The Day Of Second Chances (6 page)

‘I didn't put her through anything. Mum and I always really got along. And I was always a good girl, maybe too good. I liked pleasing people. Of course my mum had multiple sclerosis, and she was unwell a lot of the time, so I had to grow up fast.' Jo propped her chin on her hand, leaning on the table. ‘I think I was more like Lydia's friend Avril. She's always cheerful, always has a polite word for everyone.'

‘Isn't she the one whose mother—'

Jo nodded. ‘It hasn't affected her, though. She's a lovely girl. I wish Lyddie would take a leaf out of her book. Lyddie's so negative. Sometimes it seems that there's no trace of that sweet little girl any more.'

‘She's still in there.'

‘I remember exactly when it happened. It was age eleven, actually. All the girls at her school were going crazy for these woven bracelet things they were making for each other. So I bought her some materials, which was fine, but then I made the mistake of looking some patterns up on the internet. I made her a bracelet after she'd gone to bed. It turned out quite well. The next morning, when I gave it to her, she was
horrified
.'

‘You were trying too hard to be cool?'

‘I thought I was just making her a bracelet. We used to do all those things together, before. When it was just the two of us.' She sighed. ‘That's another thing she's had to cope with – a stepfather, and our divorce, and other children taking up my time.'

‘You've raised her right,' said Sara. ‘She's bound to become a human being sooner or later.'

‘I hope so. She wouldn't even say goodbye this morning on the way to school. It's as if she has a whole world inside her that she can't bear to share with me.' Jo felt again the small stab of hurt at seeing her first-born daughter slam out of the house, head down, mouth pressed shut. ‘Or she's angry with me about something.'

‘What could she possibly have to be angry with you about? You're a great mum. You'd never do anything to upset your children.'

Jo felt a pang of guilt. She'd never told Sara about her visits to Adam, nor how furious Lydia would be if she knew about them.

‘On the other hand,' she said quickly, ‘Oscar and Iris were fed and happy and put down to bed safely last night, so she was serious about looking after them.'

‘She's a good kid underneath.'

Jo raised her mug to her mouth. The things our friends tell us because of loyalty; the things that they don't even allow out into conversation. Sara would never consider saying that Lydia was turning into a stroppy little cow, no more than Jo would confirm aloud that Sara actually had put on an extra half a stone since she'd stopped breastfeeding. Female friendship required building each other up, denying each other's faults, unhesitatingly taking each other's side, listening to problems and saying that they were really not that bad. Not digging too deeply for secrets that wanted to stay hidden.

Friendship was a small miracle, something Jo appreciated even more these days. Her friends in the centre of town, the other young mums she'd got to know during her first marriage when Lydia was a little girl, had all melted away after Stephen's death. She could understand it; they'd felt awkward, with their happy marriages and their living husbands. Jo was a widow, a tragic person, a reminder of all the things that could go wrong, all the things that could destroy your happiness in a split second. And of course, as a single mother trying to hold down a job, she'd not had much time for a social life.

Then she'd married Richard and moved out to the suburbs, where it was harder to talk with people, and she was busy having babies. Living in a beautiful house that felt like an island, her husband becoming more and more distant, until he left.

She'd only known Sara for just over a year. They'd met in the park one day, a sunny spring mid-morning when the playpark was full of toddlers and preschoolers. Oscar was climbing up the slide and sliding down, again and again, letting out a whoop of joy each time. Jo was sitting on a bench at the side and six-month-old Iris was nestled in her arms, fast asleep in the sunshine. Spring had always been difficult for her, since Stephen, but it was a perfect day.

Jo had gazed at her beautiful boy, so active and happy, and then down at her precious girl, asleep and rosy-cheeked and trusting. She listened to the shouts of children playing and to her horror, felt tears gather in her eyes.

She couldn't cry in the park. Everyone would see her. They would talk about her.
That's the woman whose husband ran off with the twenty-one-year-old au pair. Yes, apparently they were carrying on the entire time right under her nose. They live in one of those big new builds, so there was plenty of room for them to do it in. And her first husband, he was that man – you remember, don't you remember how he died?

