The Whiskerly Sisters (13 page)

“It’s a boy,” he said, flatly. “You’ve got a little brother, Sylvester.”

“And mum?” asked the boy, holding his breath.

“Your mum’s okay, son,” replied his father. “Bit tired that’s all. It’s a big bit of work for a lady, bringing a baby into the world,” and, finally, he smiled down at his son. “Now then,” he continued in a brisk voice, “I’m going to fetch you a glass of squash and then pop in to see your mother. You’re to stay where you are. You can visit tomorrow when she’s feeling a bit better,” and he turned and walked away.

Sly sat down and tried to stop his legs from shaking. Relief washed over him. Everything was going to be okay.

But it wasn’t.

Down’s syndrome is a genetic disease that affects about 1 in every 920 children in the UK. It is characterised by learning disabilities, reduced muscle tone and slightly altered facial features. Whilst it was true that the stigma of being born with a handicap was thankfully beginning to die in the bigger cities, that could not be said of the little backwater village in which Sly grew up.

Instead of the usual chattering cluster of women dropping in and out of the house, running errands and popping on the kettle, Sly’s mother’s return home was marked by silence and a turning away of heads. It was almost as if she had done something wrong. Only her best friend, Jane, came to visit and even she struggled to find something positive to say. The forced cheerfulness of the midwife and, later on, the Health Visitor, drove Sly’s father to the allotment where he dug endless rows of potatoes until, worn out, he finally returned home for supper.

Instead of people cooing with delight at the sight of the beautiful bouncing baby and congratulating its mother, folk bending over the pram found themselves straightening up in something of a hurry upon seeing the flattened, moonlike face and slanted eyes of the little boy looking back at them so innocently. Sometimes there was a bit of a pat on the arm and a muttering of regret, but most people seemed to want to run away from the tiny monster in its padded, four-wheeled cage.

Sly simply couldn’t understand them. He would walk happily beside his mother as she pushed the pram to and from the town, holding its handle in case the brakes should fail while his mother visited the butcher or the baker or the greengrocer. He did not know what to think as he watched their neighbours avoid his mother’s eye or nip around a corner, pretending not to notice them. What on earth was wrong with everybody? Because from the moment his mother had put Alistair in his arms, Sly was enraptured. The tiny fingers, the long, dark lashes, the way his tiny tongue stuck out when he concentrated, even the epicanthal fold at the corner of his eyes fascinated him. He was fiercely proud of his little brother and never tired of helping his mother dress him or feed him, bathe him or change him.

When Ali woke in the night from a bad dream, Sly was always there first, soothing him and rocking him back to sleep. When he took his first, staggering steps, just short of his third birthday, it was to Sly that he reached out his short, fat fingers and it was Sly that caught him just before he fell, lifting him up and tickling him till they both collapsed in a fit of giggles. He never lost patience as Ali slowly developed the motor skills that other children never seemed to even think about. He instinctively understood his brother’s slow, drawling speech and never once complained as he tirelessly constructed tower block after tower block only to watch his brother knock them all over and beg him to build them again.

As Ali grew into a sturdy toddler, the street began to recover from the shock of his birth. Indeed many came to regret their earlier prejudice and began to make allowances for the little family. The sight of the two siblings walking side by side, one trying to curb his long strides; the other struggling to keep up, brought many a tear to the eye. People could not help but smile as they watched Sylvester patiently push his brother up and down the pavement in the little red pedal car his father had bought him; Ali singing tunelessly, in his slightly sibilant voice, the song his brother had taught him, “That’s my brother! Who? Thylvetht! Got a row a forty medals on his chetht. Big chetht! He gets no retht.”

Sylvester still loved his dress design and sometimes found a little spare time to sketch or work with his mother’s cut offs in the evenings after his homework and when he had finally read his brother to sleep. Trips to the coast were even better. He had someone to talk to about boats and to build sandcastles for. Alistair needed him. Perhaps it was the other way round.

When Sly turned eighteen, he unexpectedly turned down a scholarship at the Art College he had long ago planned to attend. It was a place where he could have finally unleashed his creative genius, but Ali was not yet eight and Sly found he simply could not leave his little brother behind in order to head for the big city, a long train journey away. His mother pleaded with him to go; his father begged the lad to fulfil his strange ambition, but Sly was adamant. He was not leaving. He looked around and finally settled for a place at the small Medical College in the next town. His patient handling of his little brother had awakened a new pull inside him and so he decided instead that he would become a nurse.

It has to be said that the itchy, starchy uniforms irritated him greatly during his student years because Sly’s love for soft fabrics, glitter and glamour never left him. Instead, a few years previously, it had chosen a new and exciting way to express itself.

H
aving worked their butts of at Charley's Thursday night step class, several of the girls agreed to meet up in the Whiskerly Room as was their custom. Sly arrived first and was quickly joined by Jax who, after briefly ordering herself a drink from Alex, the bartender, struck up a conversation with him, eager to glean a few more background details about the extraordinarily private man but, although he was pleasant enough, Sly gave little away other than to let her know that he owned a flat by the canal.

Jax was feeling great. She was not quite the little mouse she had been a few months previously and she was losing weight. Several classes a week and a balanced diet were doing wonders, not only for her figure, but more importantly, for her stamina and self-esteem.

Celia arrived next, unusually pale and with surprisingly little to say. Ignoring, the twosome at the bar, she crossed the room and slumped in a chair by the window, seemingly transfixed by the flock wallpaper. Jax brought her a drink, which she accepted without comment, running her finger in fixated circles across the top of the glass. To Jax, the normally outgoing, upbeat Celia looked closed and reflective so she decided to leave her be and re-joined the reticent Sly, secretly hoping that sooner or later someone more lively would turn up.

