Mia and my son are sitting on the opposite side of the wooden table to Dave and I in our local pub’s beer garden. She and Finn have returned from the bar with a tray of drinks. I think she always offers to help him so that she isn’t left alone with us. I can’t blame her for that; I’d rather not be alone with her either. No matter what I say, it’s always the wrong thing.
I am really trying with her after Dave suggested it would be in everyone’s best interests if I made more of an effort. ‘You two don’t have to be friends,’ he said, ‘but you need to find a way to make it work.’
Of course I’m protective of my son, but that doesn’t mean I’m unwilling to share him. I want to like Mia as much as Finn does: Emma and I got on like a house on fire, so I know it isn’t me. Mia just doesn’t want to be my friend. I have tried and tried with her but she never meets me halfway and there’s only so many times you can keep going down that road only to be caught in a cul-de-sac. ‘I’ll do my best,’ I promised him.
I lift my half-pint of lager shandy and it feels heavy with my weak wrist. My occupational therapist has put me on a new medication. It’s supposed to help relax my muscles and relieve spasms. It works intermittently and the side effects aren’t pleasant – diarrhoea and a sore throat when I wake up most mornings. If I mix the tablets with too much
alcohol, I end up forgetting things. And I can’t afford to do that.
This is Dave’s third beer, I’ve been counting them. And I suspect this isn’t the only occasion alcohol has passed his lips today. Though he arrived at the pub straight from the building site he’s been labouring at, I’m sure I smelled beer on his breath when he kissed me. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t concerned about how often he’s been using drink to get him through the day. I’ve noticed the whiskey in the booze cabinet has slipped down to just below the label. It was still above it earlier in the week.
He also doesn’t know that I’ve found the bottle of prescription tablets he hides in there. I don’t recognise the name on the label – Antoni Kowalski – and I had to google the words Leki Przeciwbólowe to discover it was Polish for painkillers. It’s not like Dave to keep something from me. For the time being, I’ve held off asking why he needs them but I’m sure it’ll be his back that’s causing him trouble. The older he gets, the less willing he is to admit work is taking its toll on him.
A sharp cramping seizes my left leg and I press hard into the flesh at its source. It really hurts, as if someone has stabbed me with the red-hot blade of a knife then left it embedded. I stop myself from yelling, so my family and Mia are none the wiser. The worst part is that I know this is only going to get worse over time. I’m only in my early fifties, but feeling increasingly like a knackered old horse heading for the glue factory.
I have been relying more on Finn for help recently. To be honest, I don’t always need him, but show me a mother who doesn’t want to spend time with her son and I’ll show you someone who hasn’t raised him properly. Then my heart sinks when I remind myself of the time limit my diagnosis set upon us.
‘We have something to tell you,’ Finn begins, pulling me away from my pity party. He removes a white envelope from
his back pocket and slides it across the table. ‘Open it,’ he says.
Inside is an ultrasound image. Clear enough, but it still takes a moment for it to register. ‘You’re pregnant?’ I say to Mia and she nods.
I look to Dave, who’s as shocked as I am. ‘How?’ I ask them.
‘I hope I don’t need to explain it to you . . .’ Finn chuckles.
‘The natural way,’ Mia says. ‘After the operation and all the IVF attempts, nature won in the end.’
‘And you’re sure?’ I ask.
‘Fourteen weeks,’ she says and clutches my son’s arm tighter, like a boa constrictor wrapping itself around its prey.
As Dave rises and shakes our boy’s hand, I offer her a polite hug neither of us can wait to break from. But when I get hold of my son, I don’t want to let go.
‘I’m going to be a granny,’ I say, scarcely believing my own words.
Mia, Finn and his dad continue to talk but I’ve vanished into my own little world again. I’m picturing how our lives will alter with a new addition to our family. I can see myself pushing a pram with my grandson inside it; I’m texting photos of him to my friends; I’m watching as Finn holds him as preciously as I did that first time with him. Then I realise I’ve already allocated this child a gender.
Reality bites hard and fast. I won’t get to be a grandmother for long, I think and the wind leaves my sails. Dave’s right. I’m going to need to work much harder on my relationship with Mia if I’m to make the most of the time I have with my grandchild. I have to find a way to make her realise I can be her friend and not her enemy. I can only hope that she does the same with me.
TRANSCRIPT OF INTERVIEW CONDUCTED WITH JILL MORRIS, FRANCHISEE OF COSTCUTTER SUPERMARKET, STEWKBURY
I was on my way to the shop to cover the lunchtime shift when the first responder’s car passed me. It pulled up outside the house where all the work was being done and I assumed there’d been an accident. An ambulance followed a minute or so later with its blue lights flashing, and I wandered down the road to see what was going on. And not long after, they came out with someone lying on a stretcher, their head and shoulders in one of those cervical collars and arm in some kind of splint. There was so much blood on their face that I couldn’t even tell if it was a man or a woman, but they were definitely unconscious. That was probably for the best, judging by the state they were in.
