Forever yours, p.19
Forever Yours, page 19
He gets out his phone and leans close as he shows me the screen. I flick through them, cursing the ones with avatars and pictures of motorbikes as their profiles, and finally come across one that could very well be Geoff with a G.
I get my own phone out instead, and find the right page. He has the privacy settings on so I can’t see posts, but I can see a photo, and a brief ‘about’ section that describes him as ‘Dad, granddad, fan of fishing, retired social worker.’
I enlarge the picture, and stare at it as I sip my fifth-ever brandy.
Obviously, he looks older. He has different glasses. Less hair on his head, more on his face – but the same kind smile that I first saw when I was sixteen, sitting across from him in his cubby-hole office at the hospital, determined not to like him or to admit that I needed anyone.
‘I think it’s him,’ I say quietly. ‘But I’m not quite sure how you think it will help …’
‘I think, my darling girl, that it will help in a few ways. First of all, he might know more about what happened to your mum – I presume he met her, knew about her situation? Maybe even liaised with her case worker or whatever?’
I nod. All of that is true.
‘So, social workers are like teachers – they talk to each other. They swap stories. They stay in touch. So he could be able to fill in some of the gaps for you. But also – well, maybe it’d just be nice? To say hello to him? I bet he’d be so proud of what you’ve made of your life.’
I look away from the phone and into Karim’s eyes. I make a promise to myself that I will never take this for granted – this support, this encouragement, this strange belief he has in me. If only I could always see myself through his eyes – sometimes I think he perceives a totally different Gemma to me.
‘You’re kind of cool,’ I say, ‘do you know that?’
‘I do,’ he replies, shrugging. ‘Just comes naturally, what can I say? Now send the man a message!’
I nod, send off a friend request, and type a message.
‘He probably won’t even remember me,’ I say, as I tap the keyboard, a few bland lines reintroducing myself and saying I hope he’s the right Geoff and if not, to ignore me.
I finish off, put the phone down, and drink the brandy. I feel strangely better – maybe it’s simply getting away from the estate. Or actually doing something that feels proactive.
Now, of course, I have to wait – in the same way that I am still waiting to hear from my daughter. My whole life seems to consist of waiting.
In this case, the wait is considerably shorter – a notification pings within a minute. Karim and I look at each other, eyes wide, and he gestures for me to check it.
I see that my friend request has been accepted, and there is already a message. I read it out loud for him.
Gemma, how lovely to hear from you – and of course I remember you! I would love to catch up and hear how you are. I always expected great things from you. Would you mind doing it by email instead? I always find these messages a bit fiddly! Hope to hear from you soon, Geoff.
‘Wow,’ says Karim, grinning. ‘He doesn’t actually call himself Geoff with a G?’
‘I don’t suppose he needs to when it’s in writing does he, because you can actually see there’s a G? Only when he’s talking?’
‘Fair point, Lieutenant Logic – so, will you email him?’
I nod, and reply: ‘I will. I want to, for all the reasons some hot PE teacher guy gave me. But not now – now, we probably need to go back over the road, and deal with a bunch of hungry and hormonal teenagers.’
He glances out of the window and pulls a face. I guess some of the hungry and hormonal teenagers are lurking outside.
‘You’re not wrong,’ he says.
Chapter 21
Erin and Margie are in the smaller pool, leaning together against one of the edges, arms draped along the side. I have just finished twenty lengths in the bigger pool and feel exhausted, in a good way.
I pull myself up the steps and join them.
‘I thought you were supposed to be exercising?’ I say, raising an eyebrow.
‘We are!’ says Margie, ‘look down below!’
I gaze lower, and see that both of them are kicking their legs, slowly but consistently. There is no movement above, but, sure enough, I have to concede that there is indeed some form of exercise being taken.
