One Moment, One Morning

  Anna feels Karen’s heart breaking; her own is in smithereens too. ‘Oh, my love.’

  ‘He doesn’t like sleeping alone.’

  ‘No, I know.’ Karen has told Anna this before. Anna has always found it surprising; it is so at odds with such a big bear of a man.

  ‘I can collect the children if you want,’ she offers. ‘If you need some more time.’ Though how long Karen will need and how Anna is going to entertain Luke and Molly in the interim is worrying.

  The suggestion jolts Karen. ‘Oh, no. I can’t ask you to do that. No, no, I must come. You’re right. The children need me.’ Slowly, still clutching Simon’s hand, she stands up.

  ‘He’ll still be here if you want to come back later,’ suggests Anna.

  ‘Will he?’

  ‘For a while . . . yes . . .’ As she says it, Anna remembers the nurse said there will have to be a post-mortem before Simon is moved to an undertaker’s; she can sense Karen making the same connection.

  Karen sighs, deeply. ‘I guess I can see him again at the funeral place.’ Reluctantly, she lets go of Simon’s hand and picks up her bag. ‘OK.’ She half smiles, though Anna can see tears welling. ‘Let’s go.’

  Anna takes the black bin bag – Simon’s briefcase makes it heavy. They leave the room and the hospital and locate the car. Anna puts the bin bag in the boot and they get in, clicking seat belts.

  ‘It’s weird seeing you drive this,’ Karen comments, as Anna turns the key in the ignition.

  ‘It’s weird driving it. It’s so much bigger than mine.’

  ‘It’s filthy,’ observes Karen. ‘Sorry.’

  And Anna’s heart twists: through all this trauma, she is still thinking of others – still behaving like Karen. Which makes it worse, somehow.

  They drive in silence the rest of the way.

  Tracy lives in Portslade, three miles or so west of the hospital. It is a straight road along the seafront, a drive that Anna normally enjoys. Even on a grey February day like today, it encapsulates what she loves about living on the south coast: the architectural variety as modern buildings jostle alongside old; the holiday spirit, even in winter; the chance to feel close to the elements. The rain has passed, but clouds still hang heavy over the Palace Pier, making its gaudy fairground attractions and flashing lights seem all the more defiant. There is a wind up too; the sea is rough, white horses run right to the horizon, a reminder of the power of nature. Then it is along past a battered row of Regency hotels, with their empty hanging baskets and peeling balustrades, and the clumsy 1970s concrete of the Brighton Centre, host to party conferences and countless comedy shows and rock concerts. Next are the ruins of the West Pier, its black, skeletal columns threaded by a lattice of ties and girders; gulls plummeting and soaring in the gusts overhead. Then it’s the ancient bandstand with its pretty filigree at last renovated by the council, and finally they’re in Hove, with its grandiose buttermilk parades of houses and pastel-coloured beach huts.

  Finally they pull up outside Tracy’s house. A tired-looking 1930s mock Tudor fronted by leylandii, it is not beautiful or especially elegant, but with generously sized rooms and a long stretch of lawn at the back, it is practical for a woman with older children of her own and a cluster of toddlers in her care.

  Anna stops the engine and turns to face Karen before they get out. Karen’s face is ashen; she is gripping tightly onto the straps of her Liberty shopper, knuckles white with the effort. Anna reaches over and gives one of her hands a squeeze.

  ‘Courage,’ she says.

  Anna has already called and told Tracy, wanting to save Karen the upset of having to do so when they arrive. But obviously Tracy will not have broken the news to Molly and Luke. She has been looking after both children a couple of days a week since they were only a year or so old (although she looks after Luke only occasionally now he is full time at school). Still, brilliant carer though she is, no childminder can be expected to do that. Besides, Karen has wanted to prolong the children’s happiness for a few hours more.

  The result is that two innocent faces peer excitedly through the window at them as they walk up the garden path. ‘Mummy!’ Molly and Luke cry, then scoot down from the back of the sofa on which they are perched and round to the front door.

  Before Karen has a chance to rat-a-tat-tat, the chrome letterbox pops open and a familiar set of eyes can be seen.

  ‘That you, Molly?’ says Anna, leaning down and looking through.

  ‘It’s Godmother Anna!’ squeals Molly.