The tears had poured out of her, endless, refusing to wait until night-time when it was safe to cry, after the children had gone to sleep. Jo tried to blot them with Iris's blanket, but it was difficult to do without waking the baby. And she didn't want to wake the baby. A baby shouldn't spend the first months of her life surrounded by sadness and anger.

A tear fell on Iris's face and Jo wiped it off, as gently as she could with her shaking hands. She bowed her head and felt a bead of mucus hovering at the tip of her nose. She swiped at it with her hand, but it kept on coming, more and more of it like the tears. She had tissues in her bag, but she couldn't reach them without disturbing Iris. Annoyance poked at her despair and anger. Why didn't anyone say something to her? If she saw someone crying in the park, anyone, she'd go up to them and offer them a tissue at least. She'd ask if they were all right.

But no one came. It was the same as after Stephen's death, when the phone stopped ringing.

It was a confirmation that from now on, Jo was on her own. Everything was down to her, only to her. The thought made her cry even harder.

‘Whoever he is, he's a bastard,' said a voice in front of her. Jo had wiped her nose, though it was useless, and looked up to see a woman standing with a baby on her hip. Her curly hair was like a black halo around her head. ‘Or is it post-natal depression? I had that with my first one, it sucks.'

‘Do you – don't you know?'

Sara peered at her. ‘No. Should I? Are you famous or something? Here, have a tissue.'

Jo took it gratefully. ‘I thought everyone would be talking about me.'

‘Mate, haven't you noticed? Everyone in this park is too busy taking selfies with darling Hugo or Eugenie to spare a glance for anyone else. Rich people, they drive me crazy. People are much nicer over at Palmer Park. Last time I had a crying fit over there a nice little old lady came over and offered me some homemade curry in a plastic container. I only come to this park for the sandpit. You want a wet wipe?'

Now, a year later, months of coffee and confidences behind them, Jo said, ‘I don't mean to be negative. I think it's seeing Honor like that. I thought she was a force of nature, Sara. I thought nothing could ever happen to her.'

‘Well, I only met her that one time, and she was terrifying. How old is she?'

‘In her mid-seventies, at least. And she looked every year of it in that hospital bed. She didn't wake up once.'

‘It's going to happen to all of us eventually, no matter how scary we are.'

‘She's a very intelligent woman,' said Jo. ‘She raised Stephen all by herself, you know, while she was working as a university lecturer, and this was in the seventies and eighties. She's very admirable. She's just … outspoken. And she likes having her own way.'

Sara shook her head. ‘It's amazing about you, Jo. You never say anything bad about anyone.'

‘Well, there's nothing bad to say. We've had our difficult moments in the past, but I feel sorry for Honor. She's so alone. Imagine putting me down as next of kin. It just shows how few people she has to help her.'

‘She has money though, right? Wasn't she some sort of doctor?'

‘Not a medical doctor; she's got a PhD. She's an academic.'

‘So she should be able to afford to get someone in. She's probably saved up for something like this.'

‘I don't know. Academics aren't rich. I think she's living on her pension. I don't like to ask, of course. I'd offer to hire a nurse for her, but …' Jo trailed off. Sara knew her financial situation already: how she was more or less completely dependent on her ex-husband for support while the children were small. ‘It's not the sort of thing I can ask Richard to do.'

‘Well, the local authority will get someone for her, to help her out.'

‘The house is completely impractical, though. The kitchen's in the basement. That wouldn't be such a problem if she had someone bringing her meals, but even if she put a bed in her lounge, the ground floor doesn't have a bathroom. You have to go downstairs to the little toilet off the kitchen, or upstairs to the proper bathroom on the first floor.'

‘Time to install a stairlift?'

‘I don't think Honor would hear of that; they're so ugly and slow. And anyway, the entire house is up a flight of stairs from the road. If she stays there, even if she can get around inside, she'd be housebound most of the time. I think it would drive her crazy. She rides her bicycle everywhere normally. At her age. – can you imagine?'

‘So, what you do then, is find a big, burly hunk of a carer who can look after her and carry her in his lovely muscular arms down the stairs and then push her in a wheelchair around the park every morning. Honor can have her fresh air, and a hot man to look at. Simples.'

