Missing You (19 page)

‘Change your mind,’ says Sean. ‘Come with us, please.’

’No,’ she says, gently.

‘Why not? It’s my birthday. You’re supposed to indulge me.’

‘I’ll indulge you later.’

‘Go on, Fen,’ says Amy quietly. ‘We ’ll have a nice time. My nana and grandad are very nice.’

‘I’m sure they are, Amy,’ says Fen, ‘only I’m taking Connor to the seaside.’

‘He won’t mind coming with us if I ask him.’

‘Not this time.’

Sean takes hold of Fen’s elbow and squeezes it affectionately.

‘I haven’t done anything to upset you, have I?’ he asks.

She shakes her head, and he holds her eyes and he knows something is wrong.

‘Please . . .’ he mouths.

‘No. I’m sorry. I just can’t.’

He lets go of her elbow.

‘So what did you get Daddy for his birthday, Amy?’ Fen asks.

Amy smiles up over her shoulder.

‘Mummy and me went into Oxford and we got him a new guitar strap from both of us.’

Fen nods. ‘That’s lovely.’

‘It was exactly the right one. Mummy remembered that Daddy looked at it ages ago and she remembered that it was the one he wanted.’

‘That was nice of her.’

‘She said she wanted to give him something nice.’

Fen nods to Sean to indicate that he should pass her the little pink hairbrush on the counter. He does, and as he gives it to her their fingers touch and a tiny electric shock passes between them, but it’s just physical energy from the nylon of the brush, the hairs on his hand, the hem of her sleeve.

‘Have
you
got a present for Daddy?’ Amy asks.

‘Mmm.’

‘Have you given it to him yet?’

‘Not yet.’

Sean watches as Fen parts Amy’s hair using the brush handle. Amy is fidgeting with her bracelet. It’s made of little round sherbet sweets, threaded on elastic. Her head is at the same height as Fen’s chest. Fen is wearing a blue T-shirt with a scoop neck. Sean can see the lace trim of her underwear, the darker space between her breasts where he likes to kiss her. He looks away, looks back. Fen collects Amy’s hair in her hand to make the bunches, she runs it through one palm, then the other, making it smooth and tidy, and rolls the elastic bands down her wrist.

‘There,’ she stands back. ‘There, how’s that?’

‘A huge improvement,’ says Sean. ‘Thanks, Fen.’

He leans across, over Amy’s head, and kisses her cheek.

The kiss catches Fen off guard. Her fingers go to the spot where his lips touched her.

‘Go and fetch your shoes, Amy,’ Sean tells his daughter.

He follows Fen’s gaze out of the open back door to the garden, where Connor is still trying to hit the golf ball.

‘Fen,’ says Sean, ‘please come. I’d like to show you off and my parents are great, they’re easy, they’d spoil Connor rotten, and Lola would love to meet you, she’d think you were perfect, she’d think you were the best thing that could possibly have happened to me right now.’

‘Right now?’

‘Yes, of course. When else?’

Fen turns to go back out into the garden.

‘Fen? What is it? What’s the matter?’

‘Nothing,’ she says.

Sean sighs. He rubs his chin with his fingers.

‘If you won’t tell me what’s wrong,’ he says, ‘then how can I put it right?’

She looks back at him over her shoulder.

‘It’s nothing, Sean, honestly. Please have a nice time. I’ll see you later.’

‘OK,’ he says. ‘All right.’

He hears his family before he sees them. They are at the far side of the recreation ground, admiring the views up to Pulteney Bridge and over to the Parade Gardens, on the other side of the river, which are just coming into their full glory. Rosie’s in a patchwork dress and high-heeled boots, Darragh’s wearing his walking boots with his shirt tucked into his trousers, Lola has her arm hooked through Boo’s, and Boo’s face is now almost covered by two curtains of dark hair. The sight of his family puts all discord from Sean’s mind. The three adults are arguing about something; he catches only stray words.

‘Here they are!’ cries Rosie, her face lighting up as she sees Amy. Grandmother and granddaughter run towards one another, their arms outstretched, and meet in an embrace of sheer joy.

‘Oh, it’s lovely to see you!’ Rosie cries, holding Amy to her.

‘Hello, old man,’ says Dad.

‘Hi,’ says Boo.

‘Sean, you fat bastard, you’re getting a beer gut,’ says Lola.

They eat in Garfunkels and it’s a long, extended feast of a lunch. Amy has taken a shine to Boo. She sits on her hands and stares at him with quiet adoration. When he moves, to clear the hair from his face, or to run his fingers over the Braille of his spots, her eyes widen a little further. If he ever actually looks at her, or speaks, she turns into a giggly little bundle of coyness, wriggling in her seat, blinking her eyes. Boo is embarrassed beyond belief but the adults are charmed.