This is an experiment we are trying, at Karim’s suggestion. He thought it might help Margie, both with pain relief and flexibility, and as soon as he mentioned it her face lit up in excitement. In fact, it seems remiss that we hadn’t thought of it before, but I suppose we were too busy drinking and doing jigsaws most of the time.
I join them, leaning against the wall, lazily scooping my legs around. I have already done my proper exercise for the day and will allow myself to slack.
‘How is it?’ I ask Margie. ‘Are you OK?’
‘Oh love, it’s marvellous – I can’t remember the last time I felt weightless like this, you know? I’d forgotten how much of a joy it is to just float around! I feel like a mermaid!’
It is good to see her so relaxed, and good to at least try and relax myself. I feel edgy these days, vaguely disturbed and in a constant state of flux. Like I’m a can of pop that keeps getting shaken into a fizz every time I come near to settling.
It is now twenty-one days since Katie, and she-who-cannot-be-named-because-I-don’t-know-her-name, turned eighteen. Twenty-one days of checking, of telling myself off for checking, of checking again. Also thrown into the mix at the moment is the almost-as-strange knowledge that, any day now, I might hear from Geoff, that I could find out more about my mum. Or that I might not. It could go either way, and I am not sure which way I would prefer.
No, I think, I do want to hear – I do want to know, one way or another. I need to, even if I don’t exactly relish the prospect. It is, though, adding to the delicious blend of anxiety and weirdly creeping fear that I am feeling.
‘Fear’ is a strange word to use, but I think it’s the right one. On the surface, I am the most settled I have ever been in my life. This is the longest period of time I have lived in one place and done one job as an adult. I have friends I am closer to than I have ever been. I have Karim, and the wonders of that particular relationship continue to surprise me. I almost have a dog. I have sneakily laid down the roots I never thought I would manage to lay down.
The thing about roots, though, is that you can get tangled up in them as well – and there is part of me, part that I know is rubbish and wrong and made entirely of badness, that worries about that. About entanglement. If you’re tangled up in roots, how can you make a run for it when the bogie man comes chasing? You only need to watch any horror film ever to know that roots can be the difference between life and death when you’re running through the woods at night with a slasher in a mask on your heels.
I dip my head under the water, shake it about a bit, come back up and gasp in air. I need to stop thinking like this. Stop expecting the slasher in a mask to appear around every corner.
In my case, though, the slasher in the mask feels like he’s cleverly disguised himself as The Past. The Past is coming for me, and it is undermining the present. The two could meet, quietly and calmly, and say hello to each other and arrange to go for coffee. Or they could spectacularly collide and blow me to pieces as collateral damage. Boom.
It is an uncomfortable way to feel, but no matter how hard I try to shake it off, it persists, like fine drizzle in your hair on a damp day. You barely notice it’s raining, but you get soaked through and chilled to the bone anyway.
‘What’s Katie up to today?’ I ask, changing the internal subject.
Erin’s face breaks out into a smile, and she replies: ‘She’s at a games workshop in town. Making little figures of trolls or whatever and painting them. She’s the only girl who goes, and I suspect she is the subject of a lot of crushes.’
‘I’d imagine she is,’ I say, knowing exactly the kind of boys who get into those kinds of games. Nice ones, usually. As eighteen-year-old pastimes go, it is extremely benign.
‘Could be worse.’ Erin shrugs. ‘It certainly was when I was her age.’
Margie cackles, and adds: ‘I was a bit of a handful myself back then!’
‘You still are!’ say Erin and I at exactly the same time. Margie pretends to look offended, but I can tell she is secretly delighted to be considered a source of trouble.
Once she’s had enough, Erin and I help Margie out of the pool, and into the changing rooms. It takes her a while, but Margie manages alone while I sit in the cubicle next to her, listening to her swear and curse. I am alert for signs of any distress, but hear only mild frustration as she dries off and gets back into her clothes.
We head for the café, and Erin gets the coffees in while Margie and I settle at a table by the vending machine. A half-in, half-out Mars Bar tells a tale of bitter sadness and disappointment.