  There is a scuffle, and another pair of eyes takes the place of the first. ‘What are you doing here?’ asks Luke.

  ‘Out of the way, children,’ says a voice; it is Tracy. There is the sound of a chain being unhooked and the door opens.

  ‘Hello, poppets,’ Karen crouches down at once and takes both children in her arms. She hugs them close to her, squeezing them tight tight tighter, as if her life depends on it.

  Anna watches from the porch. It’s unbearable.

  ‘Ow!’ says Luke, after a few seconds. He pulls away and Molly follows suit.

  ‘Look what we’ve done, Mummy!’ she orders, yanking the bottom of Karen’s blouse and dragging her down the hall.

  Anna follows the three of them into the kitchen, Tracy close behind. On the table is a tray of gingerbread men, some rather badly burnt.

  ‘Wow!’ says Karen.

  ‘Do you want one?’ asks Molly, picking one out.

  ‘Um, can I have it in a minute?’

  ‘Aw.’

  ‘It’s just I’m not that hungry right now, I’d like to have it when we get home, with a nice cup of tea. Is that OK?’

  Molly nods.

  ‘Can I have one?’ asks Anna.

  ‘Can she?’ Molly checks with Tracy.

  Tracy’s appearance is a little like her home. She was clearly never a beauty; now, approaching fifty, she is generously proportioned and her clothing is more practical than modish. Yet her unprepossessing style is reassuring in crisis: she is what Anna thinks of as a salt-of-the-earth type and her whole demeanour exudes capability and generosity of spirit. ‘Of course!’ she smiles.

  ‘Thank you.’ Anna takes one of the less burnt ones. Like Karen, she wants to protract this moment for Molly and Luke: these few last minutes while they believe their father is alive. ‘Mm.’ She takes a generous bite. ‘Aren’t you both clever? Did you make these on your own?’

  ‘Tracy helped us,’ admits Luke.

  ‘And Austin,’ says Molly. Austin is a little boy whom Tracy also looks after.

  ‘Well, they are very delicious. Yum!’

  ‘Right then, children, have you got your bags?’ Karen urges. Both obediently run back into the living room to pick them up. ‘I think we’d better go home.’

  * * *

  Karen turns the key in the front door and steps into the hall, the children and Anna following. Everywhere, everywhere, there is the presence of Simon. Simon’s anorak slung over the banister from when they went out the weekend just gone, Simon’s football boots, covered in mud and left at the bottom of the stairs, from his game yesterday. The photos of Simon with his father in a frame on the hall table, a handful of Simon’s CDs scattered beside it. She’s even trodden on Simon’s post on the doormat.

  Another wave of panic; but somehow she draws upon a reserve of strength she never knew she had, and forces it back. She goes into the kitchen to put on the kettle. She doesn’t know how she is going to tell Molly and Luke, but she knows she has to. And as she puts down her bag on the work surface by the sink, there is a little mew and there’s Toby, coming out from a space he has squeezed into behind the vegetable rack, and he gives her an idea.

  ‘Hello, Toby,’ she says, picking up the kitten. He is a tabby, only ten weeks old, and one of Luke’s Christmas presents. The offspring of one of their neighbours’ cats, Luke was allowed him on the condition he waited until the middle of January; quite a challenge for a small boy.

  ‘Give him to me!’ s
ays Luke immediately.

  ‘Aren’t I allowed to say hello too?’ says Karen. She tickles Toby behind his ears. The fur there is exceptionally soft, warm and fluffy and after the horrors of the day she finds it briefly, oh-so-fleetingly, comforting.

  ‘OK.’ Luke is gruff.

  ‘Now, children,’ continues Karen, whilst Anna busies herself making them both yet more tea. ‘Do either of you want a drink?’

  ‘Yes,’ says Molly.

  Luke shakes his head.

  Karen hands over Toby to Luke, and fetches Molly some juice in her plastic cup with a spout.

  Molly tips it up and starts sucking immediately.

  ‘OK,’ she says, assertively. ‘I want you both – you can bring Toby if you want, Luke, that’s fine – to come with me into the living room, so I can tell you something.’

  ‘Do you want me?’ asks Anna. ‘I’ll wait here if it’s easier.’

  ‘No, it’s all right,’ says Karen.

