One Moment, One Morning

  How odd, her writing looks pretty much the same as usual, slanting loops of black ink. She had expected it to look different.

  2. Tell the children.

  She has no idea how she is going to do this, but before she has a chance to feel any pain she adds,

  Bring them to the hospital to say goodbye?

  Next she puts:

  3. Go home. Phone:

  • Simon’s Mum

  • Alan

  • Simon’s work

  Oh gosh, Simon’s work. She should phone them at once. They will have been expecting him. Lord, and the solicitor. They have missed the appointment. These people can’t wait until later, till she is home. They all need to know right now.

  She reaches for her phone again. The little stickers glitter and twinkle at her and she has a pang of affection for her daughter, Molly, who insisted on putting them there, so deliberately, in places that presumably mean something to Molly but appear random to anyone else. There is a star covering the circle of the logo, for instance, and tiny flowers round the screen. Karen starts to dial Simon’s work. But again she stops. She just can’t manage it. She can’t find it in herself to explain what has happened. Perhaps she can wait till Anna gets there. Anna can help. She puts the phone down, berating herself for not being able to cope. She always copes with everything.

  ‘Karen, hello.’

  She looks up. Thank God, a familiar coat, bag, face: it is her friend.

  * * *

  Before Anna does anything else, she steps forward and wraps her arms around her friend’s shoulders. Karen gets up and hugs Anna too, and they hold each other for a moment like that, in silence. Karen sits down again and Anna takes a seat opposite, but instantly feels too far away, so shifts the chair round and leans forward to take both her friend’s hands in hers.

  She is struck by how Karen’s face has been transformed by the morning’s events. Usually her friend looks healthy and vibrant, but the flush in her cheeks has vanished. She looks wan, grey; her long hair, generally shiny as a conker, is soaking wet, drab; and her hazel eyes, which normally sparkle with warmth and feeling, are glazed, unseeing. The joy and energy have been replaced by fear and confusion. And it is not just her face that has changed – it is her whole body. It is as if she has literally been gutted, or had the wind sucked out of her by some giant vacuum cleaner. She is bowed, deflated. She is also shaking badly, her hands especially. Although – bless her – Karen has clearly been trying to write. Anna can see from the piece of paper opposite her.

  Anna wishes she could lift her up and take her back to her cosy living room, dry her off then ease her into her most comfortable armchair, wrap her in a blanket and light the fire. She would make her a hot chocolate and give her biscuits, too. Instead they are here – she glances around – in a place that would be bleak at the best of times, let alone on a rainy day in late February. It is utterly charmless; a big room lit by strip lights with ugly, battered metal furnishings, as far from consoling as a cafe can get.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she says, gently, and gives Karen a small, utterly half-hearted smile. She is sorry; she has probably never been as sorry about anything in her life. She can feel tears pricking, but she must not, must not cry.

  Karen shakes her head. ‘I don’t know what happened.’

  Anna exhales. ‘No.’

  ‘I think I’m in shock.’

  ‘Yes, sweetheart, I think we both are.’ She looks down at her friend’s hands in hers. We both have the faint beginnings of liver spots, Anna notices. We are getting old.

  ‘Heart attack, they said.’

  ‘Right.’

  Karen takes a deep breath. ‘I guess we could go now – I was waiting for you.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘This special room; they were sorting it out.’

  ‘Sure,’ nods Anna. She wonders if they are going to do a post-mortem. She thinks it will mean waiting longer for a funeral. But it also might provide some answers. She has many questions herself; doubtless Karen has more. Then again, maybe Karen won’t want one. It won’t bring Simon back.

  ‘But before we go, I wondered; could you make a couple of calls for me?’

  ‘Of course. Who to?’

  ‘It’s just I really can’t face it.’

  Anna smiles sympathetically. ‘It’s OK – that’s fine. Who do you want me to ring?’

  ‘The solicitors, if that’s all right. It’s just they were expecting us. And Simon’s work . . .’ She trails off.

  Anna takes control. ‘No problem. Have you got the numbers?’

  ‘Yes, here. Or it might be easier to ring on my phone, I guess.’