Margie is recounting a story about one of her grandchildren winning Reader of the Week at school, and about her plans to visit them in the New Year. She seems happy, animated, her hair damp on her shoulders as she chats.
I am half listening, but am also distracted by a group of toddlers being led in a line towards the small pool, like brightly coloured ducklings. They’re wearing arm bands, and there are eight of them, so sixteen arm bands in total. Which is, of course, completely irrelevant to anything in the world but automatically noted by my whacked-out brain.
My phone is out on the table, and as Erin returns with a tray of drinks that she is merrily sloshing all over the place, it does a little jump as it chirrups and vibrates.
‘Ooh! Get that!’ cries Margie, ‘it might be a pic of your Karim in the nud! If it is, I want to see …’
I grab the phone, knowing that it won’t be a picture of ‘my Karim’ in the nud. At least I don’t think it will.
I see that it is my email app. That I have a new message from Geoff with a G. The subject heading is ‘your mother’.
I feel a sudden rush of nerves, and the sound of the pool – the giggling kids, the slosh of the water, the background chatter of the café – recedes into the distance. I grip the phone so hard I see my knuckles go white, and I have a strong urge to just delete it. Slasher in mask, just ahead.
‘You all right, love?’ asks Margie, reaching out to touch my arm. I jump, as though I had forgotten she was there. Maybe I had.
‘Yep. Just a work thing. I’ll be back in a sec.’
I get up and stride away, heading outside to the car park. I have no idea why I lied. Why I felt the need to escape. Why I do many of the things I do.
I shelter in the doorway, hiding from the rain, and calm myself down by watching the cars for a few minutes. Audi seems to be the favoured brand of the local swimmer, and most of them are black.
I take a deep breath and open my inbox. I have shared a few messages with Geoff, and he is chatty and friendly even in writing. He has told me about his retirement, about his children and his three grandchildren, and about his dog, a springer spaniel called Mabel. He seems genuinely very pleased to hear from me, and is delighted at the way my life has gone. I suppose it must be good to hear a success story when much of his career was probably taken up with meeting people at the lowest point of their lives.
When I broached the issue of my mum, and told him I was trying to find out what had happened to her, he was supportive but also professional. He said he was still in touch with some people from that place and that time, but also that even though he was retired, there were still rules. Protocols. Matters of confidentiality.
I told him that I understood all of that, and would be grateful for anything he could do. And now, here it is – the moment I’ve been partially dreading. I could, of course, open that email and find that he has discovered nothing. I could find that he has discovered she is in fact dead. I could find that she has been abducted by space aliens, and is currently running a vaping shop on Venus.
Or I could, of course, actually read the damned thing.
Dear Gemma, the email says.
I hope you’re well, and not too busy with work! Now I’m retired I find myself always a bit concerned about overwork in others! Anyway, I have news about your mother. As we’ve discussed before, I am limited in what I can say, and what I can share. However, would you be happy for me to pass your details on to my former colleague, who could then pass them on to the relevant parties? Your phone number and email address, perhaps? I think, then, maybe you could get all the information you need from the horse’s mouth, so to speak. Let me know either way – best wishes as ever, Geoff.
He is not of the generation that posts kisses after signing off, and I am glad, as I still think of him as an adult talking to the teenage me and that would be weird.
I look over the email again, and again. I am reading between the lines, I know, but I think he is telling me that my mother is still alive. I think he is asking me if, via some convoluted process, I would be OK with her being given my contact details. Or am I completely misinterpreting that ‘horse’s mouth’ comment?
Where did that saying come from, anyway? I’ve never heard a horse speak, so I’m unsure about why they’re considered to be such a reliable source. And while I’m at it, what are gift horses, and why shouldn’t we look them in the mouth? Why are there so many phrases about horses? And why am I so bothered about it, right now, as I stand in the rain clutching my phone?
