Page 93 of The First Time I Saw You
We descend the train, and I lift my bag on to my shoulders. I stumble and apologise my way to the connecting train to Aberystwyth, where Michael demands everyone’s attention until people notice him, give him a wide birth and avoid his gaze.
My stomach churns as the journey continues. I’ve been travelling for what seems like days and the constant movement is making me nauseous. I stare out to where Russell is having his final outburst over the circle of Welsh hills, their summits hidden by the heavy mist and rain that slides down the windows. The man next to me smells of fried onions and something similar to the inside of my gym bag.
‘Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. Due to local flooding, this train will terminate in Mak-hun-hleth, I repeat, this train will terminate in Mak-hun-hleth. Apologies for the inconvenience and have a good day.’
Machynlleth. Where the feck is Machynlleth?
Week Thirty-Five
Sophie
The nursery calms me as the storm starts to retreat, the empty wind replaced with heavy rain, and I sit in the feeding chair which slides rhythmically on its runners. The lemon walls have taken on a creamy tone from the small night-light that hangs above the changing table; it caresses the soft, oatmeal-coloured carpet, while the mobile above the cot hangs motionless, a smiling crescent moon and a cluster of stars dropping their shadows on to the soft blankets below, blankets that are waiting to enfold a sleeping baby.
Sleep has hidden from me and as the sun tries to lift itself up from beneath the metal-grey sky, my stomach tightens. I lift my maternity nightie and watch my skin harden. Time is running out: I’m thirty-five weeks pregnant today and there is nothing I can do to stop the weeks from passing; they hurtle towards me.
I’m scared. I keep thinking of red-faced women screaming from TV shows, their faces contorted in pain; people in the background shouting for clean towels and hot water. I wish Samuel was here. That he could be with me, that he could be like the men in those shows, rubbing my back, wiping my brow with a cool flannel.
Light from my phone screen flashes and Helen’s face grins up at me. The sounds of her kitchen rush into the nursery: the gurgle of water being added into the sink; the sound of the fridge door being closed; the unloading of the dishwasher. Helen always has me on speaker, always multi-tasking, never still.
‘Hi.’ My voice betrays me; it is hurt and defeated and broken.
‘Soph, are you OK? Is it Bean? Has something happened?’
‘No, yes. Oh, it’s nothing really, but I’m scared, Helen. I’m scared of going into labour and I can’t stop thinking about Samuel. It’s stupid, but I keep thinking about silly little things, like how he smiles when he talks about his family in Derry and the chip in his front tooth and . . .’ I sniff and blow my nose again; the moon and the stars on the mobile quiver and swing. ‘Ignore me. It’s just my hormones.’
‘Chip in his front tooth?’ Greg asks from somewhere in the kitchen.
‘Yep,’ I answer. ‘Illegal tackle from the other team.’
‘You’ll find him,’ Helen puts in.
‘And Irish?’
‘Yes, Greg, keep up.’
I can imagine Helen rolling her eyes at me, the way she does when Greg says something stupid.
‘Tall?’
‘Jesus, Greg, what does his height have to do with anything?’
I hear the oven door being opened and I imagine her there with a tea towel in her hands, lifting out a tray of sausages and hash browns; slamming them on to the counter and reaching for her cup of tea while Greg takes a bite out of a sausage, blowing hot steam out of his mouth as he does. I wish I was there right now, with them.
‘Well, the thing is,’ I hear Greg say, ‘there was a tall Irishman with a chipped front tooth here a few months back.’
‘What?’ Helen and I say in unison.
‘Why didn’t you say anything, for God’s sake?’
‘I didn’t want to upset you. He said he was a journalist, he was looking for Helen Yates.’
‘And what did you tell him?’
I think of the way that Helen had rebuilt her life after Ian had been sentenced. The way she had journalists hounding her, asking for interviews, for quotes . . . did she always know he was a killer? One time they had parked outside one of her friends’ houses to take pictures of the killer’s daughter. No wonder Greg didn’t say anything.
‘What do you think I told him? I said I didn’t know a Helen Yates. He was—’
‘Was he hot?’ asks Helen. I’m standing now, walking around the thick carpet, the new smell rippling through freshly laundered bed linen.