Darragh tells Sean, in great detail, about the innovative waterproof coating on his new walking boots and Sean maintains an interested expression. Rosie shoots Sean sympathetic glances, but is too fond of her husband to interrupt him or change the subject. Her loyalty touches Sean. He loves his family. Nothing would keep them from him, he realizes. They would stick with him, every one of them, through thick and thin. No matter what he did, no matter what happened, they’d be there for him. A cynic would call it genetics. A romantic would call it unconditional love.

This thought pings a distant memory in the back of his mind, but he can’t retrieve it and forgets about it instantly as the waiter brings a cream, strawberry and sponge cake to the table, ablaze with candles and a sparkler. Amy’s eyes open wide and she says: ‘Oh!’ Everyone, the whole restaurant, sings ‘Happy Birthday’ to Sean.

‘I love you guys,’ he says, blowing out the candles.

‘You must be pissed,’ says Lola. ‘Wish that was my cake. How come I never get cake?’

‘You’re not going through an emotional crisis and living far from home,’ says Rosie. ‘And you’re always telling me you’re on a diet.’

‘My life is one long crisis,’ says Lola. ‘That’s why I comfort-eat. It stems from being the least-favourite child.’

‘Daddy,’ whispers Amy anxiously, pulling at his sleeve and glancing to and from Boo’s face to make sure he isn’t listening, ‘I need a wee.’

‘OK,’ Sean whispers making eye contact with Lola over Amy’s head.

‘I’m going to the Ladies,’ says Lola. ‘Anybody want to come with me?’

Amy slides off the chair and slips her hand into her aunt’s.

‘I really do love you guys,’ says Sean, trailing his fingers through Lola’s as she walks away from the table.

‘I have to say,’ says Darragh, ‘that you’re looking better, Sean. You looked awful at Christmas . . .’

‘Thanks, Dad.’

‘Well, you did, didn’t he, Rosie? You were all hunched and grey and middle-aged-looking. And now you’re not.’

Rosie dabs her lips with a napkin, and refreshes Sean’s glass.

‘We were so worried about you, darling. Are you getting used to things now?’

‘I’m OK,’ says Sean.

‘Do you talk to Belle?’

‘A bit. It’s getting a little easier.’

Rosie sighs. ‘So you haven’t talked about getting a D-I-V-O—’

‘Yes,’ says Sean. ‘We ’ve talked about it. Well, she has. It’s up to her, really. If she wants to set the ball rolling, it’s fine by me.’

He scoops some cream on his finger and sucks it.

‘And your lodgings are all right, are they? You are comfortable? It’s just . . .’ Rosie trails off. Sean guesses that she was going to mention the unfair disparity between his situation and Belle’s, but doesn’t want to sound critical of either of them.

‘Yes, they’re great.’

And suddenly Sean misses Fen. He misses her with a physical pain. She should be here, with him. She should be here. It is as if she has become part of him, as if he is not fully functional without her. She may not say very much, or take up much space, but without her there is a roaring silence, a gaping chasm.

He looks out of the window, hoping she’ll be on the other side with Connor, peering in, trying to find the courage to come through the door. He imagines taking hold of her hand, finding a chair for her, ordering a drink. He imagines her – his slight and graceful Fen – slipping into her seat, smiling shyly. And his parents would see her and their hearts would lift because they would see how much she means to Sean. They were hurt too, by Belle’s betrayal. They were hurt on his behalf, hurt that anyone could do what she did to their beloved son. They would see that Fen would never hurt him that way. That would be enough to make them accept her. And she’d fit in very well. She’d like his family. She wouldn’t mind their ways, his parents’ eccentricities, Lola’s obscenities, Boo’s hair. They wouldn’t get on her nerves, like they used to irritate Belle. It would be easy with Fen, as everything with Fen is easy.

‘Mum,’ he says, ‘something has happened. I’ve met someone . . .’

But Rosie isn’t listening. She is staring awkwardly down at her shoulder. Darragh has fallen asleep, his head resting against her. His mouth is hanging open and saliva is staining the sleeve of her dress. Rosie slides down in her chair a little so that his position is more comfortable. She strokes Darragh’s head.

‘He never could handle his drink at lunchtime,’ says Rosie fondly. ‘We might have to take him back to yours for a lie-down.’

‘We aren’t allowed back in the B and B until teatime,’ Boo explains.

‘Funny woman runs it,’ says Rosie. ‘She’s very suspicious.’

‘“Don’t think you can treat this place like a hotel,”’ says Boo in a camp imitation of a woman’s voice. ‘“And breakfast closes at nine o’clock prompt.”’

‘I ask you! What person in their right mind has breakfast before ten at the weekend?’ asks Rosie.

‘Shocking,’ Sean agrees.

