Both of You Read online

  I’m not deluded. As I glance about I see that there are cranky, cross parents squabbling with one another because one of them is fed up of pushing their offspring on the swing, whilst the other has their phone glued to their ear. Some are bickering, others have nothing to say to one another. Family life isn’t a guarantee for happiness. God, I know that. But I also see the families that are the goal. The ones that laugh at the cuteness of their chubby toddler doing something mundane like picking a daisy or petting a dog. The ones that hand over enormous ice creams to grasping pudgy hands and bask in the beam that the child throws out in return. I know it’s a habit I need to kick. This professional voyeurism. It’s unhealthy. I need to get involved, not ceaselessly hover around the edges of life. If I could afford to see a therapist, she’d most likely want to talk about me confronting my fertility issues. I wouldn’t want to talk about the matter. It’s probably a good thing I can’t afford a therapist.

  His hair is thick and black. So black I think he must dye it because I’d put him in his late thirties, early forties and most people that age are fighting grey, right? Fleetingly, I think less of him for it. A man carrying such vanity seems off-putting. Which is a) stupid because this man I’m staring at hasn’t asked me to ogle him and probably doesn’t care at all what I think of his grooming habits and b) it’s deeply hypocritical of me, sexist, because I dye my hair, always have. Since my teens, for fun and fashion. And – for about the past three months – for what I think of as necessity. Holding back the tide. Prematurely (I like to think) some nasty white hairs (not grey – straight to white – I’m that extreme) have suddenly started to sprout around my hairline like mushrooms in a boggy autumnal field.

  But his eyebrows are dark, and the hairs on his legs are dark too so maybe he doesn’t dye it. He has a great jawline, strong, definite. He’s tanned. A lot of London men spend long hours hunched over laptops and it shows. This man looks like he spends a significant amount of time outdoors. This handsome man is only average height, five ten, maybe eleven, but he looks especially strong and purposeful. He’s muscular, he picks up his boys and swings them onto his shoulders with ridiculous ease. Both boys at the same time, like someone performing in a circus! I don’t think he’s trying to draw attention, but he is. He’s compelling. I notice a number of women take furtive sideways glances, even the ones with their own husbands and children. The boys look aged about two and five years old. They both look like their father. Stocky, strong, easy-to-tan golden limbs. They ooze a boyish energy and ferocity. They each have a mop of dark hair, like their daddy, and although I’m not close enough to know for certain I imagine thick long lashes, the sort that can create a breeze when they blink. The only difference between them is that the younger kid looks open and light – he’s quick to smile and laugh – the eldest has a furrowed brow, like his father. He’s serious-looking.

  I’m looking at this very handsome man and whilst appreciating him and enjoying that, I’m also stung by a familiar but always uncomfortable emotion. I feel jealous of his wife. Not that she is anywhere to be seen. He’s playing with his two little boys alone, no doubt giving her an afternoon off. Maybe she’s having a manicure, drinking chardonnay with her girlfriends. I imagine him saying, ‘Go on, darling, you deserve it, you have them all week. It’s my turn.’ I hate his wife. I mean obviously not really; I don’t know his wife.

  But sort of.

  It happens in a flash. A moment that’s over before it’s begun and yet is instantaneously tattooed on my memory in slow-mo, forever. He only looks away for a nanosecond. The eldest boy calls, ‘Look at me, Daddy!’ He is standing on the swing, bending his knees inexpertly to try to create some momentum. The chains of the swing rattle.

  ‘Sit down at once,’ the father instructs. Concern making him sound ferocious, old-fashioned. The boy’s face flickers with worry, he was showing off, doing something adventurous and remarkable, he doesn’t quite understand why he is in trouble. ‘You will fall!’ yells the father for clarity. ‘Do you want to give me a heart attack?’

  Then, as the elder boy follows instructions – slowly, precariously bending his knees, the swing wobbling as he finds a safer seated position – the little one impatiently slips his hand out of his father’s and tries to set off down the slide alone. Instead, he tumbles over the side. He plunges head first towards the tarmac, as though he is diving off a board into a pool. His chunky little body rushing after. Creating momentum, even though the fall is less than two metres. The smack of his baby body hitting the ground shakes my bones.

