Chapter Eleven

 

 

ALL I WANT RIGHT NOW is a dark room and for everyone to fuck off, but for some reason my parents’ house has become a circus, with everyone passing in and out – bringing with them their own comical take on all this. I’m fed up of it.

Gage’s mother came round, crying and wailing and holding the kids tight while doing so. Emily heard at school that her father had died. I had no control over it. It was on the local news. Someone leaked it: Hull FC Prop Forward Gage Fitzpatrick Found Dead . . .

They haven’t released details of his death, thank goodness. Just that there are no suspicious circumstances. I’ve been wondering when the police are going to turn up and take me in for questioning – ask why I wasn’t home. Ask why I allowed him to go drinking. Ask if we were officially separated and whether I had a grudge against him to act as I did. For some reason, everyone has decided it was a terrible accident and they’re trying not to place blame – even though inside, I’ve personally placed all the blame at my own feet, nor can I see how this will change anytime soon.

Emily has gone from crying one minute to being her usual self the next. She’s four. She does and doesn’t understand. All she knows and feels is what’s happening in the moment and Gage was out of the house so often, it’s only my absence she would ever really notice because I’m the one with them all the time.

I sit in the corner while people drop by with flowers and lasagnes or pies or sympathy cards.

Eventually, when it’s quiet and I’m sure that’s going to be it for the day, Warrick turns up on our doorstep. His twin boys follow him inside and he whispers, “Is it okay if the boys come in too? Jules has a meeting tonight.”

“Everyone else has made themselves welcome today, you may as well join the club. Do you want something to eat? We’ve got a dozen lasagnes in the fridge.”

“I wouldn’t say no. The boys have eaten, but I haven’t.” His tone is level, calm and collected. (Not like Hetty.)

“Let’s sort you out, then,” I tell him, feeling weirdly okay for a moment or two.

I’ve been like this all day… fine one moment… utterly destroyed the next.

Warrick and Jules’ boys make themselves at home in the playroom, trying but failing to boss about Emily. Rupert is with my mother upstairs, having a bath.

Warrick joins me in the kitchen and spots the light on in the shed at the bottom of the garden.

“What’s your dad doing?” Warrick asks.

“Checking the levels on his home brew apparently.”

“Staying out of the way,” he guesses.

“He’s always been like this. He was never there.”

“I’m lucky,” Warrick says. “Dad was always in my face. I didn’t appreciate it at the time, of course. He was present, though. You know what I mean.”

“Hetty slapped me,” I whisper. “She actually slapped me.”

“Why?”

“Because she doesn’t understand. I don’t think she will ever understand what it was like for me before she came along. She thinks she’s the only one who had it hard growing up. She never stops to think. She only sees what she wants to see, and she refuses to see that I’m not perfect either.”

Warrick clears his throat. “She’s a livewire, we’ve always known that.”

I grab one of the lasagnes out of the fridge and shove it in the oven. When the doorbell goes again, I roll my eyes and Warrick asks, “Do you want me to get rid of them?”

“Please, would you?”

“Sure, you stay here out of sight.”

He heads into the hallway to answer the front door. I hear him talking to a man and think nothing of it. It’s probably another one of my mum and dad’s neighbours or another of Gage’s teammates dropping round wreaths or whatever makes them feel better.

“Liza, I think you should come to the door, love,” Warrick shouts through.

This must be the police, I decide. They’ve finally come to take me away. It’s about time.

When I get out into the hallway, I see the back of Warrick, but beyond him there’s a bigger, more imposing shape filling the frame.

Warrick moves out of the way and I discover Sam, standing there, having obviously heard the news too.

“I didn’t know you two knew one another,” gushes Warrick, surprised.

“Old mates from uni,” Sam says, holding out a bouquet of daisies towards me.

We lock eyes and that’s when something in me shuts down and closes off. I don’t deserve to feel happy. I don’t deserve anything. I don’t deserve Sam or to feel the ultimate love his heart and his soul offered me last weekend.

“I can’t do this,” I state calmly, returning to the kitchen.

I stand by the counter, hugging myself. I stare down at the bottom of the garden, willing my father to whoosh out of there, come flying up the garden path, take me in his arms and rescue me.

But that has never happened. Not once. Why would it happen now?

I feel someone enter the room and I know it’s not Warrick. I know that because Sam casts a bigger shadow. A bigger presence.

He places the flowers on the sideboard and remains at a safe distance.

“I can’t say how sorry I am, Liza.”

“I know. I’ve heard it all day. Nobody knows what to say.”

“Did you find him?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry. That must have been awful.”

“It was.”

“If you need anything… absolutely anything. If you need taking anywhere or you need help with legal stuff or if you need to be driven out of here just to get some fresh air, you just have to say. You just have to call and I’ll be here, okay?”

My bottom lip wobbles out of control and I turn towards him, unable to communicate just how awful all of this is.

He takes tentative strides towards me and opens his arms, allowing me to fall into them. I start crying loudly, but Warrick hustles the kids out when they try to find out what’s going on. He shuts the door on us and takes them into the playroom. I can hear him asking who wants a horsey ride first and I have another moment where everything feels just fine, because I’ve got all these wonderful people around me…

But then in the next breath, I remember my husband’s dead and my children are left fatherless.

A widow at twenty-four.

Eventually my tears abate, but I’m still staring past Sam at my father’s shed, wondering when I’ll get my hugs from him. It’s not like he’s been a bad father to me, but he’s never been affectionate with me, not once.