  So, bearing the tea, Anna follows. She opts for an armchair in the bay window; it is a big room, and Karen senses she does not want to be too intrusive.

  Karen takes a seat on the settee and leans forward. ‘Come here,’ she says, and pulls both children, plus the kitten, towards her. ‘Now, listen to me. What I am going to tell you is very, very sad. And it will be a big shock to you both. But I want you to know that whatever you are feeling, both your Mummy and your Daddy love you very, very much.’ She can hardly bear to watch the children’s expressions. Luke is scowling, mystified; Molly is sucking on her juice, instinctively seeking solace.

  ‘What’s happened, Mummy?’ asks Luke.

  ‘Well.’ She takes a deep, deep breath. ‘You remember our old cat, Charlie?’ She gives Toby, who is in Luke’s arms, another little stroke, hoping to glean strength from him. He lifts his chin to encourage her to tickle beneath it, blissfully oblivious to anything other than pleasure.

  Both children nod, very seriously.

  ‘And you remember when Charlie died, and I told you he’d gone to be with other cats, up in the sky?’

  ‘So that he could fight whenever he wanted to,’ remembers Luke. Although Charlie had been neutered, he was very territorial; he was always having scraps with the neighbours’ animals – including the cat that gave birth to Toby. He even liked to provoke the poodle next door from time to time.

  ‘That’s right,’ continues Karen. ‘And I also told you that Charlie wouldn’t ever be coming back, but that he is very happy, fighting all the other cats, up in the sky.’

  ‘Yes,’ says Luke.

  Molly is saying nothing.

  Although both children are standing right by her, Karen reaches over and scoops up her daughter onto her knee. She pulls Luke, and Toby, even closer, and drops her voice even lower. ‘Well, today your Daddy’s heart suddenly stopped working, just like Charlie’s did. Charlie was old, though, and your Daddy wasn’t, so it’s a big shock. But it means your Daddy’s gone too, just like Charlie.’

  ‘What, to play with Charlie?’ asks Luke.

  ‘Yes,’ says Karen, at once liking his thinking. ‘To help Charlie win as many fights as he can.’

  ‘Oh.’ Luke is puzzled.

  ‘But Daddy is not just going to play with Charlie. Daddy is going to do all those things that Daddy loves.’

  ‘Is Daddy up in the sky?’ asks Luke.

  ‘Yes,’ says Karen. She really cannot think of a better explanation. The accuracy is hardly important. The main thing is the emotional truth, surely, and delivering the news as kindly and clearly as she can. ‘Do you understand, honey?’ she asks Molly.

  Molly is busy sucking sucking sucking on her juice, even though Karen can hear all that’s left in the container is air.

  Karen looks into her face. Eyebrows furrowed, bottom lip protruding; she knows her daughter has understood something of it. ‘Anyway, where Daddy has gone, he can do all the things he likes doing, ALL the time. He’ll be able to play football . . . there are lots of people there who love playing football. He’ll be able to drink beer . . . I’m sure he can find plenty of men who like to have a nice cold beer up there. He’ll be able to chat with friends; have a snooze in the afternoon – every afternoon if he wants to; and listen to his music, really loud! And you know what’s really nice? He won’t have to go to work, in London, ever. He’ll be able to do his designs, just the ones he likes, whenever he wants. He’ll have a lovely time!’ As she says all this, Karen feels disconnected from her words; her speaking voice is far more jovial and upbeat than she is inside.

  ‘But doesn’t Daddy like being with us, Mummy?’ asks Luke.

  Karen has not seen this one coming. ‘Of course he does, sweetheart.’

  ‘But I thought you said Daddy could do all the things he likes doing?’

  ‘Well—’ Karen searches for an answer. He is right, of course. ‘It’s just that up there, there are people who need Daddy’s advice and help. You know how good Daddy is at that. And right now they need it more than we do, so he’s gone to help them work some stuff out.’

  Luke frowns. ‘So when he’s helped them, will he be coming back?’

  Oh, Lord, she is making a right mess of this. ‘No, my love, he won’t.’

  Luke begins to cry.

  ‘My baby boy.’ She hugs him tight and rests her cheek on his brown mop of hair. ‘I’m so sorry.’ His tears release her; she begins to weep too. ‘It’s very sad, and it’s not very fair. Daddy didn’t really want to go, but he had to. You know how sometimes you have to do things you don’t want to, but you have to? Like brushing your teeth and eating your vegetables?’