I am bothered, I know, because it is a distraction from what is really bothering me. Saying ‘yes’ to Geoff’s question will open doors – possible stable doors, allowing horses to bolt. It will open doors to my mother getting in touch, or even my mother choosing not to get in touch, and I wonder if I am ready for that.
I went looking for her, but I never felt ready. I asked Geoff, but I wasn’t sure if I wanted to know. Remembering my life with my mother in it makes me feel dizzy. My life with my mother in it was uncertain, and unpredictable, and those are not qualities I am renowned for liking. My life without my mother in it is undoubtedly simpler, easier, safer.
But still … she is my mother. She is the only blood relation I know of, apart from my own daughter. Isn’t it hypocritical of me to expect my own offspring to want me in her life, while turning my back on my own mum?
It is, I decide. I understand why I feel like this, and I think it is reasonable – but it is also going to be hard to turn my back on. She is part of me, whether I like it or not. I owe it to her, and to myself, to at least have the backbone to take these first steps.
I am an adult now, and things are very different. I reassure myself that I am too strong, too grown, too bloody rooted, to be sucked into her chaos again. It is the fear of it that is controlling me, and I refuse to be controlled by fear.
I tap out a reply, tell Geoff I am out and about and will send a longer email later, but that yes, I would be happy for him to pass my details along.
I press send before I can change my mind. I close the app down, switch off my phone, and go back inside.
I have, I realise, added yet another person to the ever-expanding List of People Who Might Not Actually Want To Know Me. Talk about setting yourself up to fail.
Chapter 22
I am at the end of an especially tedious staff meeting a few days later when my phone rings. We have been discussing exciting issues like budgetary constraints, renovations in the science block, and student car-park passes being shared illicitly. Nothing quite gets the blood flowing like an illicit car-park pass.
I have been avoiding Karim’s eyes for most of this endurance test, because I know he will make me laugh. He will roll his eyes or mouth something at me or mime shooting himself in the head, and I will not be able to help myself. I will giggle. We will behave like the students, and disrupt the very important business being very earnestly discussed.
I have forgotten about my phone, which very rarely rings anyway. Margie knows not to contact me during work hours, and either texts or uses my landline. Karim, the only other person likely to actually call, is sitting here in the same over-full room, the breath of the assembled staff steaming up the windows.
So when it rings I jump in surprise, rummaging around in my handbag so I can pull it out and silence it. There is a moment of quiet and I feel all eyes on me, some in sympathy, others in rebuke. Naughty Gemma. Behaving like a student even when I tried not to.
I mutter an apology, and the meeting wheezes to an end, everyone running out of steam. The Head of Maintenance finishes his talk, and asks if there are any questions. I look around and see that everyone is steadfastly refusing to put their hands up – if we ask questions, we will have to stay longer. This is already like detention and I’m not the only one keen to leave.
We draw to a close, and everyone shuffles out, forming into small groups of friends and colleagues, all keeping their comments to themselves until they are safely away.
I am sitting near the door – I am no fool, I plan this stuff – and am one of the first out. Karim catches up with me in the corridor, the subtle scent of his aftershave warning me he is near. And, weirdly, making me smile.
‘Who was on the phone, Miss Jones? Who was so important that they could interrupt the G8 summit?’
‘I don’t know,’ I reply, walking briskly, knowing he will easily keep up. ‘I think it might have been Leonardo di Caprio. He won’t leave me alone.’
‘Want me to have a word? I think I can take him.’
I laugh, and we finally reach the exits, and walk together towards the car park. I pull out my phone as I reach my car, and check the number that called me.
‘Huh,’ I say quietly, ‘it’s not one of my contacts. And I don’t recognise it. So it might actually be Leonardo di Caprio.’
He peers at the screen, shakes his head, and replies: ‘Could it be the Adoption Register people? I know you’re deliberately not mentioning that very much, but I also know you probably think about it a lot.’