“There’s something you can do for me,” I tell Sam.

“Name it.”

“Will you ask your cleaner if she’d do a proper job on my place? I need it sparkling clean from top to bottom, and I want the bed removed from the master. In fact, I want all his stuff gone and taken to his mother’s. I don’t want to see it ever again. I can’t stay with my parents forever. My father’s taken up residence in the shed. I’m only going to end up laying into him.”

“If you give me a key, I’ll sort it all out for you, okay? Just leave it with me.”

“Thank you.”

“And just… maybe have a think about his stuff, okay?”

“I won’t change my mind. I want all his clothes and stuff gone. I don’t want to look at it.”

“If that’s what you want.”

“Yes, that’s what I want.”

“That’s okay, Liz.”

He doesn’t let go of me the whole time we’re having our conversation. Eventually, my mother taps on the door, holding Rupert in her arms.

“Hello, is this another of Gage’s friends?” she asks.

I take Rupert in my arms. He smells utterly gorgeous and I bury my face in his chest, trying to stop myself crying. He clings hard to me, knocking his head against mine.

Sam walks forward and holds out his hand. “I’m Sam. I’m here for Liza.”

A storm gathers in my mother’s eyes in response to Sam. Well, he could’ve lied, but he’s only told the truth. He’s my friend and he’s here for me, not for Gage. Someone actually fucking cares about me, for a change.

“Is this really appropriate?” my mother mutters, giving me daggers.

“I’ve known Sam since university. He’s my friend, Mother,” I say, grinding out my words.

“I’d better go, Liz,” he says, picking up on my mother’s toxic vibes, “but I’ll ring my cleaner for you, okay? And let you know.”

“Thanks Sam.”

He leaves the house, saying a friendly goodbye to Warrick as he passes by.

“Are you feeding Warrick, then?” she asks, gesturing at the oven.

“Aye, I am.”

“Okay. I’ll leave you to it, then. I’m going to my knitting club. I need to get out of the house.”

I say nothing. If she needs to go, she needs to go. I understand completely.

While she’s gone, I’ll unplug the doorbell and leave a sign on the front door saying: Bugger Off.

It’s only what Hetty would do.

After I’ve hung the notice, I head to the playroom to check on the children. “Are you going to be good while me and this big idiot have some dinner?”

“Yes, Mummy,” Emily says, while Warrick’s boys grin with that wicked look in their eye. Oh boy, Jules must have her work cut out.

I plop Rupert in his highchair in the kitchen dining area and give him his usual bedtime milk. He slurps it like nobody’s business.

Meanwhile I carve out two chunks of lasagne and raid the fridge for coleslaw and salad.

We eat at the kitchen table. Warrick starts troughing like he’s been starved.

“First meal of the day?” I ask him.

“How did you guess?”

“Me too,” I say, while pushing mine around the plate. “Of course, there’s more if you want it.”

“I think I’ll be going up for more.”

“How is the community centre?” I ask him straight, even though we both know it’s a drain not only on him, but on his family too.

“It’s okay. It’d be better if we had Hetty back.”

“I expect so.”

“I’m managing all right logistically, but the centre was more fun with her around. It all gets a bit serious without her.”

“I see.”

I let him eat his dinner in peace because he’s clearly starved.

“So, how did you meet Sam?” he asks, leaving his seat to serve himself more lasagne. I manage a couple of forkfuls before giving my attention to Rupert, who has finished his milk and is ready for cuddles.

“We studied English together but kept in touch. He went on and did his MA and all that. I probably would’ve taken the same route if I hadn’t fallen pregnant, though I did get my degree eventually.”

“I met him at a careers thing recently. He seems very intelligent and aside from being a southerner, quite nice.”

“Yeah, he is.”

Warrick sits back down and begins demolishing his second portion.

“So, do you want me to put you in touch with someone?” he asks, stabbing his food energetically.

“I don’t get you.”

“About that, out there,” he says, pointing at where my dad’s hiding out.

“What do you mean?”

“If you were my daughter, it would take a bulldozer to cart me away from you right now.”

He makes me smile and I reach out to touch his hand. “That’s the thing. I don’t think he is my father.” I have nothing in common with my father and I also don’t look anything like him or Mum.

He stares at me, eyes going from side to side. “So, you don’t need therapy?”

“Probably. Yeah. I more than likely do.”

“Well, at least you’re aware of it.”

“Always best to be aware. Sometimes I feel too aware, you know?”

“You and me, we should start a support group. You know?”

“The worst thing is when you can’t help someone, right?”

He reaches out and holds my hand, agreeing, “Truly.”

He’s been there, I suspect: trying to help a partner who didn’t want any help whatsoever.

The front door opens and I’m half expecting it to be my mother returning, when Jules meekly says, “Room for a little one? It says bugger off on the front door?”

“Come in,” I shout through.

On the way to the kitchen she gets accosted by her boys, but after satiating them with kisses and cuddles, she makes her way towards us.

“I just popped to the shops. I got you a care package thing… I saw it in magazine. Fuck knows what it really means, but I thought you’d like some bits and bobs.”

She hands me a bag of stuff, including new pyjamas and big fluffy socks, a kilogram of chocolate, a hot water bottle with a Disney cover and a big clip for my hair.

“You’re the best, Jules. How lucky am I?”

“That’s my girl,” she says, kissing my forehead. “Now, I’m starved. What are we having?”