I’m not especially keen on reptiles, but at least it’s warm in here. Outside, it’s bitterly cold, and snow is forecast for later today.
I’ve dragged out the snakes and geckos and giant tortoises for as long as I can, and Saul’s attention is waning. He wants to see something more exciting, like the gorillas or the lions or the little hippos. Or his dad – one of the lesser known exhibits at Bristol Zoo.
Frankly, I’m nervous, and would probably rather walk into the lion enclosure than stroll across to the café, where we’re due to meet Jason and Jo. I’ve played it as casually as possible with Saul, trying to strike the balance between this being a real treat, and it not being too big a deal. He knows his dad lives in Scotland, which he talks about as though it’s an incredibly exotic place, and he knows his dad loves him and always sends him presents and cards.
He’s spoken to him on the phone as well, on his last birthday, but he hasn’t actually seen him since a time he was too small to even remember.
Saul actually seems very cool about it all, accepting it without too many questions and with an open-hearted sense of anticipation that reassures me I’m doing the right thing. The right thing for him, anyway.
Because while Saul might be okay with today’s meeting, I’m basically pooing my pants. It’s all very, very strange.
We came to Bristol last night, and stayed in my parents’ house. That in itself was weird and a bit melancholy. Mum is down in Budbury, and Dad is due home from Tenerife very soon, and the home I grew up in felt oddly quiet and empty without them.
Saul enjoyed it, laughing at the photos of me on the wall in frames: me with pigtails and missing front teeth; me in my ballet outfit after a dance performance; me on the beach on a family holiday to Cornwall. No child ever easily imagines their own parents as young, do they? Even when we’re adults, and technically know they were, once, tiny little humans – it still seems unlikely.
Saul thinks the photos are hilarious. I on the other hand feel sad when I look at them. Sad because I’m always on my own – no brothers and sisters, no playmates, not even any happy, smiling family group shots.
For me, they’re a reminder of lonely times. A reminder of the chaos around me that the lens never quite caught. The night of that dance recital, Mum locked Dad out of the house because he’d turned up with the smell of beer on his breath.
After the triumph of the show itself – I must have been about eight, I suppose – I recall the rest of the night being fraught with drama, Dad banging on the door and Mum screaming at him from the bedroom window. That might have been the night one of the neighbours actually called the police, I don’t know – they all fade into one big row with the passing of time.
And the family holiday in Cornwall was one of the worst weeks of my life – all three of us crammed into a two-bedroomed caravan on a park near Bude. They’d drink too much in the leisure club where we’d watch the entertainment staff sing hits of the Seventies, and a giant bear mascot prowled around scaring the kids. After the drink, there’d be the fighting – and the walls of a caravan are even thinner than the walls of a house.
I’m not sure it was a good idea, going back there. But again, Saul seemed happy with the arrangement, and that’s what matters. He got to sleep in my old bedroom, and I showed him pictures of my nan and told him all about her, and I took him to the little play park nearby where I’d gone as a child myself.
And now we’re here. In the zoo. Approximately five minutes away from meeting my ex and his new wife and soon-to-be mother of Saul’s baby brother or sister. I tell myself it’s a good thing. That it’s important for Saul to feel good about his relationship with them. That maybe having a sibling will make his childhood a lot less lonely than mine, because it seems unlikely I’ll ever be providing him with one.
I can’t even find it in myself to commit to a relationship, never mind have a baby. I do wonder sometimes if something inside me is simply broken, and I’ll never be able to fix it. Having Van in my life should feel wonderful – and when I’m with him, it usually does.
But when I’m away from him, like now, it all feels different. It feels frightening and anxiety-inducing and probably not worth the risk. I turn into a big fat coward, basically. Poor Van. He deserves better. Like the blonde one from Abba, or at the very least a woman who doesn’t blow hot and cold like a faulty car heater.
I glance at my watch, and tell Saul it’s time to go.
‘Will my daddy be there now?’ he asks, scurrying along so fast he’s taking two steps to every one of mine as we leave the reptile house and emerge into an arctic blast of wind that makes my eyes water.
I quickly bend down to fasten up Saul’s coat and tug his bobble hat back down over his ears, and nod.
‘He will,’ I reply, trying to put some much-needed enthusiasm into my voice. ‘Isn’t that exciting?’
‘It is,’ he replies, gripping my hand with his mittened fingers. ‘He’s come all the way from a different country. Do they have lions in Scotland? And will Daddy be able to make a lion noise? And will the lady called Jo speak in a different language because she’s from Scotland?’
I answer all his rapid-fire questions as well as I can – only in zoos, definitely, and no – as we make the short walk to the café. We pause in the entrance, and I take off his hat and unbutton his coat again. It’s an exciting life, looking after a small person. A rollercoaster of indoor-outdoor clothing logistics.
