When I Met You

I experience a wave of sympathy for Mum. I can tell she’s been wondering these things for years.

‘That poor, poor man died in the blaze,’ she says sadly. ‘So suddenly your dad was on the run for murder. But they got him in the end of course.’

‘He’s back.’

‘What do you mean?’ she says, looking up sharply and I feel bad for blurting it out but know it’s the only way I’m ever going to get the words out.

‘He’s back,’ I repeat.

‘Back where?’

This could go on.

‘I saw him, Mum.’

‘Where? Where did you see him? In the street?’

I hesitate. Judging by her appalled face it might be better to lie at this juncture. ‘Yeah … in the street.’

‘Did he see you?’

‘Er … yeah.’

‘What did he say? You didn’t tell him where you lived did you?’

‘Um no. He er … he got out … years ago.’

‘I know,’ says Mum, still looking deeply agitated about the fact I’ve seen him.

‘He’s ill Mum.’

‘Good,’ she says.

‘That’s not very nice,’ I retort. ‘He hasn’t got a cold you know. He’s really ill.’

‘I said good!’ she shouts, and her voice wobbles dangerously. ‘As far as I’m concerned he’s dead to me and I don’t want you having anything to do with him Marianne, do you hear me?’

I hear her all right but I can’t believe what she’s saying. She can’t tell me how to deal with this. I need to work out for myself what I’m going to do. As a grown woman. I can understand her not wanting to see him, but she can’t decide what’s right for me any more. In fact her reaction now is merely pushing me towards seeing him again. First though, Hayley needs to know what’s going on. I know that now. It will stress her out more if she finds out at a later date that I’ve seen him and didn’t tell her. It should be up to her to decide whether she wants to talk to him, even if it’s just to have a go at him or to ask him things she wants to know. After all, she’s carrying his grandchild and there’s a chance Ray might still be around when it’s born. I get to my feet.

‘Where are you going?’ Mum asks nervously.

‘Nowhere, just out for a bit.’

‘But we need to talk. I need to know you’re not going to do anything stupid, Marianne. If your dad bumped into you that wouldn’t have been a coincidence. You need to be careful and you have to promise me you won’t see him. I don’t want Martin worrying about this.’

‘I can’t promise I won’t see him Mum, but you don’t need to worry about Martin. I won’t say anything,’ I say, picking up the car keys from the hook where we keep them.

‘Tell me where you’re going. Why are you taking Tina?’

‘I’m popping to the shops,’ I lie.

This seems to appease her. ‘Right, well I’ll see you later then. Are you here for your tea?’

I nod.

‘Great, we’ll all eat it together,’ she says slightly manically, as if our previous conversation never even happened. She stands up, brushing crumbs from her biscuit off her and taking her mug to the sink. ‘Chicken Kievs I’m doing with jacket spuds. Then we can talk about what song Hayley should do for Sing for Britain. I know she blew up the other day but once she’s had a chance to cool off I’m sure she’ll come round. Besides, doing the show preggy would make a really interesting story for the viewer. It would be different anyway, wouldn’t it?’

I do a double take. Is she serious? I think she is. Do you see what I mean now? Actually insane.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Hayley and Gary live at the end of a cul-de-sac, a few miles from us in Chingford. The entire house is decorated in various shades of white and when we were all invited round after it was finished Hayley got really cross with us for not being able to tell the difference between the apple white she’d painted the hall and the hessian white she’d painted the lounge. It just all looks white but, according to her, the difference should be as obvious as if she’d painted one room blue and one orange. Her carpet is also an off-white and her curtains are a pale shade of something anaemic too. As a result it’s one of the least comfortable houses to be in because you’re terrified to touch anything in case you sully it somehow. Even her sofa, a new purchase as of the Boxing Day sales, is white. Martin’s terribly jealous of her white leather suite because he hadn’t spotted it for himself. His obsession with boring shops is seasonal, you see. During the summer months it’s all about Homebase, but come winter and the Boxing Day sales, the second DFS and Land of Leather have flung open their doors, he’s there. In fact, this moment is probably the most meaningful and spiritual part of Christmas for Martin. Consequently, as a family, we’re always first in the queue at one or other of these places, no matter what the weather. No one except me ever questioning the fact we’re standing there shivering, when we could be at home eating leftovers and watching telly. Is it any wonder I like travelling so much?

