Page 26 of The First Time I Saw You
After I have cleaned, I make my way upstairs. The stairs still creak in the same places; I picture myself and Helen trying to avoid the loud ones, so we could sneak into the kitchen for snacks: the memories are vivid and comforting. I open the airing cupboard, and the dusty smell of the old towels that are still stacked there reminds me of how long this house has been closed and empty. I flick the switches and the central heating bangs and clanks into action.
Mine and Helen’s bedroom is bare apart from the old wardrobes and beds. The window is curtainless, but the old net lace, yellowed by age and sun, flutters at the sides of the window where the elements battle to clamber through the gaps. The sun breaks through the clouds and bubble-gum-pink light stretches and pops against the back wall where blotches of old wallpaper leave silhouettes of the many pieces of paper that made our word-wall. I smile and take a deep breath as I leave the room and face Mum’s bedroom door. My hand turns the porcelain doorknob, and as I step inside . . . I swear it smells of her.
Week Eight
Samuel
‘Don’t try to move.’ I hear Sarah’s voice. My body feels hot and heavy; the inside of my eyelids scratch as I force them open. The room feels small; I feel too big. ‘Take your time. You’ve been asleep for a while, Sam . . . you’ve had an accident. You’re in the hospital. You might feel a little groggy, you’re on morphine for the pain.’
I try to reply but I’m pulled back under.
Week Nine
Sophie
I smooth down the white duvet and smile. I chose this bed with a purpose; a new beginning. It’s different from anything I owned in the house in London: it is not practically making use of every inch of space and it doesn’t boast an oversized headboard or a television at its foot. Instead, I have chosen something a little more . . . more. The frame is brass, not something I would normally choose. I love the way the pattern curls and twists itself – no beginning and no end – just an endless journey. I run my hand over the cold spheres of the knobs and let my fingers trace the loops and dives of the headboard.
The window is ajar. April exhales in a long, cool breath, the sea air setting a course towards summer. White lace billows inwards, swollen, like the sails of a ship, towards the heavy white curtains which try to anchor it. I know the idea of having everything white may sound alien to some people. But there are so many different types of white, and I love how they sit together: the fresh, almost milky tone of the painted bureau against the harsh, electric white of the mirror-frame. The floorboards I have kept bare, just as Mum had originally had them, before He had complained that the floor had been too cold and covered them with a hideous blue patterned carpet. There are thick white rugs either side of the bed and almond-white French vintage-style bedside tables, with bowed legs and a deliberately weathered look. Each piece of furniture I have chosen carefully, filling this room with things that I love, that I enjoy, that make this my room. Looking over at Mum’s old brass carriage clock, sitting on the bookcase, I realise I need to get going. I allow myself another moment to enjoy being in this room; this room that I have been so afraid of for so long.
‘So, as you’re quite late seeing a doctor, we may as well make this your booking appointment.’ Doctor Flint’s eyes crinkle at the corners as he looks at me over his wire-framed glasses. He had glasses like that when I was younger – are they the same pair? I have been in here for about twenty minutes talking about my family history and about the foods I can and can’t eat.
‘Let’s find out your due date, shall we?’ He picks up a cardboard circle and begins to turn part of it around. ‘What was the date of the first day of your last period?’
‘Oh, um, the sixth of February.’ He turns the disk around and then smiles at me over his glasses again.
‘So, your little bundle of joy—’
‘Bean.’
‘Bean, is it?’ he chuckles.
I nod, feeling curiously proud.
‘Right then, well “Bean” is due on the thirteenth of November.’
I’ll have a baby before Christmas. This thought scratches my mood. It runs its nail around my fragile bubble of contentment, pushing it slightly so it starts to drift from my grasp. I’m going to have a baby: a real-life baby. I think of last Christmas, which I spent on my own. I’d eaten a supermarket turkey and stuffing sandwich and had spent the day researching the profiles of some of Greenlight’s employees – seeing which staff we would want to keep, and which ones would be dead wood. It hadn’t been a sombre day: I didn’t feel left out or sad; I just had work to do and that was that. Helen had invited me over, of course, but I’d declined; I didn’t want to waste valuable time travelling over the festive period.
‘Sophie?’ I look down and notice that my hands are twisting the bottom of my scarlet top around like a bobbin. The memory is vivid: I can see the slight smudge of mascara under Mum’s eyes as we sang ‘Wind the Bobbin Up’; I can smell her perfume – floral and powdery – and her smile, as we ‘clap, clap, clapped’. ‘Sophie?’
I’m crying. Again.
‘I’m sorry, that’s wonderful news, I just . . . miss my mum. And, I miss my life, and I miss my job, and I miss Samuel, and, and . . .’ I start sobbing: pathetic, noisy, uncontrollable sobs. ‘And, and . . . I miss wine!’ I take the tissue that he is offering and blow my nose noisily.
‘Anything else, Sophie?’
‘Yes . . . Stilton.’ I smile a little at this and then start laughing.
‘Mood swings are perfectly normal,’ he says sympathetically.
‘This . . .’ I swish my sodden tissue around, ‘. . . is normal?’
He smiles kindly. ‘I’ll book you in for your twelve-week scan and then I’ll see you for your next check-up in around six weeks’ time. But if you have any other concerns in the meantime, please feel free to make an appointment.’
As my car bumps towards the cottage, I imagine Bean looking around in confusion as its home, a bubble of liquid pink, is rattled up and down. What does it sound like inside there? Can Bean hear the engine? Are the sounds of the radio sea-like echoes of the outside world, softening into whale-song tones?
I pull up outside the cottage and take the key from the ignition. There is warmth in the sun on my skin as I step out of the car, slamming the door with a thud. My steps are swallowed by the moisture in the ground; the grass reaching and clinging to the heel of my brown boot, wrapping itself around it. The ‘For Sale’ sign next door has been taken down, I notice, as I bend down to untangle the grass from my heel. The sudden bang of a door rips its way into the soft sounds of my garden, tearing away my solace and filling me with a sense of violation. I look up to see who or what has encroached on my privacy. Through the door walks a man. A man that I know but who doesn’t belong here.
Week Nine