I scan the room, filled with shivering refugees from the icy weather, looking for them. Maybe, just a tiny bit, hoping they haven’t turned up.
Of course, they have – I spot Jason easily, even after all this time. He’s very tall, even sitting down. The woman with him is almost the same height, and it occurs to me that their child is going to inherit some mighty genetics.
Jason waves hesitantly, and I suspect he’s just as nervous as I am. Maybe he was secretly hoping we wouldn’t turn up as well.
‘Is that him? Is that my daddy?’ Saul asks, when I wave back. I nod and smile, and feel a creaking sensation inside me, like a rotten floorboard being stepped on.
We walk over to their table, and as we approach, Jason never takes his eyes off Saul. Saul, who is keen to run towards them, and possibly the muffins they have on a plate. I let go of his hand, and he dashes the last few feet, the mittens on strings streaking behind him.
He stops right in front of Jason, who crouches down to be on the same level as him, and smiles at him. He plays it just right – not grabbing hold of him and freaking him out, not showing his own tension, just talking to him in a soft voice, saying how lovely it is to see him and asking what animals he wants to see and wondering if he prefers chocolate or blueberry muffins.
He hasn’t changed that much, in the last few years. He looks a little leaner, maybe, and his hair is a bit longer. Jo, sitting beside him, glances up at me and smiles, giving me her own little wave. I linger a few steps away, not really sure of how to behave. There aren’t really any rule books for this kind of situation, and I’m sure we’re all scared of getting it wrong.
Luckily, we have a talkative toddler with us – possibly the world’s best ice-breaker.
‘I like blueberry,’ Saul says, perching himself on the seat next to Jason and chattering away as though all of this is completely normal. ‘Laura makes blueberry cake for me at the café.’
‘Does she? I bet it’s yummy,’ replies Jason, looking on as Saul tears off his coat and grabs hold of a muffin. He’s going to perform his usual trick of reducing one cake to a billion small pieces, I know – but I don’t suppose it matters.
‘It is. The yummiest. You should come and taste it.’
‘Maybe I will,’ says Jason, glancing at me over Saul’s head. I finally make the move to sit down, and he nods at me. ‘Saul, this lady here is Jo.’
‘Hi, Saul!’ she says brightly. I know she’s a primary school teacher, and it shows in her voice – the kind of voice that kids automatically respond to; that you can imagine leading an assembly or singing the times tables. ‘It’s really nice to meet you. Blueberry’s my favourite too.’
Saul squints at her slightly, while he chews his first mouthful. His fingers are working on the rest.
‘You sound funny,’ he eventually says. ‘Mummy said you wouldn’t speak different.’
‘I said she wouldn’t speak a different language, Saul,’ I add, explaining. ‘Not that she wouldn’t sound different. People who come from different parts of the world have different accents. Like Laura is from Manchester and she sounds different to your nan, who’s from Bristol.’
He chews this over as thoroughly as his muffin and decides it makes sense.
‘Did you have to come on an aeroplane?’ he asks, perking up again. He’s obsessed with going on an aeroplane at the moment, and decided after watching a film called Monsters vs Aliens that he wants to be an astronaut when he grows up, so he can make friends with little green men.
‘Not this time, no,’ replies Jo, automatically sweeping some of the crumbs from the table in a way that suggests she’s done it many times before. ‘We came in the car, but it took us two days.’
‘Did you sleep in the car?’ Saul asks, frowning.
‘No, we stayed overnight in a hotel on the way. A nice one with a swimming pool that had pancakes for breakfast.’
‘I like pancakes,’ he concedes. ‘Laura makes those too. Mummy does as well, but Laura’s are nicer.’
I raise my eyebrows and let out a small laugh. I can’t argue that point, and it’s good that he’s honest, after all.
Saul stops destroying his muffin, and looks at the map of the zoo that they have spread out on part of the table. Jason uses his finger to point out where we are, and where the reptile house is, and where some of the other animals are.
‘Do you know a lot of animal noises, Daddy?’ he asks earnestly. It’s the first time he’s addressed him like that, and I see a quick and sudden sheen of tears in Jason’s eyes. I bite my lip, because I feel a bit like crying too. I know my reasons for agreeing to this were sound, but I’m simply not a big enough human being to not feel threatened by it. I need to toughen up.
‘Yes. It’s one of my best things,’ answers Jason seriously. ‘What do you want to hear?’
The two of them spend the next few minutes challenging each other to recognise various roars, squeaks and howls. I go to get myself a coffee to give them a bit of space, and to give myself a breather. I kind of wish there was a brandy in it.
By the time I come back, Saul is on his feet, doing that mad little bouncing-on-the-spot thing he does when he’s excited about something.