  Nose, lips, head bleed the most.

  I’m up in a flash. Running towards them. Normally, I’m someone who hesitates but not now. The father is just staring at the kid. Frozen. He hasn’t instinctually bent to tend to him, which is odd. I guess he’s shocked. The child isn’t howling, which would be reassuring, normal. Is he unconscious? My hand tentatively touches his warm little arm and he blinks. He’s not unconscious but stunned. Why isn’t he crying? He looks at me wide-eyed, trusting. I have no idea why the kid thinks he can trust me. I don’t know about children or injuries or what to do. I don’t know anything and yet, he needs me. He’s looking at me as though I’m all he’s got and as his father is frozen, temporarily useless, I am.

  ‘It’s OK. It’s OK. It’s all going to be fine. I’ve got you,’ I murmur as I pull out my phone and call an ambulance.

  I am wearing a vest top with an open shirt over it. I quickly shrug out of the shirt and press the cloth around the gash on his head. I have no first aid training (why the fuck haven’t I got first aid training?!) but instinctually I feel I need to slow the bleeding. The older boy has run to his father’s side now. They both watch me, but stay distant from me and from each other. I haven’t got time to be annoyed or to wonder why. They watch, fearful and I see something in their gaze. They are people who have seen tragedy, who expect the worst. They are terrified.

  As we wait for the ambulance, I continue to murmur soothing things to the father and both boys. I tell them it looks worse than it is (I don’t know this). I promise I’ll stay with them, because the father asks if I will and I can’t refuse him. Fiona looks on, shocked. She’s not used to me taking control, being able. There is a small crowd of onlookers gathered around us, they keep asking if anyone has called for an ambulance, someone puts their jacket over the injured little boy, someone else asks if he wants a drink, yet another person says he can’t eat or drink anything, ‘Just in case.’ Then the crowd starts to move on, parents don’t want their children seeing this, they nod at me and mumble, ‘You seem to have this covered,’ as they melt away. I don’t know whether to move the child. I’m certain you shouldn’t with suspected concussions and yet somehow, he shuffles his head on to my lap. The blood from his wound seeps onto my white broderie anglaise skirt. I gently stroke his arm, hold his hand, his big brown eyes stay latched on mine the entire time.

  ‘What’s your name, angel?’

  ‘He’s Sebastian,’ says the father.

  ‘But we mostly call him Seb,’ adds the brother. ‘I’m Oli,’ he adds as an afterthought.

  ‘Hi, Oli.’ I smile but he doesn’t smile back.

  When the ambulance arrives, I am mistaken for Seb’s mother. I explain I’m not, the paramedics are efficient, kind, empathetic but obviously don’t want to lose any time. ‘Who is coming in the ambulance?’ they ask brusquely. Seb’s fingers tighten around mine. His father notices.

  ‘Can we all come?’ the father asks.

  ‘Not really allowed.’

  ‘Please.’ I guess the paramedic sees the same desperation and fear in the face of the father as I do, as he reluctantly nods.

  I don’t hesitate for a moment. I hop in the ambulance. The doors close on Fiona’s amazed expression.

  ‘I’m Leigh Gillingham.’

  ‘Mark Fletcher.’

  It should feel odd. It doesn’t. I feel protective, useful, needed in that moment in a way I’ve never felt before.

  I disc
over two things about visiting a hospital with a child. The first is that the staff are considerate, efficient, reassuring and knowledgeable. The second is that nonetheless the process is horrifying. Seb is taken away to be X-rayed. Mark is repeatedly questioned about how the accident happened. I guess with children’s injuries, health workers can never be too careful. I reiterate seeing Seb fall from the slide. ‘It was a split second. He just launched himself, fearless.’

  ‘Yes, that’s children for you,’ comments the nurse, not unsympathetically.

