‘Yes, of course,’ he replied. ‘How are they?’
‘That’s none of your business.’
One–nil, she marked on an imaginary scoreboard.
‘Don’t be childish,’ he snapped. It was the first time he’d grown impatient with her.
‘Don’t you dare call me childish.’ Her voice deepened. ‘Don’t you dare.’
‘I’m sorry, that was wrong of me.’ He began to feel a dull ache in his head. He knew what it meant.
For the first time since the ghost appeared, she felt she had the upper hand. Now he wanted something from her, and she could either pretend her kids’ lives without him had been a bed of roses, or twist the knife by telling him the truth.
‘For the record,’ she answered finally, ‘I have raised three wonderful, loving children. And none of it has been thanks to you.’
It was only then that she noticed he’d been holding his breath, waiting for confirmation they were all well. She felt her eyes narrow when he let out a barely audible, but relieved sigh. She remembered they had a father too. It had been a long time since she’d thought of him as that.
So she made a snap decision to explain their ups and not to exploit their downs. And she’d make sure he understood that, in retrospect, she wouldn’t have changed a minute of their lives without him for anything.
CHAPTER NINE
CATHERINE
Northampton, twenty-four years earlier
15 April
It was my own stupid fault for not thinking it through properly. It didn’t happen straight away, but cracks gradually appeared in the kids after I admitted I no longer thought Simon was alive.
Despite the birthday card they’d made me with just the four of us drawn on it, they’d quietly held on to the hope he could still be found. Then I’d opened my big mouth. They didn’t know how to express their grief other than to be angry with someone. And as he wasn’t around, I took the brunt of it.
Becoming a single mum was made all the harder having known what it was like to have shared the responsibilities. Now I was forced to make decisions on my own. I was good cop and bad cop; nurturer and provider; friend, parent and enemy. I permanently sat under a cloud of guilt – guilt over how I used to drink; for telling them off when they were naughty; for neglecting them when I worked; for letting their daddy vanish . . . for everything.
Of course, they were too young to recognise my limits, what buttons not to push, so reacted to not getting their own way by erupting like small volcanoes, which in turn released my changing emotions towards Simon. I was grateful he was never far from their thoughts, but I also longed for the time when he’d gradually fade from their memories. It was selfish, I knew, but it would make my life much easier.
James rebelled by upsetting others. I was called to his school several times by his headmistress because of his temper. Eventually she had no choice but to suspend him for a week after a fight that left another boy missing a tooth. I tried spending that time rationalising, sympathising and punishing him, and I thought I was getting through to him. Then Roger brought him home one night in a police car after he was seen throwing stones at cars parked outside the church. I was back to square one.
James was furious at his dad for leaving him, and I was at my wits’ end. He lost interest in playing with the friends he hadn’t walloped, so he took his animosity out on his battle-weary toy soldiers and Ninja Turtles, staging bloody battles to the death. He even stopped reading the Hardy Boys books Simon had bought him, or watching fat men in colourful leotards wrestle on Saturday afternoon TV.
He only seemed to find a kind of peace when he was playing his records. He spent all his pocket money on CD singles, which gave me an idea. I dragged the old acoustic guitar Simon had given him for his fifth birthday from where James had shoved it under his bed. I dusted it down, paid to get it restrung and handed it to him for a predictably underwhelmed reaction.
‘I’ve also bought you these,’ I added, passing him a Teach Yourself Guitar book, along with some sheet music from his new favourite group, U2.
‘Do you think they got where they are by just bloodying their knuckles and getting kicked out of school?’ I asked, quietly assuming that’s where and how all rock stars indeed got their first taste of anarchy.
He shrugged.
‘Well, they didn’t. They worked at their music until they could say what they wanted with it. If you want to be like them, you can start by learning how to play this. If you enjoy it and practise every day, I’ll pay for proper lessons for you. And one day, you might even make a record of your own.’
Of course, I was sure he wouldn’t, but a little white lie wouldn’t do him any harm. A tiny, curious glint appeared in his eyes, but he tried to hide it. And when he thought I wasn’t listening, he began learning chords behind his closed bedroom door.
Over the weeks his enthusiasm came loaded with its own problems, namely the repetition of hearing ‘Mysterious Ways’ – strummed dreadfully – again and again until the cows came home. But if it kept his mind busy and his fists occupied, my sanity was a small price to pay.
But poor Robbie was a different kettle of fish altogether.
1 May
Convincing James he could become the next Bono was a doddle in comparison to coaxing Robbie out of himself. I’d underestimated how deep his problems lay.
As he grew from baby to toddler to little boy, I’d accepted he wasn’t like his brother or our friends’ children. He was a sensitive, insular child who carried the weight of the world on his young shoulders at a time when it should have been carrying him. He could make a minor problem ten times worse by dwelling on it rather than sharing it with me.
And while James and Emily were adapting to a new set of rules, Robbie retreated further into himself. I needed one of those small forks you get with a plate of escargots in a French restaurant to pull him out from his shell.
His teachers said he behaved well. He was intelligent for his age and his spelling and maths were way above his six years. But he had no interest in showing how bright he was in front of his class. Socially, he was becoming reclusive.
Robbie seemed to enjoy his siblings’ company – he just didn’t need it. They hit brick walls when they begged him to join in with conversations or to play. And, gradually, he used words less and less, until one day, he fell completely silent.
In her usual matter-of-fact way, Paula tried to convince me he was merely looking for attention, while Baishali was more sensitive to my concerns. And after a week of constant quiet, I was out of my mind with worry. So began a series of doctor’s and child psychologist’s appointments, until eventually we found ourselves sitting in a room with a specialist in mental welfare.