Jo laughed. ‘And where should we find this hunky male carer? Hunky Male Carers R Us?'

‘There must be some somewhere. There are millions of little old ladies who would welcome a scheme like this. In fact, I'm tempted to break my leg myself.'

‘The thing is, Honor is so independent. She's always done everything for herself. I can't see her being happy about being looked after by strangers.'

‘Well, nobody's a stranger once you've—'

‘Mummy! Billy took my car!'

‘There it goes,' said Sara, getting up from her chair. ‘I'll sort it.'

While she squatted down between the boys and tried the delicate art of convincing preschoolers to share, Jo wiped down the table, rinsed out her mug, and put the kettle on again.

The house in Stoke Newington, crowded with books and memories, was far too big for Honor on her own. In Jo's mind, it was difficult to separate Honor from her house. They were both tall and thin, crammed with knowledge and obscure references to a religion Jo didn't know much about; they shared a scent of paper and old wool. Whereas Jo didn't think that this big airy house here in suburban Woodley reflected her at all. A house that reflected Jo would be crooked, full of cushions and textiles, pretty teacups and an antique dresser in the kitchen, painted floorboards and pastel walls. Roaring fireplace, worn leather sofas, windows of old glass that distorted the view outside and made it magical.

This house was too new, a cube of brick with faux white pillars in the front. Inside, the angles were all perfect, the windows draught-proof. Richard had insisted on choosing most of the furniture, and though it was tasteful and comfortable, it was too modern. When they'd moved in, Jo had tried displaying her collection of flowery teacups on an open shelf in the kitchen, but they didn't look right amongst all the stainless steel and granite. She'd put them back in their tissue wrappers, meaning to find another place for them, but then she'd had Oscar and she was too busy, and then Iris, and then it wasn't wise to have teacups around when you had two toddlers. The cups were at the back of a cabinet, in a box.

Jo had lived here for nearly four years, since Richard had bought the house and they'd married, and aside from the clutter, she'd left hardly any trace on it. She'd meant to paint the walls, hang pictures, but the walls were still their original white – aside from the little handprints, the flecks of flung Weetabix.

Maybe that was what Jo was made of, after all: smeary fingerprints and old cereal.

Stephen and she had been saving up for an old cottage where her teacups would have looked perfect. Where every object was precious and full of happy memories. But then Stephen had died, and that was the end of that dream.

She reached for the biscuit tin to refresh the plate and saw movement outside the window. The hedge on the side facing the kitchen was low; Richard had planned to put up a fence to block the view of the cluster of chocolate-box faux Victorian brick houses built there after they'd moved in. He'd been furious when they'd started building. ‘Too many people,' he'd said. ‘It crowds the schools, and puts more traffic on the roads.' But what he'd meant was that the houses weren't expensive enough. That they brought down the tone of the neighbourhood. Every time Richard had looked out of the kitchen window and seen the builders at work, he'd flushed with anger and ranted about the council, building permissions, a fence.

But then he'd never put the fence up. Knowing what she knew now, Jo supposed he'd been too distracted by Tatiana.

There was someone on the other side of the hedge. From here, Jo could see him from the waist up. It looked like he was raking leaves that had fallen from the horse chestnut tree: a young man, in his twenties maybe. He had sunglasses pushed up into brown curly hair, and an unshaven face.

Stop it, filthy middle-aged lady
, she thought, and smiled to herself. But she kept on looking, just for a moment, with the top of the biscuit tin in her hand in case she needed to look away and appear busy suddenly. Because a tug of attraction, no matter how inappropriate and one-sided, was better than thinking about the house she'd never had and the husbands she'd lost.

Focus on the positive, focus on the future.
Her mother had always told her that, and set Jo a good example. The MS that had eventually killed her had crippled her first. But despite her pain, she'd always kept cheerful. Her advice was what had kept Jo going after Stephen had died, in those colourless days that stretched on and on and felt as if they would never end. It was what had helped her over the past year since Richard had left. She had three beautiful children, and a comfortable house, and a good friend, and a body that wasn't so worn out that it couldn't respond to the sight of a good-looking man.