  Mark, Oli and I are asked to wait in a small room that is cheerfully decorated, specifically to distract children. Rainbows are painted on the walls. There are plastic toys scattered about and a basket full of books. Oli does not seem interested in any of them. He sits staring after the door where Seb was taken. Forlorn.

  ‘Don’t worry, the doctors know what they are doing. They are taking care of him,’ I say with false brightness. The air conditioning in the room is brutal but I don’t want to put my shirt back on, even though it’s been returned to me, as it’s covered in Seb’s blood.

  ‘What do you think they are doing in there?’ Mark asks me.

  I have no idea, but I realise Mark needs more than that. ‘Stitching him up, X-rays. Like they said. It won’t be long now. Someone will come out and tell you what’s going on.’ Mark nods. I find it bizarre that they both seem to believe me.

  ‘Should I call your wife?’ I’ve already checked out his left hand. It’s just habit. The solid, steady gold band is of course nestled on his ring finger, as I expected. I mean, of course this man is going to be married, he has two kids with him. I just don’t understand why he hasn’t called her already. Does he think she’s going to blame him because he was in charge at the time of the accident? A number of my friends have kids, I’ve seen that some parents do judge one another’s parenting styles. ‘He’s so rough, when he plays with them.’ ‘He can’t put a nappy on to save his life. I mean there are sticky tabs, how hard can it be?’ But I don’t know any parent that wouldn’t want to be called if their child was being X-rayed. Or is it possible this man genuinely is in shock and hasn’t thought that calling his wife is the next logical step?

  He looks at me confused. ‘I don’t have a wife.’

  ‘Oh.’ I see. A weekend dad. He’s divorced. Some part of my brain does a small mental high five with another part of my brain. Low, below my tummy button there is an entire conga dance going on. I mentally berate myself. I shouldn’t be pleased that the man is divorced. It’s sad for the kids, and as he’s wearing the ring, I’m guessing he’s still raw, not exactly back on the market. Yet I can’t help my emotions. I should probably stop looking at his ring. It’s rude.

  ‘She’s dead. She died.’

  ‘Oh.’ I want the ground to swallow me up. I don’t know what to say. I’m not good with death. Who is good with death? Apparently, our ancestors were really chill with laying corpses out in their front rooms, but times change. Eventually I manage to mutter the completely uninspiring response, ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ he shrugs. ‘Well, it’s not, obviously. It’s completely shit. One hundred per cent shit, but it’s not your fault.’

  ‘When?’ I ask.

  ‘Just five months ago.’ That perhaps explains why he behaved as though he was paralysed when Seb fell off the top of the slide. Not simply a matter of a useless father, unsure what to do for the best, although maybe it was that, his wife might have been the practical one. But I think it was horror, fear. Not my boy too. Please, God, no. After you’ve lost someone you never look at the world in the same way again, everything is unsure. You expect the worst. That’s why Mark Fletcher asked a total stranger to come to the hospital with him. He didn’t know how to cope alone with another tragedy.

  ‘How?’ As the question spills out of my mouth, I want to punch myself. It’s none of my business. I just wondered if it was a fall, an accident, something that might have triggered his extreme response.

  ‘Cancer.’ Mark looks away, uncomfortable. I’m an idiot. I’ve overstepped. The intimacy forged in disaster isn’t real, it has no roots. ‘Look, thanks for your help but I’ve taken up a lot of your evening as is. I totally understand you must have somewhere more exciting than A&E where you need to be on a Saturday night.’

  ‘No, not really,’ I admit. He drags his gaze back up to mine. Perhaps pityingly, perhaps relieved.

  At that moment the doctor who took Seb to be X-rayed reappears. He indicates that he wants to talk to Mark alone, that Mark needs to go to Seb now. Mark looks at Oli, clearly wondering what to do for the best, what should Oli hear?

  ‘I could stay, sit here with Oli,’ I offer. He looks doubtful. Of course, he must be worried. How can he trust me?

