Page 38 of The First Time I Saw You
Week Fourteen
Samuel
I’ve come to the library for two reasons. Firstly, there is only so much tea a man can drink. God love her, but I think Mam believes if she gives me enough caffeine my sight will be fixed. And two, I need to find Sophie and the WiFi at home has the speed of a snail.
The walls of the tunnel are thinner today; I think the fresh air and being outdoors help to lift the feeling of claustrophobia. I’ve just been to the park with Sarah and Duncan and the kids; Sarah enjoying pushing me around literally rather than metaphorically. I can move around on crutches if it’s for a short time, but for a trip to the park, it’s back to the chair. I’m sitting in a quiet corner, searching for Helen Yates in Shropshire. So far, I’ve got two from LinkedIn, five from the phone book, and a list as long as my arm from people called Helen Yates on Facebook who don’t list their whereabouts.
I look up at the muted TV screen that has the news subtitles running across it. The edges of the screen are hidden in the darkness. My stomach does an involuntary flip. I won’t be able to watch the telly soon, won’t be able to watch films, won’t be able to see technology advancing as special effects change. I stare at the screen for a moment. Some romance writer is buying cakes at a school somewhere; I see a hand passing her a cake, but the owner is hidden from my view. I feel cheated. I won’t be able to see the news soon, and this crap is what I get? I read the words ‘Gina Little auctions off character in latest bestseller’. I turn myself away and roll the wheels outside, so I can begin my phone calls.
‘Hello, is this Helen Yates?’
‘It is,’ replies a Liverpudlian accent.
‘Great, my name is Samuel McLaughlin and I was wondering if you have a sister called Sophie?’
‘I’m sorry, no. I’m an only child,’ is the reply.
‘Ah well, thanks for your time.’
I make fourteen more calls, but the answers lead me nowhere.
‘Mule! Do you want gravy on your chips, Mam says?’
‘Yes, please!’ I reply, hobbling along to the kitchen where the smell of the deep fryer clings to our clothes as much as the food will cling to our arteries. Duncan pulls out a chair for me and I lower myself into the seat. The table is piled as it always has been with condiments; my family are condiment mad. Sarah always has salad cream with her chips, Da has brown sauce on his Sunday roast and Mam will not eat any chicken produce (even Southern-fried) without cranberry sauce. There is always bread and butter on the table – not spread, butter – and most meals are covered with vinegar.
I tap my fingers gently along the table to find the knife and fork and smile at Mam as she puts the plate down in front of me. I’ve been in this brace for eight weeks. I’ve got a check-up next week and I’m hoping that Dr Medium was right and that I’ve only got another four weeks in it. At least then I’ll be able to see where my dinner is.
‘Be careful now,’ she warns, ‘Mr McLaughlin has just made the gravy.’ I look down to see my dinner – pie and chips – but I can’t see the plate at all; it’s too close. I can see the edge of the plate of bread and butter, piled high like the leaning tower of Pisa, and I can see the tomato sauce. This has happened a lot since I’ve been home. Some meals I can negotiate with – chippy is good, my fingers can find the chips easily; sandwiches too are inoffensive – but sit-down meals are another matter. Dinner continues around me: pass the sauce, no more salt Gertie, did you see that weather forecast? It’s going to get hotter next week. All of this continues as I navigate my hands holding the cutlery and guess where they are landing on my plate. Nobody seems to have noticed.
A chip goes down the wrong way and I try to reach for a drink (a glass jar with a straw inserted into the lid, as is the current trend – ‘Why would you want to drink out of a jam jar?’, Mam asked when she came back from the supermarket), knocking it over in the process. She starts fussing, getting up and ripping huge wads of kitchen towel to wipe up the mess as I continue to splutter.
‘Sorry,’ I say, taking a piece of kitchen towel and wiping my mouth.
‘Worse things have happened at sea,’ she replies. The same phrase she has always used.
‘Tell me a bit about this girl you’re trying to find, Sammy,’ Da interjects, and I’m grateful to him for his attempt at ignoring what has just happened. I stall, trying not to think of the small gasps she made, the way her legs wrapped around my naked skin, the taste of her, the—
‘Sammy? You look like you’re in cloud cuckoo land.’ Da’s voice brings me back; I clear my throat and shift, hoping that the beginnings of my erection aren’t on show.
‘Paddle boats,’ I blurt out.
‘Paddle boats?’ Gertie and Will say in unison.
‘Paddle boats . . . I took her out on paddle boats.’ I picture the way she had laughed so hard she had started snorting when I said I had to get off them because I felt so seasick; I can’t help but smile.
‘But you get seasick, Sammy. Remember when we took him on that boat trip, Mr McLaughlin?’ They both start laughing. ‘You’ve never seen a child throw up so much! It was everywhere.’
‘The wind took it and it hit the reverend right in the chops!’ Da punches the air like I’ve just scored a try.
‘I wanted to, you know . . . show her my romantic side.’
‘I never had you down as the romantic type, Sammy,’ Da says thoughtfully, ‘although there was that time you started writing poetry, but I thought we’d sorted that out.’
Ma sits in front of me, right in the centre of my view. She inclines her head and smiles.
‘Ah, Mr McLaughlin . . . our boy is in love.’ Gertie and Will make puking noises.
‘Well, it’s about time, Sammy,’ he answers as Mrs McLaughlin claps her hands excitedly.
