If I Never Met You(83)

‘Fuck, Jamie. Seeing Pete. It’s summed up so much for me. I feel like … this is where I’ve been stuck, my whole life. Between my mum’s anger and his indifference. The crossfire. I’ve got this vivid memory of sitting in McDonald’s with a hash brown in a little paper sleeve, and an orange juice, and her saying Why did you do it, why did you run away, how can you expect me to trust you won’t do it again, to me, over and over. I couldn’t tell her. Should I have told her?’

It felt oddly incredibly freeing to simply ask someone this. She didn’t know the answer, and she had beaten herself up for not knowing it, without even realising, for so long.

Jamie held her by the shoulders: ‘Laurie. You had to escape someone threatening to assault you, get yourself to safety and then decide if you wanted your relationship with your dad to rest on reporting it? Do you know how many thirty-eight-year-olds wouldn’t know what to do, let alone an eight-year-old?’

‘When you put it like that …’

‘There was no right or wrong answer. Whatever you did had a cost. There was only survival.’

Jamie hugged her and said: ‘Also, remember this. You’re safe now.’

Laurie buried her face in the wool of his coat and leaned on him and said: ‘Betcha wish you didn’t come now eh, Jamie Carter. I did warn you.’

He leaned down and said, close to her ear: ‘No, now I couldn’t be more glad that I did.’

Laurie’s heart gave a squeeze and she couldn’t immediately look at him.

When they separated again, she said, ‘No point ever telling my dad, anyway. He’d minimise it, say oh Pete’s got a sick sense of humour, sorry you were startled by him, princess. And I was just round the corner buying some fags. Even if he wasn’t. He’d never join the dots and be like “I left my child with a nonce, I am a disgraceful person!” That would mean some reflection and taking responsibility, and that can’t happen to him.’

‘Can I make a suggestion? Tell your mum.’

‘Now? It’d only upset her. She can’t do anything about it.’

‘You’re upset. You’ve never told her: let her in. Give her a chance to help you. Stop making it your responsibility alone.’

Laurie gave a morbid laugh.

‘When did you get so wise?!’

Jamie sighed. ‘I had counselling. At university. I was living in reckless ways, trying to hurt myself. Which I came to realise was about punishing myself.’

Laurie stared. ‘Oh.’

‘One of the things those sessions taught me is, you need to speak up, ask for help. If you don’t tell people why you’re suffering, or even that you’re suffering, they can’t help you.’

‘I’m not suffering!’ Laurie said. ‘Missing the end of that party sure ain’t suffering.’

‘Yes, you are,’ Jamie said. ‘You are standing here crying, frightened, about something that happened that was so bad, you blocked it out. You’re suffering.’

Laurie nodded and sniffed and wiped her nose on her coat sleeve.

He hailed her a taxi.

‘Look. You were there for me. Do you want me to come back to yours?’ Jamie said, and Laurie’s mouth opened in surprise.

‘Not like that!’ Jamie said, hastily, at her widened eyes. ‘If you don’t want to be alone, I mean.’

‘Thanks. I’ll be OK.’

Afterwards, lying in bed, she thought about how that would’ve worked, and how it would’ve felt, and whether she wanted him to. Did he mean a drink? Did he mean he’d hold her all night like she did for him? She sensed the latter. Was it any kind of good idea to have someone play-act that depth of feeling for you, wasn’t it the kind of innocent sweetness that could turn into a slow-acting poison?

She didn’t want him to do things like this: for her to come to feel he was there for her when she wanted, and then for it to be abruptly revoked in the New Year, when he’d got things going with the new love.

But as she admonished herself about how it wouldn’t have been at all sensible, Laurie knew she was rationalising, because she wished she’d said yes.





34


The conversation with her mum on the phone the next morning was peculiar. Finally telling her the full story after twenty-eight years, and explaining seeing the man at her dad’s wedding reception had triggered it, did not go as Laurie had expected.

She expected lots of fulminating about her father, but her mum was quiet, asking questions but not audibly reacting. The subject change wasn’t surprising but still hurtful.

‘Is it still alright if me and Wanda come to see the Whitworth Gallery next week? Do you want to meet up?’

‘Oh. Yes. I’ll come for the culture, and we can have lunch at mine afterwards.’ She knew from experience that Wanda and her mother wouldn’t accept her treating them if they went out, as they were both on tight budgets.

‘Sounds lovely, love. See you then.’

Well – shoulder shrug – that was something and nothing, why bother opening old wounds like that, in return for nowt? She stopped herself: this was the cynic in her, the lawyer in her, the impatient child. Laurie had pushed this away for three decades; what if listening to it was the most her mum could manage, right now?