Partially due to the lightness of their carpets, Hayley and Gary are obsessed with people taking their shoes off when they enter their domain too, which is fair enough. Like most people I appreciate that the thought of dirt from the street being trampled into your carpet isn’t that nice, but they are ridiculously anal about it. To the point where I honestly think if there was a fire in the house and Hayley was stuck inside, she’d insist on the firemen taking their boots off before coming in to save her.

Gary’s just as OCD as she is though. His clothes are always immaculately ironed and their bed never looks as though anyone’s slept in it. I love the thought of a child coming along to shake things up in Evans Towers, though I’ll have to take it on special outings to dirty places in order to build up its immune system. I’ll scout out really grubby church halls and play areas, then set the child free to eat stuff off the floor and chew on grimy toys, like babies are supposed to.

I ring the bell, my mind back on the task in hand. When the door opens Gary’s standing there looking as Neanderthal as ever.

‘All right sexy, to what do I owe this pleasure?’ he says, eyeing me up and down. His voice too high pitched for one so muscular.

‘Is Hayley in?’

‘No, she’s getting her nails done. You’re lucky you caught me. I just came home to pick up some paperwork to take back to the garage. Come in and wait if you like.’

I hesitate. Did I really want to sit and make small talk with Gary? Then again, what I had to tell Hayley couldn’t exactly wait.

I shrug and my foot’s only halfway over the threshold when Gary says ‘Your …’

‘Shoes, I know, don’t worry,’ I finish for him.

My heart sinks. Damn, I’m wearing my knee-length black boots, which don’t have a zip. Getting them on is relatively easy, you just sort of pull them on and heave them into position, like adjusting a pair of support tights. Getting them off is another matter though. In the end I have no choice but to sit spread-eagled on the floor and prise them off with the other foot, going red-faced from exertion. This isn’t an approach I feel particularly comfortable taking while Gary’s standing over me, but finally they’re off. As I pull myself back to standing, I feel like I’ve had a workout.

I notice that Gary’s own feet are bare, tanned and pedicured. He obviously has regular sun beds. He pads back towards the front room. ‘Can I get you a drink while you wait. Squash, Coke Zero, Fanta?’

‘No thanks,’ I say, settling myself down on the couch, picking a copy of Grazia off the coffee table. ‘So, congratulations on the baby.’

‘Yeah, thanks,’ says Gary, looking genuinely chuffed. ‘Better be a boy though,’ he adds, which ruins any vague sense of warmth I’d just been momentarily feeling towards him.

‘Er, why? Have you suddenly turned into a nineteenth-century estate owner who needs a son and heir?’

Gary doesn’t answer. He probably doesn’t understand what I’ve said.

‘Be nice to have a chip off the old block,’ he says ‘Though I don’t care really.’

‘That’s good of you.’

‘Tell you what I will be pleased about, is getting some action again. Hayley won’t let me go near her at the moment. Says she’s worried about “hurting the baby”.’

‘Right,’ I mutter, not convinced this is any of my business.

‘Still, when you’re as well equipped in that department as I am I suppose it could be a problem.’

Stunned, I look up from the fashion pages and stare at him aghast. Did he just say what I think he did? To my horror I realise he probably did because he’s staring in the general direction of his horrid crotch, which he’s kind of thrusting. Disgusting.

‘Gary, please don’t be gross. I’ll be sick.’

‘Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it babes,’ he says, at which point I decide it’s time to go. Hayley will just have to wait a bit longer to find out about our dad having returned. I simply cannot cope with Gary and his revolting ways while I’ve got so much on my mind.