  ‘Sure.’ Anna picks up Karen’s mobile, with its familiar leather case and peeling stickers, from the table. ‘So, let’s ring the solicitors first.’ In one way she hates to be so down to earth and practical; in another it is a relief to be able to help with something relatively mundane. ‘Just tell me, had you exchanged on the house yet?’

  Karen shakes her head. ‘No . . . We were signing the papers today.’

  Phew, thinks Anna. This means there is room for manoeuvre. She switches into let’s-do-it mode. ‘Right. I’m going to ring the solicitors. Tell them you’re putting it on hold.’

  ‘They’ll be very cross,’ says Karen, suddenly engaging with other people’s reality.

  ‘I don’t give a bugger about that! And nor should you. Let’s not worry about that, shall we?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So, where’s the number?’

  ‘The vendors will be upset too . . .’ adds Karen. It’s typical of her to be preoccupied with other people.

  ‘Never mind them either.’ Anna is brisk. ‘They can wait. At this moment we’re looking after you.’

  Karen nods.

  ‘Number . . .?’ she coaxes.

  ‘Here you are.’ Karen, whose mind clicks back into gear with Anna to steer her, locates it.

  ‘OK,’ says Anna, getting to her feet. ‘But I’m going to do this outside, the signal in here is crap. You all right, waiting here for a bit?’

  ‘Mm.’

  As Anna pushes open the door of the cafe, the cold air and rain hit her. The signal is actually just as strong inside as it is out here; she has told a white lie. She thought it diplomatic Karen didn’t hear her go through the whole explanation of Simon’s death – it will only cause unnecessary pain. Given that it is sure to be the first call of many, it seems kind to soften the experience wherever and however she can.

  ‘So, Miss, you one of them lesbians then?’

  ‘Sorry?’ Lou is having a one-to-one session with fourteen-year-old Aaron, and although she comes across a broad spectrum of issues in her line of work – drugs, abandonment, poverty, rape – the question catches her off guard. She counsels pupils who’ve been excluded from so many schools – ‘expelled’, her mother still insists on calling it – that there is nowhere else in the state system for them to go. Instead, they continue their education in a special establishment with a much higher staff/pupil ratio, where Lou is a recent fixture. In addition to lessons, the children can opt to have a once-weekly session with her. She sees fifteen pupils in total, and all, without exception, have had it tough.

  ‘You heard me, Miss.’ Although Lou likes to be addressed by her first name, Aaron can’t shake the habit of ‘Miss’, which he associates with those in authority – though in his case it hardly denotes respect, more of a challenge. He continues, crossing skinny legs draped in baggy low-slung jeans and leaning back in his chair with practised nonchalance: ‘One of them, you know, lesbians? You fancy women? You a dyke? Or what?’

  Lou’s personal life is strictly off bounds to Aaron, something he well knows. He is being deliberately provocative, and she refuses to rise to it. Yet she also knows this is not an area to avoid completely: as an adolescent, Aaron is exploring his own sexuality. She strives to handle their dialogue with care.

  He shifts in his chair, eyes her. ‘Why won’t you tell m
e, Miss? You ashamed?’

  She is not going to be drawn on herself, but his attitude is revealing. She wonders where he has learnt to associate being gay with shame. ‘You think it’s something to be ashamed of, Aaron?’

  He sits back, gratified. ‘So you are, then.’ Again Lou says nothing. ‘Why not tell me, Miss?’

  She is firm. ‘We’re here to talk about you, Aaron, not me.’

  ‘How can you expect me to talk about me when you won’t talk about you?’

  Reasonable point, thinks Lou, but that is not how it works, and Aaron is using the subject to deflect attention from himself. Were she not his counsellor, she might let Aaron know she is gay. But telling him goes against the therapeutic dynamic and may not be useful, especially if he is asking chiefly to satisfy his voyeuristic needs. Nonetheless, it is enlightening that he has latched on to the subject at this particular moment; he had been talking about his drug use – skunk, to be specific – and Lou knows this is an evasion tactic. She smiles inwardly, appreciating. Evasion: they are both at it.

  ‘Kyra thinks you’re gay, too,’ Aaron adds.