‘Mummy, can I go and see the gorillas with Daddy? We both want to see if they answer us when we make our gorilla noises! Please please please!’
Jason’s eyes meet mine across the table, and I’m so nervous I slosh my coffee into the saucer. The gorillas are literally only minutes away. He’s not asking for custody, he’s asking for ten minutes. It’s normal, it’s natural, and it’s nothing to get choked up about. I gulp in air, and manage to nod.
‘Of course you can,’ I say, aiming for relaxed. ‘Just make sure you put your coat and hat back on. Say hello to the gorillas for me.’
Jason mouths the words ‘thank you’ at me, and the two disappear off in a flurry of scarves and excitement. I see Saul slip his hand into Jason’s, and feel a mix of relief and desperation. He’ll be back before I know it, but he still takes a tiny piece of me with him.
‘He’s gorgeous,’ says Jo, as I sit down opposite her. Her accent doesn’t sound Glaswegian to my admittedly untrained ear. It’s soft, and lilting and gentle.
‘He is, isn’t he?’ I reply, smiling as best as I can.
‘He’ll be starting school next year, will he?’
‘Yes. The local primary. He can already read some words and write his name, as long as you have a liberal stance on which way round the letter “S” should face.’
‘Well he’ll be off to a flying start then. I teach P1, which is like reception in England, and I can tell he won’t have any problems at all – I bet he’ll be more than ready.’
I grimace as I sip scalding hot coffee, and reply: ‘I hope so. I’m not sure how ready I am, though.’
‘That’s always the way,’ she replies, using a napkin to clear up the coffee I’ve now spilled. ‘The kids come through the gate full of excitement, and the mums are weeping in the playground.’
I nod, unable to think of a single thing to say. It’s like my brain has gone completely blank, and my tongue has superglued itself to the roof of my mouth.
‘This must be weird for you,’ she says eventually.
‘Um … yes. But I think it’s probably weird for everybody, apart from Saul, apparently.’
‘That’ll be down to you, raising a happy and confident little person. Look … it doesn’t have to be weird. I can only imagine how you must be feeling, us turning up, a baby on the way, suddenly part of Saul’s life. All I can say is that we’re genuine – both of us – about wanting to get to know Saul better. You’re his mum, and obviously a good one – but one day before too long, he’ll have a brother, and it would be great for them to know each other.’
I stare at her, my eyes flickering to her stomach against my will. She’s wearing a thick jumper, so I can’t tell if she’s showing or not yet. I remember those days – the combination of excitement and terror. Or maybe, in her case, there is no terror – she’s older than I was, and obviously happy in her marriage, and she teaches kids for a living. Maybe she doesn’t just look like Wonder Woman. Maybe she is Wonder Woman.
‘Yes, it would,’ is all I can manage. ‘It’s a boy?’
Her hand goes to her tummy, and she grins.
‘At least that’s what they think, yes. So thank you – for this. For seeing us. It means the world to Jason, and to me. He told me, you know … what happened between you. All of it.’
For some reason, I cringe as she says this. I don’t know why. I have nothing to be ashamed of, and it’s only natural that he has. Proof that they have a much better functioning relationship than Jason and I ever did. But I still feel somehow exposed – like this woman knowing so much about one of the darkest times in my life makes me somehow vulnerable.
‘Oh. Okay,’ I murmur, still apparently in shut-down mode.
‘And you should know, it changed him. He probably won’t tell you all of this, because he’s a man. But it changed him. He’s not touched a drop of alcohol since that day, and he went to counselling. Still does, every now and then. He hated what he’d done, and that’s probably why he left Bristol. But … well, I’m sure you know that.’
I nod, and avoid her eyes. She has vivid blue eyes that I suspect can see right into my soul.
‘I know. We … brought out the worst in each other. It’s why I moved as well. But you two … you seem to bring out the best in each other.’
She beams at me, and passes me another napkin. I’m really not managing very well with this whole advance level coffee-drinking business at all.
‘We do, I hope. I just wanted you to know that I understand. And that we won’t be putting any pressure on you, or on Saul – we just want to know him. To be part of his life in any way that works for all of us.’
I know she means well. I know she means every word she says. I even know she’s right.
But that still doesn’t take away the fear. The fear that bit by bit, I’m falling to pieces. That all the control I’ve worked so hard for is crumbling. That everything is about to change, and I don’t want it to. That I want to take Saul, and possibly Tinkerbell, and run as far away as we all can.
That, I realise, is ridiculous. It’s an outdated impulse, a knee-jerk response to a perceived threat. Something I need to manage or analyse or possibly just ignore until it goes away.
I nod firmly, and force myself to look up from the napkin-strewn table and meet her eyes.
‘Okay,’ I say simply. One word. A lifetime of meaning.