Page 49 of The First Time I Saw You
‘Nonsense!’ Helen dismisses me with a wave of her hand. She kisses my cheek and reaches her hand out to Charlie. ‘I’m Helen.’
‘Yes. I know,’ he replies. She frowns at him then shakes her head as he turns to me. ‘You never said it was your birthday.’
‘It’s not a big deal . . . I’m thirty-one, not sweet sixteen or anything.’
‘Obviously.’ He furrows his eyebrows at me.
‘Right, now close your eyes, Sophie!’ Helen commands. ‘Action stations, everyone else! Charlie, if you can wait there and then guide Sophie when I give you the nod.’ The hustle and bustle of the house continues past me and out into the garden.
‘OK!’ Helen yells from outside.
‘Should we go outside?’ I ask Charlie as he remains still.
‘She hasn’t nodded.’
I bite back a smile. ‘I don’t think she meant literally.’
‘Anytime now, Charlie!’ Helen shouts as the girls snigger. ‘And keep your eyes shut!’ she adds.
‘Why are women so complicated? You’re all mad,’ he sighs.
‘We’re all mad here.’I hear Mum’s voice mimic the Cheshire Cat against the sound of her hand as she stroked down the page; I can smell the lemony shampoo she used.
‘Right, hold on to my elbow then.’ Charlie interrupts my memories and I take his arm and we make our way outside, Charlie giving me instructions, one step to the right, left, careful, up the step to the lawn.
‘Read the directions and directly you will be directed in the right direction.’I picture Mum licking her finger as she turned the page.
‘OK . . . you can open your eyes now!’
The old table weaves its magic, the moss campion’s pink flowers cascading out of the teapot and spilling over the rims of the cups. The sun is glinting against the tarnished tines of the forks and reflecting off the small gifts wrapped in shining pink and silver paper which are nestling between the crockery. But next to that is another table. A pink tablecloth, laced at the edges, sits beneath a china tea set; blue and white cups and saucers are balanced next to a sugar bowl filled with brown and white sugar cubes. A three-tiered cake stand holds pastel-coloured macaroons next to a jam jar filled with marmalade, and in the centre of the table is a home-made Victoria sandwich surrounded by jammy tarts. ‘Eat Me, Drink Me’ labels are attached to each item. I drink in the scene in front of me, searching out Helen’s eager eyes with my own.
‘Helen, I—’ She grins and puts a top hat on her head as I make my way towards her, Bean and I wrapping our arms around her and kissing her cheek. She smells of baking and sun.
‘Happy birthday,’ she whispers as she pulls herself away from me and reaches for a jammy tart. She passes one into my hand and knocks her pastry against mine as though we were clinking glasses together, before sitting down on her chair. Her eyelids shut as her teeth sink through the thick strawberry jam, and into the pastry beneath. A dusting of flour gathers at the corner of her mouth, which she wipes away with her thumb; cleaning away the past. She leans back and lifts her face to the sun.
The yellow stripe of a bumble bee bounces in front of me as I sit down, the same shade as the coat I had been wearing the day I met Samuel. I think about the woman who had been sitting outside the café that day, how alone she had felt, and as I reach into the birthday party that my mother had planned, accepting my final gift from her, I realise that I’m not alone any more.
Week Nineteen
Samuel
‘So, what are you doing hanging about with Isabella Jackson, then? Come on, dish the dirt,’ Duncan says under his breath. ‘I saw you two looking very cosy in Costa yesterday.’
‘We’re just friends,’ I answer, shifting myself on the sofa.
‘Yeah right, I remember when you were “just friends” when I was first together with Sarah; your bed springs creaked.’
‘She’s helping me find Sophie,’ I reply, my hand floating around, trying to accept the beer he is passing me. Mam, Sarah and the kids are busy sprinkling E numbers on to fairy cakes in the kitchen.
‘I thought you’d given up on all that? She hung up on you, didn’t she? And she’s not answered any more of your calls. Mate, I’d think that’s a pretty big hint that she’s not interested, you’d be a fool to think anything else. And Isabella is . . .’ I don’t need to see to be able to work out that he is making big boob gestures or a woman’s curvy outline; I can tell by the way his eyebrows are wiggling up and down.
‘I’m not giving up on Sophie. I love her.’
‘That may be so, but perhaps she doesn’t love you. Sorry, mate, I love you like you’re my own brother and sometimes you have to be cruel to be kind. I don’t think she’s the one.’
The next morning, I wake up to hear Isabella’s voice downstairs. I can hear the rise and fall of one of her anecdotes and my father laughing uproariously at the punchline. He’s always loved her. When we broke up, he walked into my room and gave me an earful, telling me that women like that come into your life once and that I should get my spotty arse out of bed and grovel or do something to make her want me back. Mam had taken the ‘plenty more fish in the sea’ approach; I don’t think she ever really approved of Isabella after she’d seen her baby-oiled handprint on my bedroom wall. I close my eyes and listen to them, and it feels like the whole of Ireland is closing in on me. I can feel the houses, pubs, the schools, the whole population crowding around me, not letting me breathe, not letting me escape.
‘Sammy!’ Da’s voice pulls me away. ‘Get your arse down here! Isabella has something to tell you.’