It turned out to be Bex, flushed and happy, eager to share with Jax the news that her oldest daughter was finally pregnant and that she was about to be a grandmother again. She could barely contain her excitement. Felicity and Michael had been trying for some time to have a baby and, just as they had begun to give up and turn towards science, Felicity had fallen pregnant. The two ladies took their drinks and sat happily with Celia discussing babies until Tiffany joined them and the conversation inevitably turned towards the subject of her current, turbulent relationship.

Izza followed in Tiffany's wake and easily struck up a lively conversation with Sly about the state of the Health Service. The change in the young woman over the last few weeks had been astonishing. The sullen, text-obsessive brat seemed to have vanished into thin air like an overstretched bubble. In her place, there now stood an outgoing, engaging, confident young woman, whose company the older woman actively enjoyed. For her part, Izza relished the companionship offered by her mother's friends and saw them as role models. Rising from the coffin of her dead end relationship, she had not only found herself a new job, she had made sure it came with the promise of a real career. She had cultivated a circle of friends of her own age and sometimes, incredibly, she even went out without her mobile.

Charley and Fresna arrived together. Whilst Charley was still looking slightly strained, there was something different about her – a steely glint in her eye perhaps, her back a tiny bit straighter maybe or possibly just an air of determination. Not one to pass up a golden opportunity, she headed straight for the bar and began to subtly flirt with the only male member of her class, ignoring the love-struck Alex and forcing him to retreat to a corner where he could only watch and wish.

Fresna took her drink and joined the table at which the others sat. Upbeat, relaxed and delighted to hear the news about the baby, she rained down questions upon the excited grandma-in-waiting – when was the baby due, did they know whether it would be a boy or a girl and did Bex have a preference, would it be a home or hospital birth? If Fresna's shoulders sagged a little and she seemed not to be fully concentrating on the answers, no one noticed. Fresna looked happy and appeared to be brimming with her usual self-confidence.

It was half way through the third round that the strangely silent Celia finally opened up and, surprisingly enough, at a prompt from Tiffany.

“Well, don't you have anything to say about that?” Tiffany had challenged her.

“About what?” replied Celia half-heartedly.

“About what?” replied the incredulous Tiffany, “haven't you been listening? He only wants me to move in with him.”

“And will you, do you think?” answered Celia, staring out of the window.

“Der, he's only unattached and loaded, Ceals. What do you think I should do?”

“Do you love him?” asked Celia, turning to face her friend.

“Do I love him? Don't I always? What's wrong with you tonight, babes?” asked Tiffany, reaching forward to touch Celia's arm. “Aren't you going to tell me I'm delusional to believe I'm in love with a man I've only known five weeks? Aren't you going to tell me it's doomed to failure like all my other relationships and I would do better to withdraw from normal society and become a nun? Or that I have more chance of forming a stable relationship with the invisible man?”

“It's your life, Tiff. It's not for me to tell you what to do. What do I know?” replied Celia with a dismissive shrug and turned once more to look out of the window.

As the sea pulls away from the shore before the onslaught of a big wave, the little group of women seemed as one to move away from the slumped figure in front of them. Their posture changed so that they suddenly seemed to rear up in their seats as if mirroring the emerging tsunami. Even the trio at the bar sensed the change and paused mid-conversation. For a few milliseconds, nothing moved as all chatter around the table stopped and several pairs of eyes fastened on the apparition in front of them. It looked like Ceals, it dressed like Ceals and it drank like Ceals, but who the hell was it? The tidal wave hit the shore as the impact of Celia's words crashed into them, pulling them forward in its wake, transforming the familiar and much loved landscape of the woman in front of them. Their normally, loud, opinionated friend wasn't actually admitting the possibility that Tiff could choose for herself, that others might know better than she did, that she might not know it all after all. Was she?

This was way off beam; something was very wrong.

“Beam me up, Scottie,” muttered Fresna under her breath.

“What do you know? Since when did you care about what you knew? Shoots from the hip; let's us have it right between the eyes and takes no prisoners. Where are you at tonight, honey?” asked Tiffany in a stunned voice.

“And since when did you start letting understanding the facts get in the way of a little unsolicited advice?” added the equally astonished Fresna.

“Your way or the highway, Ceals,” remarked Izza, who had picked up her drink and was making her way towards the table.

“Oh my god, the great and wonderful Celia has gone belly up. What's happened? Going soft in your old age? Hit the menopause or something. For Christ's sake Ceals, you're scaring us,” said Tiffany.

“Whatever it is, you can tell us,” encouraged Bex, gently.

“If you can't tell us, then who the hell can you tell Ceals?” asked Charley, now also approaching the table, having decided that whatever was going on across the room was infinitely more interesting than being professionally stonewalled by the gorgeous Sly, who was following in her wake. “We're your friends, you poor cow, for better or worse and besides, right now, we are all you've got,” she concluded.

Celia turned from her reverie and looked into the concerned eyes of her friends and decided they were right. It was time to open up. She began quietly, embarrassed to reveal her mistaken assumption, but gaining in confidence as the faces of her friends echoed her outrage at the cavalier way in which she had been treated at work and, as her tale came to its close, as women do everywhere, her friends began the healing process with her, making her laugh by wading in with a brainstorm of off-the-wall suggestions about what to do with that bastard, Patrick and his arselick of a Management Team. Even Sly added a few madcap ideas of his own, delighting them with his ability to just be present and simply fit in.