Blink of an Eye

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Carmel

The next couple of party guests only added a little to the picture. Francine Moorhead had talked house-hunting with Naomi. Apparently Naomi was already fantasizing about getting a place with Alex, now that he had a job, and Francine had bought a flat in the Northern Quarter in the city centre. But Francine had left after that conversation, so there was not much point in meeting her. Stella Connor was vague on the phone, struggling to remember Naomi, but finally recalled that they had talked briefly about club nights while getting food from the buffet soon after Naomi arrived.

‘You can’t remember for her,’ Phil said, one day. He thought I was becoming obsessed. ‘It’s futile.’

I didn’t argue. I didn’t want to get him any more stressed. He may have taken my silence for consent, assuming that I agreed with him, but I went on in my own sweet way.

Pip Shiers and I had talked a bit over the buffet. Jonty’s colleague, she was getting used to life outside London but admitted she still missed living there. ‘I’ll give it another couple of years,’ she said, ‘and then decide whether to move back. Depends if I can get any work, of course.’

When I rang Pip, she said she had spent some time with Naomi at Suzanne’s. ‘We got the dancing going,’ she said. ‘Not at all easy on gravel.’

Another nugget of information to tell Naomi – you were dancing. I could just imagine it, her dancing her heart out, arms raised and waving above her head, grinning at everyone. I hadn’t yet sat her down and laid out all the memories I’d been collecting for her.

I asked Pip if she’d meet up with me.

‘Not sure when – I’m up to my eyes with pre-production for Aberdeen.’

‘I could come to you, if that makes it easier?’

‘Great.’

Pip lived in one of the new flats in the developments at Harbour City, where Salford’s docks have been transformed. Her instructions for parking and finding her place were complicated but precise, and we met after she got back from work late one evening.

‘Sorry to drag you all the way out here,’ she greeted me.

‘No problem,’ I said.

‘How is Naomi?’

‘Still in hospital. Should be home in the next couple of weeks, we hope.’

Pip just shook her head. She offered me coffee but I didn’t imagine I’d be there all that long. She had a mesmerising view from her window, over the tramlines to other tower blocks and one of the canal basins. It was beautiful, a clear, still night. Lights reflected on the black water. There was an amazing number of stars visible. When I commented on the view, she said, ‘Yes, though I neglect it terribly. Too busy staring at the television. Comes with the job.’

‘So, you and Naomi started off the dancing?’

‘Yes, she’d got a party mix and she put it on. Jonty had speakers rigged up. I agreed to dance if she did and we got a few people up eventually.’

‘Can you remember any of the music?’ Music was supposed to be good for evoking memories, like smells, acting like a direct line to the part of the brain where they are stored. Maybe I could play Naomi the music?

‘Ooh, a real mix, “Dancing in the Street”, “Simmer Down” and that Smokey Robinson one…’

‘“Tears of a Clown”,’ I suggested.

‘Yes, and “Candyman”. What else? Oh yes – “Jump Around”, “I Got You Babe”…’

I recognized all the tunes she mentioned. ‘Did you talk about anything in particular?’

‘The job market, Alex getting his job. And Naomi told me about her interview. For a teaching assistant?’

‘Yes.’ I stopped writing. If they’d only left five minutes earlier or later, if she had driven just that little bit slower, she might have a job now. Lily Vasey would still be alive. Alex and Naomi might be moving into a place like this.

‘And apps,’ Pip said, ‘for phones: what we’ve got, what we like. She was into Angry Birds.’

Not any more. I suspected she was not allowing herself to do anything that could be considered fun or pleasure.

‘Was she drinking?’

Pip’s face fell, ‘Some,’ she said. ‘White wine.’

My stomach turned over.

‘When was this? Can you remember?’

‘When we were dancing. So sometime between seven and eight? Jonty said you don’t know yet if she was over the limit?’

‘That’s right – they couldn’t breathalyze her and the blood test they do takes a few weeks for them to get the results. Did she seem drunk?’ I was apprehensive about the answer.

‘Bit merry, perhaps. Not pissed, though.’

Sober enough to drive? ‘Did you see them leave?’

‘No. I’d gone to the loo, and on the way back I got talking with Jonty.’

What Pip said echoed Suzanne’s account. They’d left at eight, so Naomi hadn’t had time to process anything she had been drinking. Not pissed, though. Was that enough? Oh God. Please, please, not pissed.

‘I Got You Babe’. I thought about it as I drove home, I’d played it non-stop, the UB40 and Chrissie Hynde version, when Suzanne was tiny. For the next twenty-one years, Phil and I were no longer just a couple, but a family. Then Suzanne left home, followed by Naomi. I’d been anxious about how I might feel, but I didn’t really suffer with empty nest syndrome when Naomi went off to uni. Yes, the house was quieter, there was an absence of interaction, a period of getting used to there only being the two of us, but my relief at her getting into university was the dominant feeling.

All the little chores felt easier too, the shopping and cooking, washing. Naomi, the girls between them, had generated a disproportionate amount of housework. With only Phil and me it was a doddle.

We began to rediscover some of the freedom we’d had before becoming parents. Spontaneity returned. We could decide to go and see a film or have a meal at the last minute, go to bed on Sunday afternoon if we fancied it, book a weekend away without having to worry.

I had more time too. I was still doing my shifts with the emergency duty team and of course I had my regular visits to Mum to fit in. But there was space in my week to take up new interests. I began to learn massage. I’d a vague idea that if social work got too grim, if I became burnt out, which I’d seen happen to many colleagues of mine, it would be useful to have some other skill. Something I could trade where I’d work for myself.