  Luke nods through his tears.

  ‘Well, dying is a bit like that, in some ways. You don’t want it to happen, it just does.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Now Molly is crying too. Karen is aware that Anna is sitting on the chair on the other side of the room, witnessing it from feet away.

  ‘Hey, Anna,’ she says, ‘come and give us a hug.’

  And Anna, clearly grateful to be of use, comes and puts her arms round the three of them, and then all four cry, giant gulping wails, together.

  * * *

  Lou’s sessions finish at half past three, and then she has a staff meeting, so it’s gone four by the time she leaves. It’s a few minutes’ walk to the Tube, and as she makes her way there, she spies Aaron and Kyra sitting on a wall outside the newsagent. It is impossible to avoid them; they will see if she turns back to take another route. So she carries on walking. As she approaches she can see they are smoking; her immediate fear is that it is weed, as Aaron smokes far too much of it, so she is actually relieved to see the brown filter ends of cigarettes. They are not supposed to smoke tobacco either, being underage, but Lou considers it the lesser of two evils. She is just wondering whether she should involve herself in a situation she can’t be sure won’t escalate, when they see her coming and rapidly stub the cigarettes out on the wall beside them, leaving black charcoal smears on the red brick. Given that they are out of school and she doesn’t like to come across as too authoritarian, it’s best to ignore it, she decides.

  ‘Hello, Miss,’ says Aaron, squinting as she approaches.

  ‘Hello, Aaron. Hello, Kyra. How are you both doing?’

  ‘I’m all right, Miss,’ says Aaron. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Tired, actually,’ says Lou as she draws up alongside. It is true: the shock of that morning has been compounded by the demands of her job and having to perform as a counsellor so immediately after the incident. Now the adrenaline rush has passed, what she really wants to do is sleep.

  ‘Up all night, then, Miss?’ asks Aaron.

  Lou frowns. She can see where this is headed.

  ‘No,’ she says categorically. ‘Yesterday was Sunday.’

  ‘Doesn’t stop some people,’ says Aaron.

  ‘Were you with a woman?’ asks Kyra. Her tone is a blend of disgust and curiosity.

  Lou could just walk on at this point, but intuitively fe
els they will read that as avoidance and it will provoke them further. She looks them, first one and then the other, in the eyes. Aaron’s are deep brown, challenging. Kyra’s are pale blue, narrowed aggressively. Aaron is scuffing the ground with his trainer; Kyra is twiddling her long hair; both displacing surplus energy.

  ‘I watched Coronation Street,’ Lou states. ‘Then a costume drama on ITV. Then I went to bed.’

  ‘There’s a gay man in Coronation Street,’ says Kyra.

  Jesus, these two are quick.

  ‘Indeed there is,’ Lou nods. She notes to herself that this seems worth exploring in their individual counselling sessions; both seem preoccupied with homosexuality.

  Kyra continues, ‘Are you gay, Miss?’

  It is at moments like these that Lou wishes she had chosen a less gruelling arena to work as a counsellor; one where it would be unlikely she would come across clients outside their sessions. Compared to where Lou last worked, counselling in a school makes the boundaries more blurred.

  ‘Aaron says you are.’ Today of all days, Lou hasn’t the energy. There’s no let-up, however: ‘Apparently you good as said so.’

  ‘Guys, guys. If you want to discuss this further, I would appreciate it if we could do it at the appropriate time.’

  ‘What’s wrong with now?’

  Lou takes a deep breath. This is getting close to bullying. ‘I think you know, Kyra. Whilst I respect your interest in my personal life, you know the rules: if I want to keep something private, then that’s up to me. If there’s anything else you wish to discuss then please bring it to our session – this is a public place. Let’s chat when you see me tomorrow, OK?’

  ‘But how come you asks us to share stuff with you, and then you won’t share this with us?’

  ‘Because our roles are different.’

  ‘Sounds like bullshit, Miss,’ challenges Aaron.

  She can’t help but admire his savvy. Lou talks a lot to the students about being straight and honest in their sessions, and she appreciates his perspective. ‘I am sorry you feel that way,’ she concedes, ‘but you need to respect my feelings too, and right now I am exhausted, so I’m going home.’ She walks away.