Page 91 of The First Time I Saw You
‘Your sister is coming tomorrow, isn’t she?’ I nodded and he placed a bowl of grated Parmesan and some garlic ciabatta on the table. ‘Good. And do you promise not to climb any ladders or do any kind of decorating while I’m gone?’
‘Promise,’ I replied through a mouthful of pasta, but I couldn’t ignore the worries that were chasing his decision, snapping at his heels, asking why is he going? What is he going to do there? Is he planning to come back?
‘Why are you going to London, Charlie?’
‘I’ve got to visit my mum. Alzheimer’s.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘It’s OK.’ He sits down. ‘It’s a good home and Mum thinks she’s in her early twenties most of the time. They think it’s a chest infection, so she might have to go into hospital.’
I swallowed down the pasta, praying that she’ll be OK, and that Charlie doesn’t have anything else to cope with.
I flick on the lights, hang up my keys and run my fingers through my hair.
Receipts from the folder look at me reproachfully and I yawn in response. Tiredness pulls beneath my eyelids and I long for a hot bath and, for the first time in a while, a glass of wine. But the pile frowns and wags its finger, so instead I pour a glass of Diet Coke, flick the TV on and begin to plough through the paper-clipped piles of invoices and room service orders from my newest client. My head shakes at the scribbled-down room reservations, my eyebrows meeting my hairline when my fingers pull out a load of pink carbon-copied receipts. Carbon copies? I didn’t even know they still existed. I have a very vague recollection of a strange hand-held machine that you made a backwards and forwards motion with, which copied your card details, but I can’t quite believe that this B&B is still using it. I’m going to have to bring them into the right decade if I’m going to be their accountant; this is going to take too much of my time. The TV shouts for my attention: an eighties comedy about a blind man and his deaf friend. I laugh, then sigh as I look at the pile of paper on my table. I push it to one side, grab a packet of popcorn from the cupboard and head into the soft lights of the lounge. A scrape of a lighter, the flicker of a flame and the scented candle releases its vanilla and jasmine into the room as I sink into the sofa. Bean sleeps and I pull the soft fleece throw over us and spend the evening laughing at an eighties double bill before falling asleep.
Week Thirty-Four
Samuel
Sophie’s mobile number rings inside my head, the numbers repeating themselves over and over like a jingle for an advert, but I can’t call her. The things that need to be said can’t be spoken into a microphone, my voice and meaning dampened by the distance across the Irish Sea. I need to tell her these things face-to-face; she needs to see me in all my incapacitated glory before she can make a decision. She needs to meet Michael. Just a few more days and I will be with her; once I’ve had my guide dog appointment I can go. I would have cancelled it, in fact I tried to, but Mam wouldn’t hear of it. I’ve already been on the waiting list for weeks and to cancel would have jeopardised my chances even further. I’m going to be a father, and I need all the help I can get to be able to cope with that and my diminished sight.
‘A golden key can open any door,’ Mam told me knowingly.
‘What the feck is that supposed to mean?’ I asked, throwing my hands in the air.
‘Watch your mouth, Samuel!’ She clipped me around the back of the head, the same way as she did when I was five. ‘It means if you’re going to convince Sophie that you can be a father, that you are still the man she fell in love with – even if you’re as blind as a bat – then you’re going to need a golden key. And for you, it comes in the form of a guide dog.’
I don’t have to wait any longer. I’ve smashed the guide dog appointment – the dogs agree that I’m blind – so I’m going to Wales today.
‘Jesus! And I thought your room was bad enough when you were a teenager.’ Sarah walks past me; her familiar perfume is stronger today and her hair smells freshly washed.
‘Can you see my phone charger? I can’t find the bastard anywhere.’
‘The sooner you get out of here, the better. You’re starting to sound like Da. Here.’ She takes my hand and puts the charger inside it. ‘Why didn’t you ask Mam to help?’
‘Are you serious? She’d have me packing for a fortnight in the Alps followed by a trip to the desert, you know what she’s like.’
My hand follows the edges of my backpack and I throw the charger inside.
‘Have you rung the airport yet? The news says some flights might be delayed because of the storm.’
‘I’ll ring in a bit; can you see my green V-neck?’ I pick up my washbag, feel its contents for deodorant, toothpaste and a toothbrush, and throw it in. I can still see glimpses of these things but I’m starting to rely on my other senses; it’s quicker than trying to get myself into the right position to see.
‘It’s already in your case. Look, you ring the airport and I’ll help you sort out this mess. You might be able to find the right clothes, but you couldn’t fold things properly even when you could see.’
Sarah puts my phone on speaker and I ask for Belfast airport and the dialling tone connects.
‘Hello, I’m just checking on my flight, it’s the seventeen thirty-five to Cardiff?’
‘I’m sorry, sir, all flights are currently grounded due to the high winds.’
‘For how long?’
‘We expect things to return to normal by tomorrow, but you should prepare for long delays. I’m sorry.’
‘What about flights to England?’
