Читать книгу You, Me and Other People - Fionnuala Kearney - Страница 13

Emma has a fourteen-year-old son called Harold. Not Harry – Harold. I imagine him to be complete with spots and a pathological hatred of both his name and his divorced parents.

So far, because I generally visit the White House at weekends, when Harold is with his father, Alan, I have avoided meeting him. Last night was an exception to this rule. A Wednesday and dinner at the White House was on, because Alan had taken Harold to the cinema straight after his school tennis match. They would not be back until ten, by which time, having eaten dinner, I would be gone. That was the plan. Like all best-laid plans in my life, it didn’t quite pan out – which is why I’m sitting in St Thomas’s A&E department, nursing a minor head wound. I don’t blame Harold. He and Alan had argued, so he’d come back early. Any child of fourteen who’d walked in to find a stranger mounted on his mother on the white rug would do the same thing. I think his tennis racket came off worse.

‘How are you feeling?’ Meg asks. I haven’t yet explained what happened since calling her on a payphone.

‘Fine, it looks worse than it is.’ I tug on the bandage.

‘Leave it,’ she says, ‘I don’t think the bleeding’s stopped yet.’

I look around. No sign of a doctor with the X-ray results yet.

‘Did she bring you here?’

I nod, slightly.

‘So, where is she? Why did you call me?’

‘She had to go, be with her boy.’

‘She has a son?’

I nod again.

‘How old?’

‘Fourteen. With a hell of a right swing …’

Meg’s face scrunches. She looks me up and down, and frowns in a way that makes her look like her mother. ‘Please tell me he didn’t catch you,’ she whispers.

I remain silent. I feel nauseous, and the antiseptic scent of the surroundings doesn’t help; that clawing taste that lingers at the back of my throat.

‘You already have Mum in therapy and now some poor child will probably need counselling for the rest of his life. You’re disgusting,’ she says, looking far into the distance, ‘absolutely disgusting.’

I would nod again, agree with her, but I’m afraid the motion would make me puke.

‘Mr Hall?’

We both turn to see the doctor who’d spoken to me earlier. I raise my hand, acknowledging my name.

‘Ahh, there you are. Well, the good news is there’s nothing broken, no fractures. You have a mild concussion. You may feel nauseous, even vomit, but if it lasts longer than twenty-four hours, come straight back to us.’ He smiles at Meg. ‘You are?’

‘His daughter,’ she says, her lips curling in distaste.

‘He shouldn’t be alone, just in case he’s sick?’

She nods, pulls me upright and pushes me towards the exit.

‘His clothes?’ The doctor, noting my state of undress, looks back towards the A&E department. I have no shoes or socks on, no shirt; just a large, blood-splattered white bath sheet, presumably Emma’s.

‘Doctor, he doesn’t deserve clothes,’ is her response, as I’m pushed through the swinging door to the car park and the bite of the midnight air.

I awake to the sound of birdsong. Meg is standing above me with a glass of water in her hands.

‘Drink,’ she orders.

I do as I’m told, the cold, limey tap water a relief on my furry tongue. I’m in her room, in the house she shares with two other girls in Clapham. From here, it’s not far to where she studies at Westminster.

‘Why am I here?’ I sit up in her narrow bed. ‘Where did you sleep?’

She points to a couple of duvets on the floor. ‘You fell asleep in the car and we were nearer here than Ben’s. Don’t you remember getting here?’

‘No. Look, I’m sorry, Meg.’ I move to get up, the pain in my head sudden and sharp, like a machete has pierced my skull. I fight the urge to vomit.

‘Stay put. Let’s make sure you keep the water down.’

‘I need to call the office.’ I look for my jacket, my phone.

Meg shrugs. ‘I assume your stuff is still at hers. Besides. I’ve already called Matt and told him you’re not coming in today.’

‘You did?’ I close my eyes and lean back on her thin pillow, the throbbing in my head mirroring the beating of my heart. ‘How?’

‘I called Mum for his number.’

My eyes shoot open and I groan aloud. ‘No, Meg, please tell me you didn’t—’

She raises a palm to silence me. ‘Enough, Dad. I didn’t tell her the truth. See?’ She swings her long hair around at me, looks like an ad image for shampoo, except for the anger flashing in her eyes. ‘See, now you even have me lying to her. Christ, you’re a piece of work.’

‘What did you tell her?’

‘Well, I had to tell her you were hurt. I just lied about the circumstances – told her you’d been mugged.’

A soft smile shapes my lips. ‘Well I was, sort of.’

She tries not to grin, but I can see her fight it. ‘By a jealous fourteen-year-old boy … no, I didn’t tell her that bit.’

