It had been indescribably gratifying to be understood like that. I yearn for the same sort of wisdom from her today.
‘I’m pregnant, Mum,’ I say.
I look at her to see if she registers this. And I see, from the way her forehead wrinkles, that she does.
‘Remember the boy I told you about?’ I say, and she nods. ‘Well, one thing led to another and . . . I’m pregnant. Anyway, obviously I can’t look after a baby myself. So . . . I’m going to give the baby to Rose.’
I say it fast, perhaps too fast, as it comes out a little wobbly. But I know Mum understands, because her eyes widen.
‘Rose can’t have a baby,’ I explain. ‘She has bad ovaries. Premature Ovarian Ageing, it’s called. And I’m pregnant. So it makes sense that I should give my baby to her. Right?’
‘Why can’t . . . you . . .’
I lower my voice. ‘You know why I can’t keep it, Mum. It would be . . . dangerous.’
Mum still doesn’t speak, but after a minute or two I notice her becoming red in the face. For a second, I think she’s choking. I hand her the cup of water, but she waves it away. She opens her mouth and chokes something out, and though I’m straining to listen, I can’t make it out. ‘What? What did you say, Mum?’
She stares at me very intently, even though she knows I prefer less eye contact, to make sure I’m listening and says, ‘Your baby. Don’t . . . give it . . . to Rose.’
The next afternoon I am reshelving books at the library and thinking about what Mum said.
‘Don’t give my baby to Rose?’ I’d repeated, looking for confirmation.
But Mum just shook her head, which might have meant I was right . . . or wrong. She’d said a few things after that, but nothing that made much sense. It was like she regressed in front of my eyes. As such, I suspect it would be silly to give much credence to what she said.
‘Can I get some help over here?’
I glance up. The man who is speaking – an elderly chap with an extraordinarily large head covered in liver spots – doesn’t bother to get up from the computer where he is stationed.
‘What is the problem?’ I call, from several metres away.
‘My granddaughter set me up with an email address,’ he bellows. ‘But I don’t know how to check if I have any mail!’
I glance around for Gayle or Linda or Trevor . . . even Carmel. They’ve all disappeared. Traitors. The man crosses his hairy, meaty forearms in front of his chest, and glares at me. I wonder if it’s too late to make up an excuse and walk off.
I sigh. ‘What’s your email address?’
‘I don’t know!’ He throws one hairy arm in the air. ‘Something “at” something dot com. Sounds ridiculous to me, quite frankly.’
‘Right. Well . . . we do run introductory computer courses on Tuesday evenings . . .’
‘I play bridge on Tuesday evenings.’
‘Or you can schedule a private lesson? For a time of your choosing.’
‘Perfect,’ he says. ‘I choose now.’
He stares me down. I stare right back. This old guy doesn’t know who he’s dealing with.
‘Fern?’
I turn, sagging in relief. Carmel has turned up at the eleventh hour.
‘Ah, Carmel. This gentleman is having some trouble with his email.’
‘Someone is here to see you,’ Carmel says, her eyes flicking to the entrance of the library. I glance over and see Wally standing there, carrying a large bunch of sunflowers.
My heart skips a beat.
‘Are you going to help with the email or not?’ the old man barks. ‘I don’t have all day!’
Wally lifts his hand in a wave. He is wearing a navy suit. It must be new. I’ve seen him in a charcoal-coloured suit before, which was also very nice, but not as tight in the trousers. His hair is also combed with a side part, which looks very dapper, very old-Hollywood.
‘Fern, you’ve overstayed your shift,’ Carmel says. ‘Why don’t you get going and I’ll help this gentleman with the computer?’
I look at the clock. ‘I haven’t overstayed my shift. I’m closing. And there’s twenty minutes until–’
‘Fern,’ she says firmly. ‘You. Have. Overstayed. Your. Shift.’
Carmel sounds most bizarre, like a kind of serial-killer robot. Her stare is also uncomfortably intense. My instinct is to ask if she’s all right, and also to correct her again as I most certainly haven’t overstayed my shift, but I have grave fears this may send her into some sort of episode. And so, I acquiesce.
‘Oh. Kay,’ I reply. ‘Thank. You. Carmel.’
Wally’s van is in the parking lot and once we reach it, he opens the passenger door for me, a gallant gesture which makes me feel rather good. I climb inside and place the sunflowers beside me on the bench seat. They are wrapped in brown paper with a small water-filled plastic bag tied around the stems to keep them hydrated, which is a rather innovative design. No-one has ever given me flowers before. To be honest, I’ve always felt they were a little indulgent, and I’ve always been fearful that the smell would be cloying. I am surprised to find that, on this occasion, I couldn’t be more pleased with them and, even in the restricted space of the van, the smell is reasonably inoffensive.
‘Thank you for the flowers,’ I say when Wally gets into the driver’s side of the van.
‘You’re welcome,’ Wally says, smiling at a spot over my shoulder. ‘Sunflowers haven’t got a strong scent. In fact, the florist said they were unscented, but I detected a faint odour.’
I conjure an image of Wally in the florist pointing at posies, sniffing each bunch and shaking his head until he declared the sunflowers the perfect bunch. It’s a happy image. It makes me smile.
‘Now, if you’ll allow it, I’d like
