Page 46 of The First Time I Saw You
How much longer can I deny the fact that this baby has a living, breathing father who doesn’t know anything about it?
He has a right to know.
I push this thought away as the passengers from Helen’s train pour out of the station, the flood of people slowing to a trickle until I spot her at the back.
‘Hi!’ I say over-enthusiastically, kissing her cheek and ignoring the pallor of her skin and the way she is avoiding my eyes. ‘How was the journey?’
‘Hot, stuffy and full of drunk rugby players.’
‘Oh, the usual, then? We’re just here.’ I point to the car.
We make small talk through the journey to the cottage, the conversation dropping off as we approach the gate. I turn off the ignition as Charlie steps out of his door, gives an abrupt wave and then disappears back inside.
‘So that’s Charlie, I take it?’ Helen questions as she follows me towards the door.
‘Yep. He’s, um, he’s one of a kind.’ I turn the key in the door and step inside. I turn to Helen, who I can see is on the verge of tears, her feet rooted to the spot.
‘It’s just a house, Helen.’ I try to repeat Mum’s words as I take her hand in mine. She gives me a tight smile and steps in.
I lead her into the kitchen and her face changes.
‘Oh Sophie . . . it’s beautiful.’ Her fingers run along the work surfaces. ‘It feels so different.’ I smile as I pour us drinks and lead her into the lounge. ‘Is that her chair?’ she asks, striding towards it.
‘Yes, I’ve had it re-upholstered. Do you like it?’
She nods, a tear rolling down her cheek. ‘She would have loved it.’
‘Are you . . . are you ready to go outside?’ I ask. Her chest expands as she inhales, then smiles. ‘Yes. I think I am.’
‘So you helped her?’
Helen nods as she takes in the tea party table, touching everything in the same way that I had. We sit down on the old rug, my movements to the ground slower than they used to be.
‘It was supposed to be an early birthday surprise because Dad wasn’t going to be back until late. She wanted you to have something special for your birthday. We spent all day making things: marmalade, sandwiches . . . We found the tea set in the old charity shop in town, you know the one she loved? That was weeks before, that’s what gave her the idea. She was so happy that day . . . We made you a birthday cake, nothing fancy, just a Victoria sponge, but we used the last of the sugar.’ Her voice catches in the back of her throat and I put my hand on her leg.
‘Take your time, I’m not going anywhere.’
‘I had asked her if we could make jam tarts . . . “You can’t have anAlice in Wonderlandtea party without jam tarts,” I’d told her.’
‘But you hate jam tarts,’ I interrupt, but her sad smile tells me all I need to know.
‘I remember her opening and closing the cupboards, looking behind the cereal boxes, behind the tins, but we didn’t have enough sugar. She tried to convince me that we could make Rice Krispie cakes instead, but I was adamant that I’d go and get some sugar.
‘I went into town on my red bike, do you remember it? I was at uni then and felt stupid riding a bike with a basket on the front. It was a sunny day, the storm that came that night was nowhere to be seen. I saw your bus go past in town. I waved but you were facing the other way. I was too long in town . . . I went to the craft shop and bought some lace to go around the edges of the “Eat Me, Drink Me” labels. I was thirsty too, so I sat on the beach with a Coke. It was a red can – the full-sugar one – I don’t know why I remember that.’
She looks into the distance for a moment. ‘I finished it all before I cycled home. You must have already been and gone by then, we’d forgotten about your sleepover. By the time I got back . . . she was already—’ Her voice is almost a whisper and I have to lean forward to hear her. ‘She was already dead. And he had gone. I knew he hadn’t left long ago because I could smell him, you know that Old Spice that he used to wear . . . I could smell it.’ My mouth fills with water, the stench of the memory of him almost making me gag. ‘There was flour,’ she chokes on the words, ‘on the floor.’ I reach for her hand but she’s oblivious; lost in the past, in the memories she’s kept hidden away. ‘I cleaned it up, I suppose I was worried it would spoil your surprise. She was so still, Sophie.’
She meets my eyes with hers. I want her to stop talking but want to hear every last thing at the same time. ‘You don’t know how still someone who is deadis. I know that sounds stupid, but she was just sostill. Every living thing moves, doesn’t it? Even just a little bit, flowers, leaves, trees, insects . . . I used to stare at things like that, at the way they moved . . . I’d never really noticed before how all things living move, even if it’s just a fraction of a movement . . . they still move.’ She shakes her head, collecting herself and straightening her shoulders. ‘It was my fault. If I’d been quicker, if he’d had the sugar for his tea, he wouldn’t have lost his temper. That’s what he said in the trial, wasn’t it? There was no sugar for his tea and he “just saw red”. If I had gone straight home, she would still be alive, you would still have a mum. I’m sorry, Sophie. I’m so sorry.’
She begins to cry then. I’ve never seen her cry like this, as though she has collapsed into herself: her spine, her ribcage, her chin, they all seem to shrink and crumble; the pain she has been hiding away manifesting itself and revealing my sister. She is broken.
Anger and hurt surge through me.
‘It wasn’t your fault, Helen.’ I say the words but I know they are sliding off her shoulders, floating away; she’s not even trying to hold on to them. ‘Helen, listen to me.’ I grab hold of her shoulders, trying to pull them back up to where they should be, trying to stop them sinking into her waist. She looks up at me, her eyelids red and swollen. ‘It’s not your fault.Hedid this.Hekilled her, not you, not me . . . Ian killed her. All you did was sit on a beach and drink a can of pop. Are you listening? All you did was drink a can of pop.’
I heave myself up and head into the kitchen, returning with a red can of Coke.
‘Drink it,’ I say, peeling back the ring pull. Her hand is shaking as she reaches for it. Hours of washing up and cleaning a house full of children has aged her skin, but they are still the same hands that held mine while we read stories and ignored the thuds from downstairs, the muffled sobs behind closed doors. The wind blows her dark hair back from her face as she lifts the can to her lips. I watch the gold chain around her neck rise and fall as she swallows it. Her eyes lift to meet mine.