‘I’m off,’ I say, making a swift exit, which is hindered by the laborious process of getting my stupid boots back on, while Gary stands and watches again, smirking at my obvious discomfort. I’m totally against adult Crocs, unless you’re a nurse or medic of any kind, but find myself considering investing in a pair I could use when coming round here, to facilitate swift exits.

‘Tell Hayley I called round,’ I instruct Gary, who has seriously crossed the line today as far as I’m concerned. Honestly, just because he’s gone without for a few weeks. I shudder with revulsion.

‘I’ll tell her babe,’ he says, cretinous face leering at me.

Back in the car I wonder what to do. I feel anchorless. I can’t think of anything but what’s happened and the thought of going into work tomorrow and acting like everything’s normal – which I’m going to have to do – fills me with dread.

Right, there’s probably only one thing to do and there’s no point delaying it further, given that I’ve been waiting my whole life for it. I scrabble around in the pocket of my skirt and produce from it the, by now, very crumpled receipt.

After a few more moments of agonising, I take a deep breath and force Gary and his inappropriate comments out of my head, knowing that what I’m about to do will alter the course of my life for ever. It’s time. Time to take control of things, time to make my own decisions. I dial the number.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Just off Romford High Street, on a narrow side road, there’s a small café called ‘Ron’s’ where cab drivers tend to congregate, waiting for jobs to be radioed in. This is the designated spot where I am to meet my dad.

When I got back from Hayley’s, Mum was deeply suspicious when I said I was going out again and interrogated me for ages, so in order to get her off my back, I told her I was off out to meet Jason. I know I’ll have to come clean about what’s going on eventually but, today, I just wanted to leave the house with as little fuss as possible.

I’ve made a bit of an effort with my appearance. I’m wearing a floral tea dress and a little jacket. I’ve also plastered on the make-up. In many ways I hate Ray for everything he’s done and yet I still want his approval and for him to see me looking nice. This is too confusing to analyse at any great length, plus if I stop to think about everything for too long, my head’s probably in danger of exploding.

As I sit on the bus – Mum needs Tina tonight – I try to read a newspaper that someone’s left on the seat next to me but can’t concentrate on the words. I’m nervous, really nervous, about seeing Ray, but also strangely excited. It’s weird. Despite what he’s put us through, I don’t think I could contemplate not trying to get to know him. Of course, the fact he’s so ill has acted as a pretty strong catalyst for me, in terms of making my mind up. It’s not like I have the choice of making him sweat for a few months before agreeing to see him. Though, with regard to that, I’m starting to wonder whether maybe he’s exaggerated his illness a bit, in order to get my sympathy. It would be rather a sick thing to do but given that I’m on my way to meet him now, effective too. My doubts stem from the fact that he looks like such a big strong man. Not one who’ll be going anywhere any time soon.

After a fifteen-minute bus journey and a short walk along the high road, I shove open the door to the café, which was his suggestion for our designated meeting spot. It’s very full.

I’m the first to arrive and manage to nab the only free table left. I feel a bit like a rose among thorns. Grizzled cabbies surround me chatting away, drinking their tea and eating fried food. Still, it’s as good a place as any for our meeting, plus nobody I know is in any danger of popping in. I sit for ten minutes, but don’t mind. I’m early and on the dot of quarter to eight, which is the time we’d arranged to meet, Ray appears.

I smile nervously and half get out of my seat, hovering as I wave in his direction. Once he’s spotted me I sit back down again, awkward and clunky, unsure of how to be.

‘Hi,’ I say shyly as he approaches.

‘All right,’ he says, looking relieved to see me and just as nervous. ‘Do you want a cup of coffee or something?’

I nod even though I don’t really want a coffee. I hate coffee.

The café’s lighting is stark to say the least. It’s perfect for this situation though because I’m fully intent on sussing Ray out as much as possible. As he places two cups of coffee on the table I scrutinise his face.