  Oh, great, Lou thinks. So they have been discussing me behind my back. That means other students probably have, too. Lou wants to keep her sexuality out of her counselling sessions, not just because confession isn’t befitting to her role, but because the kids she deals with can be belligerent; some are extremely intolerant of difference. She has heard it first hand – the mickey-taking of one of the teachers deemed ‘posh’, the bullying of pupils who work too hard, the cruel laughter at the overweight caretaker. She has no intention of letting her personal life provide similar ammunition. She has only been at the school just over a term, and hasn’t told the head or any of the other teachers that she is gay. After all, she thinks indignantly, why should any of them need to know?

  She is adamant Aaron must focus on himself. ‘We both know we’re not here to discuss Kyra, or what Kyra thinks of me,’ she says. Then she pauses, and asks, ‘I am interested, though. How would it help you to know if I’m gay or not?’

  ‘So you are gay then.’ Aaron grins with satisfaction. ‘That’s what I reckon.’

  For the moment he seems content to leave it there, and Lou decides not to push him. But intuitively she knows this won’t be the last of it. Aaron will provoke her again, she feels sure.

  * * *

  Having rung the solicitor and Simon’s work, Anna wants to make one more call before she returns to Karen. She needs to keep it brief, as she is concerned Karen is sitting alone in the cafe, but she must bring Steve, her partner, up to speed. She has tried him twice already, from the train, but he is not picking up his phone and it is not the kind of thing you leave a message about. This time, however, he answers.

  ‘Hello?’ He sounds bleary.

  ‘Ah, at last. I’ve been trying you for ages. Where were you?’

  ‘Oh, sorry, I was asleep.’

  Typical, thinks Anna, glancing at her watch. It is nearly midday. She knows Steve has got no work lined up – he is a painter and decorator and sometimes has periods of inactivity. Nonetheless, it is a Monday and she finds it irritating that he chooses to waste half the day. It would gall her under normal circumstances when she has to be up at six thirty, but the fact that he has slept through such a major crisis means she finds it hard to break the news as tactfully as she could.

  ‘I need you to wake up.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah. OK, I’m awake.’

  ‘Something’s happened.’

  ‘Oh, what?’

  ‘It’s Simon.’

  ‘Simon as in Karen and Simon?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What’s he done?’

  ‘He’s not done anything.’ Anna’s annoyance increases. Steve and Simon aren’t especially good friends, but how inappropriate that Steve should assume Simon has done something deserving blame. She delivers the information bluntly, with no softening. ‘He’s dead.’

  ‘You’re joking.’

  ‘No, Steve, I’m not.’ She pauses to allow him to assimilate. ‘He died on the train. Of a heart attack.’

  ‘Oh, Christ.’ Steve can obviously tell from her tone that she is serious. ‘How?’

  ‘I don’t know exactly, I guess he just had a massive coronary. They tried to revive him, apparently, to no avail.’

  ‘Jesus. Poor Karen.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Where are you now?’

  ‘I’m with her.’

  ‘You didn’t go to work, then?’

  Anna sighs, her anger subsiding. Most of her rage is projection at what’s happened, anyway, nothing to do with Steve. ‘I did, actually. It’s a long story. I’ll explain it fully later. I just needed you to know, that’s all.’

  ‘Yes, well, blimey, sorry, I’m a bit shocked.’ Anna can hear the rustle of sheets as he sits up in bed. ‘Where are you exactly?’

  ‘In a cafe in Kemptown, opposite the hospital.’

  ‘What are you going to do now?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Spend some time with Karen, I guess. She needs me. She’s in a total state, understandably.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘They’re moving Simon to a viewing room or something, so we’re going back inside in a minute.’

  ‘Right. Er . . . what about the kids?’

  ‘They’re with the childminder.’

  ‘Do they know?’

  ‘No, not yet. I guess we’ll deal with that later.’

  ‘Do you need me to come down?’

  Anna pauses to consider. She would like his support, but isn’t one hundred per cent confident he’ll help the situation. Steve can be a bit blundering when it comes to emotional issues – not always, but sometimes, and she is never sure which way it will go. He doesn’t know Karen nearly as well as she does. Plus she imagines Karen would rather not be with a couple at present. ‘No, no, it’s probably best not.’

