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