  ‘I’m sane, safe,’ I add. I rummage in my handbag, although I’m not 100 per cent sure what I’m hoping to find. I’m unlikely to have a certificate endorsing my sanity stashed in there. I pull out my wallet and then retrieve my driver’s licence. I offer it to him. ‘Look – Leigh Gillingham, this is my address. You can hang on to it whilst I hang on to your kid.’ As I hear myself make the offer, I realise I’ve almost certainly convinced him I am nuts, although I was hoping to reassure. I’m needy. He can probably smell it. I like kids. I like him. I want to help. I rummage in my bag and retrieve a business card, it’s a bit creased at the corner and dusty. I should probably buy one of those wallets designed specially to hold my cards but I think business cards might be a thing of the past soon. ‘I’m a management consultant,’ I say. Although when has that ever made anyone trust me more? I fish in my bag once again, this time I pull out a packet of M&S chocolate-covered raisins. ‘Does Oli like raisins?’ I ask. Oli glances at the packet, then at his father, then without waiting for permission, he reaches out and snatches them from me with considerably more keenness than his father is demonstrating. ‘I’m starving,’ he asserts, ripping the packet open with a dexterity that I think is impressive in one so young. I wonder if he has had to do more for himself than other kids. Kids with mothers. He immediately tucks into them.

  The exhausted-looking doctor says firmly, ‘I really need you to come with me, Mr Fletcher.’ Mark’s gaze hurriedly bounces from me to my driver’s licence and my dog-eared business card. He picks them both up. ‘If you are sure.’ He’s already on his feet, following the doctor.

  I grin at Oli. ‘Would you like me to read you a story? There’s a whole basket of books over there that I think anyone is allowed to root through.’

  He shrugs. ‘If you want.’

  ‘Yeah, I want.’ As I read, his head starts to droop with tiredness. He allows it to drop to my shoulder. I carefully put my arm around him.

  ‘Can I climb on your knee?’ he asks.

  I nod, not able to find the words because my heart is singing so loudly.

  4

  Leigh

  I was slow to sex. My mother demanded too much of my time and attention for me to develop a real relationship with a real boy. I was busy trying to fill the space of my father, who had left us when I was nine. Until I was twenty, my romantic life was mostly limited to my imagination, to crushes on popstars, movie stars and other inaccessibles such as my university tutors or gay men. I didn’t keep a diary; I knew my mother had no personal boundaries and would not only feel entitled to read it, but most likely want to discuss the contents of it with me too. I stayed in my head. A vivid and filthy place to be. Depending on my mood, a labyrinth of desire, fear, hope, longing. I plotted elaborate trysts between myself and the current object of desire, I wrote poetry, I deconstructed the lyrics of love songs.

  I had no idea.

  I didn’t have sex until I was twenty-one and then it was with a man whose first words afterwards were, ‘You need to get going because my girlfriend will be home from work in an hour.’ A girlfriend had not featured in my fantasies or his conversation. I was stunned to watch his casualness morph into cruelty in just moments.

  The shock, d
isappointment and shame left me spiralling. My self-esteem plummeted. After that I didn’t really hold an expectation that any man would date me exclusively; even if he claimed he was, I’d be dubious. I expected betrayal and complexity – not a great way to view the world. I’d grown up keeping everything close, not confiding my inner feelings and so didn’t have a gaggle of girlfriends who could have normalised the shitty behaviour of men in their twenties, or a cheering mum who would promise me it would be all right in the end, that there were plenty more fish in the sea. Fish that were, more often than not, caught in their thirties when they’d grown up a bit. I confided some things in Fiona, but she didn’t have much experience either so was unable to offer context or consolation. When I recounted a relationship disaster to Fiona, she would roll her eyes and say, ‘Oh God, and you are so pretty. If men fuck you over there’s no hope for someone as ordinary as me.’ She’d half laugh as she said it, but I always got the feeling she wasn’t entirely joking.

  So, I realised that people played fast and loose with hearts and hymens, that it was best to stay a little secretive, protect yourself. If you had to choose then it was better to hurt than be hurt. Obviously. And the world as I saw it, was one where you had to choose.