  ‘Is there anything I can do?’

  Again she reflects. She doesn’t find it easy asking for help. ‘Not at the moment, that I can think of.’

  ‘You sure?’

  He is trying his best, she can tell. She softens further. ‘No, don’t worry. I’ll call you later. Just be there when I get in.’ She does not want him out at the pub when she returns: she is sure of that at least. ‘Perhaps you can make me dinner?’

  ‘Of course I will.’

  At once Anna feels a rush of affection. Steve might not be perfect, but he is still alive; she is thankful. No, more than thankful: she is lucky. ‘I do love you, honey,’ she says.

  ‘Love you too, babe. You know I do.’

  This is true. When he is on form, and sober, Steve is one of the most loving men Anna has ever met.

  * * *

  At eleven fifty-five, when Lou is between clients, her mother rings. Her mother knows she has a few minutes between each session and has a maddening habit of timing it so as to catch her daughter for the full slot. She even rings on the landline so Lou can’t vet the call. It might, after all, be one of the other members of staff, who also know she has this time free, so Lou is obligated to answer. Lou really hates this habit of her mother’s, as she needs the space to clear her head, and her mother’s calls tend to be all-consuming, even three-minute ones. Her mother talks fast, and – it seems to Lou – manages to squeeze more neurosis into one hundred and eighty seconds than any other human being she has ever encountered. Today Lou’s head is especially full as she is still trying to process the experience on the seven forty-four. Right now though, there’s a fat chance.

  ‘Darling,’ says her mum. ‘I know it’s short notice, but I’m calling to see if you might come up this weekend. Uncle Pat and Auntie Audrey are going to be here and they’d love to see you.’

  Oh, no, thinks Lou. She quite likes Aunt Audrey, her mum’s sister, but Uncle Pat is nearly as hard work as her mother. Anyway, she has plans.

  But her mother hurtles on before she can get a word in. ‘Now you know Uncle Pat’s not been too g
ood of late—’ Lou does know this; how could she not? Her Uncle Pat has suffered from Crohn’s disease almost ever since she can remember, and recently his condition has been particularly bad. She also knows her mum will use Uncle Pat’s illness to manipulate her daughter into doing what she wants: but her mother is like a steamroller when she gets going; she flattens all in her path.

  ‘Well, he’s good again now, having been laid up for several weeks. So you can imagine, Auntie Audrey is desperate to get away. She’s been cooped up in that little bungalow for ages’ – Lou shudders; what a ghastly thought. She feels for Aunt Audrey – ‘and of course I suggested that they come here. So they’re coming as soon as they can, as I’ve a room free this weekend.’ Lou’s mum lives in the country, in a large house outside Hitchin, which she runs as a bed and breakfast. ‘The thing is’ – Lou braces herself, though she already knows what the punchline is going to be. Sure enough – ‘I can’t really manage them both, on my own.’ Then she delivers another blow to ensure Lou is well and truly beaten. ‘With my hip, it’s just too difficult for me to get to the shops, show them round, entertain them all the time.’ Rubbish, thinks Lou. When she chooses to let rooms, her hip has never stopped her. Cooking a full English, making beds, putting on a brave face – surely it is harder work with strangers than with Lou’s uncle and aunt. Peculiar, that: where money is involved, Lou’s mother will be brave as anything. Still, on her mum rolls: ‘So I thought you could come up – it’s not too far for you, is it darling, if you come after work on Thursday? You can get the train to King’s Cross from Hammersmith, then on up here.’ If she were not used to this, Lou would not believe it – her mother is actually roping her into three days, not two. What about my sister? she thinks furiously. Can’t Georgia help? She knows there is no point in arguing. Lou’s younger sister has a husband and children, and her mother never asks her to do even a quarter of what is required of Lou.

  ‘Mum,’ she says finally, aware the spiel is drawing to a close now her mother has made her demand, ‘it’s very short notice and I have made arrangements already, you know.’ It is true: she plays tennis first thing every Friday morning, then she helps out at a local hostel for the homeless, and she has been invited to a party on Saturday.