We didn’t get too complacent. Naomi came back at the end of each term and her summer breaks lasted several months. Nevertheless, it was a shock to the system when she and Alex first moved in with us.

They had stayed on in Newcastle for almost a full year after graduating. She had a part-time job in a video rental shop and he was working in a bar. Then the video shop closed and they couldn’t manage their rent any more.

They spoke to both Monica and then us, sounding us out. If they split their time between the houses, would we be happy for them to live with us until they found work? Well, we weren’t going to say no, though I did wonder whether it might be simpler all round to just base themselves in a single place instead of toing and froing all the time.

But once they’d come back, I saw that we would have struggled to accommodate all Alex’s possessions as well as Naomi’s. This way, most of his stuff was at Monica’s and most of Naomi’s at ours. They kept their old postal addresses and we gradually got used to the situation.

Naomi had a TV in her room and they made their own food. There were some niggles: their version of tidying the kitchen after having a meal was a long way from mine. Our fuel bills leapt up; they were in much more of the daytime and there were all the extra showers and loads of washing. But we rubbed along all right and we didn’t think it would be for ever.

Now for the first time I wondered whether Naomi would ever be able to build an independent life. If she did go to prison, securing work afterwards would be even harder. It was still unclear whether she’d have any long-term health issues as a result of her injuries. The biggest risk was infections; without a spleen, her immune system was compromised, and being in prison was a terrible place to be on that score.

I tried not to dwell on it, not to worry when it was all uncertain and unknown, but it was hard.

Naomi

Monica brings Alex to the hospital. She came in with him the first time, after he’d been discharged and was visiting. She was friendly and everything but sort of professional – I bet she’s like that when she’s dealing with her passengers. No real connection. Not that we ever did have much of one, anyway. She used to try and pass clothes on to me. I know she was being kind because Alex and I were really skint and Monica’s my size. But I like boho stuff, or skate/surf-type clothes. There are little stalls in town where you can get recycled clothes and I like some of those. She wears completely different things, smart and tailored. At first I just used to thank her and put the things in my drawers, but then one time, when she had a roll-neck mustard sweater and a tweed pencil skirt, I said, ‘Aw, thanks, but I’m not sure they’re really me. I could take them to the charity shop unless there’s anyone else you know who would like them.’ I was blushing like mad; I really didn’t want to upset her, but I had to find a way to stop her doing it. Because sooner or later she’d see I wasn’t wearing any of it.

‘If you really don’t want them…’ she said.

My cheeks were on fire. ‘No, sorry, thanks, but…’ I said in a rush.

‘I’ve a friend might like them,’ she said. And she smiled.

We left it at that. It felt awkward but I think it was better than never saying anything.

Alex is her only child and there’s probably no woman out there who’s good enough for him. But I bet she’d rather he found some clever lady lawyer to date instead of the no-hoper who totalled her son’s car, broke his bones and killed a little kid.

It’s getting so I dread his visits, because it’s like this massive reminder of the mess I am in, the terrible thing I’ve done, the thing we can’t talk about because what is there to say? And so we talk about stuff that means nothing. Each time he goes, there are angry red arcs on my palms where I’ve dug my nails in.

How long will it take for him to come to his senses, to go off me? To realize that I can’t be cheered up? That I’m hard work and could get harder? That I might be left with health problems as well as a criminal record? He won’t dump me, you see – he’s loyal. He feels sorry for me, he wants to show he forgives me for the accident, for the nightmare I set in motion. But I don’t want any of that. I haven’t earned it. I don’t want him visiting me in prison.

And if he won’t leave me, then I’ll have to leave him.

He’s talking about our friends Becky and Steve, who are planning a wedding and can’t agree on a venue. I cut across him, interrupt, no preamble or anything, straight to the bone. ‘I don’t think we should carry on.’

He’s confused, a half-smile flickering around his lips, and I put him straight, stop him trying to find a way to reinterpret my statement: ‘We should stop seeing each other.’

His eyes cloud over and for a second his mouth hangs open. He never expected this. My heart goes out to him and I’m close to back-pedalling. I love him so. Maybe there is a way to work it out?

My toes are curled rigid under the sheet, my spine set. I must not cry; no weakness or he might talk me round. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say quietly, ‘I can’t go on any more.’

Something flickers through his eyes; it takes me a moment to work it out, but it’s relief. He’s glad! Deep down he wants this. I’m letting him off the hook and he can taste the sweet release of it. The freedom, the fresh start. As quickly as it came, the hint of relief vanishes and his eyes glitter. ‘Why?’ he says, his voice wobbling.

‘Everything that’s happened… it’s never going to be the same now and it’s no good like this.’ I plaster my tongue hard against the roof of my mouth to stop any tears arriving.

Alex wipes his face with his hand, gives a sigh. He doesn’t know what to say. Not that he needs to say anything. He just needs to go.

‘Please,’ he begs. The blood has drained from his face and he looks frightened. ‘Don’t.’

I sniff hard. I feel lousy, I’m shaking and I can’t get it under control. ‘It’s what I want. I don’t want to be with you any more. I’m sorry.’ The sentiment is brutal and he whips his head away, his throat tensing, his hands balled. I pray he won’t argue, or declare his love or propose marriage or make any other attempt to save the relationship.

Memories we shared, moments of connection, my love for him hover on the sidelines, just out of view, and I keep them at bay. Trapped behind the fences in my heart.

He swallows and gets up. I can’t watch. I listen to his footsteps on the hard floor, to the sigh and thud of the ward door as he leaves.

When I am sure he’s gone, I let go. Pulling the sheet over my head and weeping silently so no one will say anything. Already I ache for him, for the time we had and for the future we won’t share. But I have only myself to blame.