‘I know, I know, but it hard, y’know. I still want to. I want to so bad, just to not feel it …’ Doris was feeling the weakness.
‘But, Mum, we need you. Me ’n’ Glory ’n’ Minnie ’n’ Princess. We need you more than ever now, to be our mum, coz we’ve lost our dad … our lovely dad …’ And with this, Hope started to well up.
Now it was time for Doris to mum-up. She took Hope in her arms and cradled her, saying, ‘It’ll be OK. I’m doin’ well. I’m doin’ m’best. I’m here, Hope, I’m your mum. Always your mum … and their nanna … No more of that. C’mon now, hush, dry your eyes. Let’s stop this nonsense. There’s a party!’
Glory came to them with slices of the caterpillar cake, and saw her mum and sister crying together, and she knew that Hope had, once again, been the soother, just as she had been for her all those years before. Hope was the glue that would keep this family tight. Thank God for Hope.
‘Cake!’ said Glory.
‘Yes, come on, Mum, let’s dance, let’s bring some of Dad’s beats to this yard …’ said Hope as she held the clapping, happy Minnie aloft. ‘The beat goes on!’
Anna
The next day, after spending the night in a hotel, Anna went to see her doctor in the afternoon. She wanted to go before she saw Julius again. She didn’t want him to dissuade her.
The receptionist told her there were no appointments but that they could possibly fit her in the next morning. Anna decided to turn up there and resolutely sit in the waiting room until he found a slot to see her. They knew Anna well at the swanky practice in Notting Hill; she’d been a pretty regular attendee during this last difficult year and they all liked her very much. She hadn’t behaved like this before, so Nicola, the head receptionist, knew this was serious.
‘Happy New Year,’ and, ‘Would you like a drink, Mrs Lindon-Clarke?’
‘No, thank you. I’m fine.’ Anna wasn’t fine.
‘We’ve got a lovely new coffee machine. Makes macchiatos ’n’ everything. ’S amazing?’
‘No, thanks. Really fine.’ She wasn’t. A short pause, then …
‘Cortados? Piccolos?’ Nicola was tenacious.
‘Er, no, ta.’
‘Hilly whites?’
‘Lillywhites …?’
‘No, sorry, HILLY WHITES!’ Nicola laughed. ‘It’s a flat white, but with peaked froth?’
‘Try to forgive me, but I seriously don’t recognize any of the words you’re using …’ Anna did her polite best to shut Nicola down before she was forced to gouge her eyes out with a car key. Which she was utterly prepared to do, to make the noise stop. She remembered in the nick of time that Nicola was unaware that she, Anna, had just found out, only a few hours ago, that her husband was indeed the phoney she had long suspected, and a lying cunt, so she took a deep breath instead of killing her, and decided to be merciful. ‘Sorry. Just … umm … don’t need anything, thanks. Other than to see Martin. Soon as. Ta.’
‘Yes. I know. We’re on it, Mrs Lindon-Clarke.’
‘Thank you.’ Anna resumed her calm and pretended to read awful magazines again, all the while making sure her presence was felt. Ten minutes later, after some muffled interaction on the internal phone, an appointment miraculously opened up and Nicola directed her into Martin’s room.
Anna apologized profusely for barging in. He was reassuring, as always, and she might have wept when he sat opposite her and pulled his chair closer to genuinely ask her what he could do to help. It took all of her limited resilience not to collapse into his arms sobbing, but that would simply not have done.
‘Oh God, Martin … I … just … He … God … It’s just—’
‘Slow down, Anna. And inhale. And exhale. Great. Breathing helps. Don’t want you to die. Bad for my ol’ reputation.’ He smiled at her, and she instantly appreciated everything she liked about him.
Understanding face
Big clean hands
Tattersall check shirt
Picture of his two small daughters on his desk
Capable calm green corduroy trousers
Softly spoken
Anna could never work out if she felt such a connection with him because he was a fantastic GP, or perhaps he felt sorry for her, or … maybe he was just a tiny bit in love with her …?
As she drew breath to explain, she had a sudden panoramic flashback of everything this kind man had heard and understood and helped her with in the last awful year.
He had tended to her après-birth wounds, both internal and external. He’d carefully monitored the sleeping problems which plagued her for months afterwards. He’d guided her away from the serious sleeping pills she needed initially, towards more organic, herbal remedies, and eventually to camomile tea, which was all she used right now. He’d praised her and warned her in just the right measures. She trusted him. He helped and listened when she cruelly suffered various unexpected bouts of post-natal depression which knocked her for six. How and why would she have to suffer a serious depression to do with having a baby when she had no baby? As if her devastating sadness at the loss of Florence wasn’t enough to bear, for God’s sake. That in itself was a pain so sharp and deep, she wondered on occasion if she might bleed to death from it. Bleed out sorrow blood ’til she was no more, ’til the grief consumed her.
She had told Martin about this horror, and he was marvellous. He reminded her that she HAD to remain strong and fit and alive for when Florence returned, and that it could be any minute. He had that sort of conviction. He was so sure, and she caught his hope.
She heeded him, and it saved her.
He