‘Thank you, Pumpkin.’ I reach for her hand, hanging loose by her side just inches away from me in the tiny room. She snatches it back.

‘I didn’t do it for you. I did it for her,’ she says simply.

‘I know that. Thank you anyway?’

She nods. ‘Right, if you haven’t barfed in the next few hours, I’m going to try and get to my three o’clock lecture. Do you think you can stay alive for an hour without me?’

‘Sure.’ I straighten up in the bed. The clock on the wall says eleven thirty, which reminds me I should be in work. ‘What did Matt say, by the way?’

Meg smiles. ‘I didn’t lie to Matt, Dad. I told him you’d been bashed over the head by your mistress’s sprog.’

I feel the limited contents of my stomach churn. ‘Oh shit …’

‘Funnily enough,’ Meg laughs as she pulls up a chair to sit at her desk, ‘that’s exactly what he said. Now, sleep. Talk to yourself in your head, whatever, but I have to study.’

‘I’m going.’ I move to get out of the bed.

‘Lie the hell down,’ she shouts at me, and there’s that flash in the eyes again. ‘You have to stay here until tonight. Then I have to drive you home since you have no clothes.’

‘I’m fine.’ I sit stubbornly on the side of the bed, ignoring the hammering in my head.

‘Dad, you’ve used the “f” word. You’re anything but fine, so be a good boy and lie down.’ Her voice softens. ‘Please?’

I do what she says. My head is fuzzy, crowded with imaginary scenes. Beth getting the call from Meg; Emma, unable to call me since my phone was still at hers. Harold, would he be damaged, having attacked his mother’s lover? Did Meg say something last night about Beth being in therapy?

I watch my daughter at her desk, surrounded by books on her chosen subject, criminology. Faces of famous serial killers stare up at her from large hardback tomes. Her room is a weird space – a pink draped bed with fairy lights on the headboard and every free gap crammed full of books on vicious minds. I notice she holds herself so upright, years of her mother teaching her not to slouch. She’s only pretending to read a particularly thick book with small writing, but I can tell she’s not concentrating.

‘Have you seen your mum lately?’

‘Last night, earlier, I was on my way back here when you called,’ she replies, without lifting her eyes from the page.

‘I sent her an email.’ I don’t tell Meg about the return one telling me where to shove my kisses. ‘How is she?’

‘Better than the last time I saw her. She’s getting there.’

I wonder where ‘there’ is. ‘Do you think she’ll ever forgive me?’

Meg seems to ignore the question.

‘Meg?’

She lifts her eyes to mine. ‘Would you?’ she says.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, it’s not the first time, is it, Dad?’

I flinch. My past is obviously now out there for debate by all and sundry, but I find myself unable to answer the question. I try to imagine how I’d feel if the roles had been reversed. Not nice, more stomach-churning, and I wonder why I do what I do. Why I can hurt the people I love, why I assume forgiveness should be their first port of call. My brain nudges images of my parents forward, and I’m reminded how their tutoring meant I was always expected to do the forgiving. I close my eyes …

‘I didn’t think so.’ Meg returns to Ted Bundy, preferring the antics of a serial killer to occupy the space in her head.

Just as I think I couldn’t possibly sink lower in my daughter’s eyes, the expression on her face when she opens the door to my brother Ben’s flat with her spare key tells me otherwise. Emma has got there before us.

‘Darling! I’ve been so worried.’ Emma leaps from the sofa, which is visible from the front door. She sees Meg immediately and I watch her face process the facts, putting two and two together. ‘Your keys …’ She points to my jacket and the rest of the clothes she’s returned, my CK jocks taking pride of place on top of the pile. ‘They were in your pocket. I hope you don’t mind.’

‘Well, it seems you’ll be okay from here.’ Meg turns to leave.

‘Don’t go.’ I grab her jumper.

‘Don’t touch me,’ she hisses.

My fingers immediately release her.

‘It’s good to meet you, Meg.’ Emma tries. ‘I’m sorry it’s under such strange circumstances.’ She raises both her shoulders upwards.

Meg nods in her direction, then bolts.

‘Darling,’ Emma repeats as the door closes. She nuzzles into my neck. ‘I’m so sorry, so very sorry. I don’t know what came over Harold. I left him with Alan, told him to think about his behaviour, told him I expect him to apologize to you.’

I can see both our reflections in the tall windows of the living room. The sliding door to the tiny balcony is open and I can hear the sounds of the busy road below. In the glass, Emma’s tall body almost dwarfs mine as she holds me. I see myself, a forty-three-year-old idiot with a gash in his head.