Lola returns with Amy skipping at her side. Boo immediately puts his face away.

‘We were saying we might have to go back to Sean’s so Dad can have five minutes,’ says Rosie.

‘Oh, good,’ says Lola. ‘That means we can meet the landlady. What’s she like, Sean?’

‘She’s nice.’

‘So she’s – what? Middle-aged divorcee? Bit heavy on the old make-up? Heels? Too much wrinkly décolletage, that kind of thing?’

Sean snorts. ‘No, not at all! She’s younger than me. She’s . . . lovely.’

‘Lovely?’

‘Yes.’

‘Oh my God!’ cries Lola. ‘You’re sleeping with her!’

‘I am not!’ he protests, but he feels his cheeks burn.

‘You so are! Look at your smug face! Tell me more! Tell me everything!’

‘She’s called Fen,’ says Amy in a weary voice. ‘She’s got a little boy. He’s called Connor. He’s five and he goes to school on a bus and he’s got a funny hand and he doesn’t walk properly.’

‘Cerebral palsy,’ says Sean.

‘And Daddy . . . likes her. He kisses her.’

‘No! Do you?’

Sean shrugs. ‘Oh, you know.’

‘Oh, Sean, that’s wonderful!’ says Rosie, her eyes filling with tears. ‘That’s made me so happy! And she’s good to you, is she? She treats you well?’

‘She’s perfect,’ says Sean. ‘She’s just so . . . easy. Easy to be with, I mean. She’s lovely.’

‘So where’s the boy’s father?’ asks Lola.

Sean shrugs.

‘Don’t you know?’

‘It’s not my business, is it?’

‘Christ on a bike,’ says Lola, polishing off her drink. ‘What’s wrong with men? How can they go through life without
talking
to anyone?’

‘We do talk,’ says Sean, ‘only not about relationships.’

‘What else is there?’ asks Lola.

twenty-seven

Fen sits on the beach at Weston-super-Mare looking out over the water. Connor is standing barefoot beside her, in his pants and T-shirt, meticulously spading sand into his bucket. Fen likes the hot, dry smell. She draws a circle with her finger. She puts a smiley face into the circle and Connor steps back and rubs it out.

‘Hey, you,’ says Fen, pulling the back of his shirt, ‘watch where you’re putting those great feet of yours.’

Connor squeals and sits back down on her lap. She kisses his hair; it smells of the seaside, of sun protection cream, salt and sun and sweat. Fen covers his ears and neck with kisses.

‘You great lovely smelly sandy boy,’ she murmurs into his neck, loving the weight of his bony little buttocks against her thigh. He wriggles. She takes a cotton sunhat from her bag and pulls it down over his head.

‘Can we make a sandcastle, Mum?’

‘The sand’s too dry.’

Connor stares at her.

Fen scoops a handful of sand and lets it trail between her fingers. ‘It won’t stick together, Con, not unless it’s wet.’

Connor sensibly looks towards the sea. It is a long way out. It’s hard to tell how far, but the people who have already set out to find it are just tiny black silhouettes in the distance, like spent matchsticks, fragile as insects against the expanse of glaring sand which is reflecting the sun back to itself like a huge mirror.

‘It’s a long walk . . .’ Fen warns Connor.

‘More than a mile?’

‘A bout ten miles, I’d say. Are you up for that?’

He grins and nods and she pushes herself to her feet, then he puts his hand in hers and they walk down to the sea.

The sand cools and becomes firmer as they walk. A long way to the right and behind them is the silhouetted pier, and beyond that are the donkeys trailing patiently around their circuit. The beach is busy with holidaymakers and day trippers but the further out towards the sea they walk, the fewer people they meet.

It’s just them and the sunlight and the patterns on the sand and seagulls wheeling overhead.

Connor is singing a little tune to himself. Fen looks down at the top of his hat, his narrow shoulders, his long feet, and she is filled up with love, as she always is with Connor.

She dusts off her memories of his father in the rhythm of her footsteps as she and her son cross this massive expanse of warm outdoors, a gentle breeze blowing her hair into her eyes.

Connor’s father’s name was Connor. It was almost all she knew of him and the only thing of his that she could give to his son. Fen and he weren’t together for long, just a few hours, but they were a good few hours. It was the second night of the festival, Saturday. It was wet. She had become separated from her friends and he took her back to his tent. She was intensely exhausted, but chemically high and as bright as the lights in the sky. The inside of his tiny tent was damp, the nylon dripping condensation, but it was cosy, cave-like; he had made a nest of blankets and sleeping bags. There was just enough room for the two of them and everything smelled of wood-smoke, damp fabric and rain. They were both cold. They huddled together with their clothes on in the not-quite-perfect darkness, listening to the rain on the oversheet and the footsteps and voices of passers-by beyond, people humming snatches of songs.