‘You trying to see whether I’m really ill?’ he asks gently.

I’m startled. Had I been that obvious?

‘It’s all right, I do it myself,’ he says. ‘But just so you know, I am. That ill I mean, and shit as it may be, that ain’t gonna change.’

‘Right,’ I say weakly, desperate for more information but not wanting to ask, in case he can’t face talking about it. However, Ray seems to pick up on my need to know more about his illness because although at first he looks reluctant about doing so, he starts to tell me.

‘Three years ago I was feeling really knackered all the time and then I noticed a bit of blood when I … well, when I went to the toilet and that.’

I nod in order to demonstrate that I know what he’s getting at.

‘Anyway, long story short, they found out I had cancer of the colon, so I had an operation to remove half of it. After that they blasted me with chemo and radiotherapy and for a long time I was good as gold. Until a couple of weeks ago when during one of my check-ups they discovered it was back, only this time it’s spread,’ he says plainly, conveying the facts precisely as they are, so there can be no confusion on my part. ‘It’s on my liver and in my lymph and there ain’t much they can do about it. There are things they can do to help but they can’t cure it no more,’ he says, needing me to get it, needing me to be very clear on the subject. He was going to die.

It’s so horrendous and I wish more than anything that he’d got in touch years ago. Not at this stage, when death’s hanging over everything. So much wasted time, and sad that it took something this drastic to galvanise him into action.

‘You’ve still got your hair,’ I remark cautiously.

‘Well, chemo was a while ago now but also not all types of chemo make your hair fall out anyway. It depends on the drugs they give you, which are all tailored to the individual. I got lucky,’ he adds wryly.

‘I’m sorry, I suppose it’s just that you seem … all right,’ I whisper apologetically, because as much as I know he needs me to accept what he’s just told me, I’m having real trouble digesting it as fact.

‘I am all right,’ he says, nodding in agreement. ‘I really am at the moment. In fact, ever since I got my head round the fact that there weren’t no more they could do, I’ve felt positively good. I get a bit tired and that, sometimes have trouble sleeping, but you know …’ he trailed off.

I can’t bear it. It must be so frightening knowing what pain lies in wait. I can feel terror advancing on me like an army just thinking about it. The certainty of the end is something surely we’re not really programmed to deal with.

‘What about America? They probably have more advanced medicine over there don’t they?’ I say, clutching at straws.

‘A bit,’ he agrees, smiling ruefully. ‘But they don’t perform miracles, which is what I’d need.’

We both concentrate on our coffees for a while until he says gruffly, ‘Nice that you seem to care a bit though.’

I shrug, not sure what I feel really. I mean, if anyone told me they were dying I’d feel sad. It is sad. Tragic in fact. The fact he’s my father makes it even more poignant than if he were some stranger of course, and yet that’s still kind of what he is to me. What do I really know about him after all?

I decide to swerve this potentially thorny subject and instead ask something I’m curious about more than anything. ‘So, while you’ve been going through all of this, who’ve you been with? Are you married? Do you have kids?’ My tone is deliberately light but I can’t look at him as I ask this. It’s something I’ve been fretting about all day, knowing that the answer could change my life all over again.

‘No. I never re-married. I was in prison such a long time and I guess … I don’t know really. I guess it wasn’t something I went looking for again.’

‘What about friends?’ I ask, allowing myself to breathe. I’m relieved there aren’t lots of relatives in the background if I’m honest. But at the same time don’t like the idea that he’s been through all of this on his own. It seems too horrific.

‘Yeah, I’ve got “friends”,’ he says, seemingly mildly amused by my line of questioning. ‘I’ve got some good old mates and the people at the hospital have been amazing too. I’ve had a lot of support and of course there’s my key worker who’s been there every step of the way.’

I must look non-plussed because he goes on to explain.

