The Child(39)

The diary says we went for a walk—with hearts round the words—and I remember him stroking my hair, squeezing my shoulders, and putting his arm round me as we walked along the promenade that first time. I loved it. I didn’t want him to stop. I wanted him to touch every inch of my skin. He was so lovely, he took my breath away.

I was so dazzled by Darrell that I almost forgot why I’d come to Brighton. We were on our way back to the station when I asked him if he knew where Charlie was.

He said he had no idea, hadn’t heard from him in years. Even joked about him becoming a stockbroker. I didn’t understand why it was funny when he said it—I didn’t know Charlie had been a musician when he met Jude. Darrell told me Charlie had written a song about her. About her eyes. My eyes, Darrell said, and he kissed me. I wrote in my diary that it was my first proper kiss. A sweet kiss.

He asked me to come and see him again. I wrote that I would’ve done anything he asked at that moment. And I would have. I was thirteen and had just been kissed for the first time. I couldn’t see anything wrong in it. I was in love.

But Harry reappeared, furious at being abandoned, and grabbed my arm to take me home.

I remember we walked away, me looking back as Harry frog-marched me off. Darrell stood in the middle of the pavement, surrounded by shoppers and holidaymakers, looking at me until we turned the corner and I burst into tears again.

Harry was telling me to pull myself together—I expect she was a bit frightened about the state I was in. She’d never seen me like that. I’d never been like that. Normally, I was the sensible one, soothing and calming her when she was upset or angry, but she was the nurse that day.

She went to the toilet on the train and got some loo roll to mop me up, but it was as if something had broken free inside me.

Harry thought I was crying because it’d been a disaster—she hadn’t seen the sweet kiss on the lips—and she tried to help by saying horrible things about Darrell.

“He smells,” she said. “Like stale bread. I don’t think he washes.”

I told her he didn’t know where my dad was and pretended to go to sleep so I wouldn’t have to talk.

Harry let it go—she got bored easily, luckily—and started talking about the man at the sweet stall who’d chatted her up.

He’d had horrible spots, but she got a free candy floss.





THIRTY-ONE


    Jude


MONDAY, APRIL 2, 2012

The kettle was boiling furiously—she’d forgotten to close the lid again—and she turned it off at the plug. She’d been like that all day, losing things, putting things in the wrong place. Her head was full of Will.

“For goodness’ sake,” she said loudly. “You’re too old to be getting in a state over a man.” And she laughed, light-headed with the feelings that were reemerging.

I wonder what he looks like now, she thought for the umpteenth time, smoothing her hair and holding her head high to stretch the creases in her neck.

She dialed Emma’s number for the tenth time and put the receiver down before it connected. She desperately wanted to talk to someone about Will but, after last week, she knew her daughter wouldn’t want to hear about it. But Emma was the only person who knew Will as she did. She’ll have got used to the idea by now, Jude told herself as she picked up the phone again.

“Emma, it’s me,” she said. “How is the work going?”

“Oh. Hello. I was going to ring you to thank you for lunch last week,” Emma said.

“I’m sorry I said that about you getting ill, Em,” Jude said. She needed to make the peace as quickly as possible so they could move on to Will.

“That’s okay,” Emma said, her voice lighter. “I’m sorry I was so moody. I’ve been a bit tired.”

“You’re probably working too hard. Anyway, it was good to see you. And to share my news.”

Emma’s silence was as loud as a clanging bell but Jude ignored it, chattering on determinedly about Will’s call, where she might meet her ex-boyfriend, what she might wear, what they might talk about.

When Jude finally drew breath, Emma said, “I wonder what he looks like now.”

“I was just thinking the same thing, Em,” she’d gushed. “He was always so handsome, wasn’t he? We were all in love with him, weren’t we?”

“Umm, well, I wasn’t,” Emma said so quietly that Jude had to strain to hear her.

“What did you say?”

“I said I wasn’t,” Emma repeated, louder.

“Oh, Em, you were. You were always there, hanging on his every word. You even went to that party with him. Do you remember?”

She could see Emma, all eyes and jailbait legs, standing in the doorway of the kitchen, drawing Will’s attention away from her. Jude got in a huff about it sometimes and Will had laughed her out of her jealousy.

“Well, he certainly made a big impact on me,” Emma said. “He did that.”

“There you are,” Jude said.

“Any adult man would have done,” Emma said. “If you remember.”

“Oh God, let’s not go down the long-lost-daddy route, Em. Will was not your father.”

“No,” Emma said. “He wasn’t.”