karen: Molly needs Princess Aurora. Luke, too, needs Blue Crocodile, though right now the toy is discarded, felt legs in the air, on the kitchen floor. Now is not the time to take away these sources of comfort. They need – she needs – all the tools of support they can get.

  ‘I’ve been thinking, children,’ she says at once. ‘Maybe Princess Aurora and Blue Crocodile might like to stay here, with you.’

  ‘But I thought you said to get something for Daddy to cuddle?’

  ‘I did.’ Not for the first time, Karen is perturbed at the mixed messages she’s giving. ‘It’s just . . . wouldn’t you miss Blue Crocodile an awful lot, if you weren’t to have him to cuddle yourself?’

  ‘I’d be all right,’ says Luke, confidently. But Karen knows it’s because he doesn’t want to be seen as a baby.

  ‘Well, I would miss him,’ says Karen. ‘And I think you might too, just a little. Don’t you remember how sad you were when we thought we’d lost him at Gatwick Airport?’ Sad is an understatement: Luke’s wails of distress cut through the entire South Terminal.

  ‘Yes, but I was only four then.’

  Phyllis chuckles at him. ‘I know!’ she exclaims. ‘I’ve got an idea. Molly, my dear, take off your coat.’ She swings into action, unbuttoning her granddaughter’s duffel, and Molly frowns, not keeping up. ‘We’re not going anywhere right now. They’re not quite ready for us to see Daddy yet. So we’re going to take a little while, and you can each do your dad a drawing.’

  What an excellent solution, thinks Karen.

  Phyllis briskly opens the drawer in the table where Karen keeps the children’s drawing materials. ‘Do you want to use crayons, or felt-tip pens?’

  ‘Pens!’ says Molly, obediently shifting focus.

  ‘But I want to give Daddy Blue Crocodile!’ Luke, however, is unyielding.

  ‘I tell you what,’ suggests Phyllis. ‘Why don’t we take Blue Crocodile and Princess Aurora with us, so they can say goodbye to Daddy too? How about that?’

  Karen is grateful – Phyllis is doing a magnificent job. ‘That’s a great plan,’ she agrees.

  Nonetheless, Luke gives each of them a black look. He can be awfully determined at times.

  Karen truly doesn’t think it wise that Luke part with Blue Crocodile. She struggles for an alternative. Eventually – ‘You know the great thing about Charlie’s blanket . . .’ she cajoles.

  ‘What?’ Luke growls.

  ‘. . . It kept Charlie really snuggly and warm.’

  ‘Mm?’

  ‘Well, I’m not sure Blue Crocodile and Princess Aurora are going to keep Daddy that warm, are they? I mean, they’re very nice to cuddle, but they’re not as good as Charlie’s blanket when you want to be all snug, tucked up in a special box. So I’m thinking . . . why don’t we take Daddy his lovely blue dressing gown? Then if he gets cold, it’ll keep him really cosy.’

  Luke is silent, assimilating. Eventually he nods, cautiously.

  ‘I’ll get it,’ says Karen, and before he can change his mind, she goes up to the bedroom and unhooks it from the door.

  * * *

  There is a rap of nails on wood.

  ‘Yes?’

  A face peers round the door of Lou’s room. Glasses, a frame of frizzy grey hair. ‘Can I come in?’ It is Shirley, the School Head. ‘Thought it might be easier if we had a chat in here.’

  ‘Sure,’ says Lou, getting to her feet and then immediately sitting again. Although she has scheduled the meeting and knows she is doing the right thing, she is nervous.

  ‘Mind if I eat my salad while we talk?’ asks Shirley. She doesn’t wait for an answer, pulling up a chair opposite Lou, unclipping her Tupperware lunch box and forking a pile of couscous, sweetcorn and red peppers into her mouth.

  ‘Not at all,’ Lou nods. She reaches for her sandwich, peels back the cellophane wrapper, pulls out a triangle and takes a bite. But the bread feels gluey, sticks to the roof of her mouth. She doesn’t want to eat; she won’t enjoy it. She’d rather get this over with. So she puts the sandwich down and braces herself.

  ‘It’s to do with Aaron.’

  ‘Ah, Aaron,’ nods Shirley. The ‘ah’ implies a lot: ‘we both know Aaron is trouble’, ‘I understand where you’re coming from’ and ‘why does this not surprise me?’ It’s remarkable how much a single syllable can convey.

  But it pulls Lou up short. She can see them headed down the wrong path. ‘Actually,’ she corrects herself, ‘it’s not just about Aaron: it’s about me.’

  Shirley’s fork, en route to her mouth, stops in midair. ‘Oh?’

  ‘It’s to do wit
h something Aaron has worked out about me.’ The words are clumsy, the phraseology not quite right. Lou’s heart is pounding, her hands are clammy, she can feel colour rising in her cheeks. For all her professionalism, she is still a human being: vulnerable, sometimes shy.

  ‘Ah,’ says Shirley, slowly. The word conveys something different this time.

  Lou knows Shirley has pre-empted what is coming, but she is compelled to explain nonetheless. They can’t skip the difficult bit, although she’d like to.

  ‘I’m gay,’ she blurts.

  There is another pause. Lou’s heart beats faster; her cheeks are flaming.

  ‘You didn’t have to tell me that, you know.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘It’s not really my business.’

  ‘I appreciate that.’ Lou feels the colour subside: the worst is over.

  ‘How you live your life in your spare time is truly nothing to do with the school.’

  ‘No, I realize.’ She understands that this is the right answer; the one Shirley must give so as not to cause offence, or get herself into trouble. She also knows Shirley probably means what she says; she wants to believe Lou’s sexuality has nothing to do with her work. Shirley is a good woman, and her views are liberal.

  Nonetheless, it isn’t true: Lou’s private life does have something to do with her professional life – a great deal, in fact – and not just in her relationships with Kyra and Aaron, but on a deeper, wider level. In actuality, Lou might not be here, if it weren’t for her sexuality. Her identity is so bound up with being gay that it forms a huge – nay, crucial – part of her. From a very early age, she had a sense that she was different, even before she even really knew why. Wrestling with her sexuality has coloured her views of life, people and relationships. And working it out, with all the excitement, pain and fear that went with it, has given her a strong sense of herself, as the black and white of her poster declares: she knows who she is because of it. Not only that: it has given her a strong bond to those who are also, in different ways and for different reasons, disconnected from society. Ironically, she is connected to the Aarons and Kyras of this world by the fact that they are each of them disconnected.

  Still, this isn’t the time or the place to go into these nuances with Shirley. It will confuse things, and is beyond what is called for.