‘You get assigned a key worker when you find out you’ve got cancer. They’re basically a nurse who makes sure you’re dealing with everything all right, keeps an eye on you. Mine’s called Matt. He’s a top bloke as it goes.’

I don’t know why I’m surprised his key worker’s a man. I’m pleased he’s got someone looking out for him though. Equally I feel saddened and angry because if only he’d thought to find us years ago maybe some of that support could have come from me, his own flesh and blood.

‘Anyway, I didn’t come here to talk about all of that,’ says Ray, determinedly upbeat all of a sudden. ‘I want to know about you Marianne. Tell me everything. What you like, what you don’t like. Have you got a boyfriend?’

I shake my head and stare fixedly into my coffee, which I still haven’t touched.

‘I’m surprised, you’re a pretty girl.’

I blush flame red at this.

‘You should see Hayley. She’s the pretty one out of the two of us,’ I mutter.

Ray suddenly looks a bit sheepish and I guess then that he probably has seen her. I don’t ask. It’s all quite unnerving.

‘So how come you’re still living with your mother then? I would have thought you’d have wanted your own place by now. What are you now? Thirty-one?’

I nod. ‘Let’s just say it’s not really out of choice.’

‘Oh. Right.’

There’s a long silence, which I’m probably expected to fill, but don’t. Eventually he says, ‘So, you’re single, living with your mum, anything else? What do you do? What makes you, you?’

I shrug. I know I’m being very wooden but in reality I don’t know whether I’m ready to have such a personal chat yet. I’m here for answers, not for a heart to heart.

‘Are you gonna help me out a bit here or what?’ jokes Ray nervously.

‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘It’s not that I don’t want to tell you about myself, it’s just … there’s not really a huge amount to say.’ I sigh heavily before eventually giving in. ‘I’m a hairdresser, I live at home because I can’t afford to move out and I’m sort of seeing someone but it’s extremely early days. That’s about it really,’ I mumble, uncomfortable in this odd, interview-like scenario. Doubts over my ability to cope with the situation are creeping in. There’s just so much to absorb and it’s all so … strange.

‘So you are seeing someone then?’ says Ray, leaping on this titbit of information, eager to engage in more of a two-way conversation and displaying over-the-top levels of interest as a result.

‘Well, sort of. I met an Australian guy in Thailand and hopefully he’s coming to London soon.’

‘An Aussie, eh,’ he says in a tone that irritates me. It’s ever so slightly mocking. ‘And Thailand, when did you go there then?’

‘Last year. That’s kind of what I do. I travel. Then, when I’ve run out of money, I come home, work again … at the salon, then I save up until I have enough to go off again.’

‘Right,’ says Ray, still nodding, only I can’t help but notice, he looks a bit bemused.

‘What?’ I say, feeling defensive.

‘No nothing. It’s just … you know, I’ve never really heard of anyone describing “going on holiday” as what they do.’

There’s so much I could say back to this. I have to sort of wrinkle my entire face in an effort not to reply back too forcibly, though what I say still packs a bit of a punch. ‘Well, it’s probably more worthwhile than spending half your life in prison.’

‘Fair point,’ Ray agrees, fists planted squarely on the table. He’s wearing the same black leather coat he was wearing the other day and his shoulders are so broad in it, he’s practically the same width as the table. He’s slim though. Despite his big build he certainly couldn’t be described as a fat bloke. He’s just very tall. He’s wearing a gold cygnet ring on the little finger of his right hand and everything about his presence is big, in a way that could be reassuring or menacing, depending on how you viewed him I suppose.

Another silence follows, one that definitely couldn’t be described as comfortable. Feeling deflated I start fiddling with the packets of sugar that are on the table in an aluminium pot. I realise in that moment that I want so much from this man, want him to be so much, the reality can’t possibly measure up. Then he says, ‘You like your music then?’

I nod, feeling immediately defensive and inexplicably like I might be about to cry. This is so much harder than I thought it would be. I swallow hard and stare at the table.

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