Go to Sleep (3 page)

Suddenly salvation; a voice called out to him.

‘Richard. Richard!’

We stopped, spun round and peered through the flitting silhouettes. A woman was waving him over – a big, hugely fleshed, bob-haired lady, absurdly garbed in a traditional Masai gown, her face flushed and merry. As we got closer I recognised her from Dad’s extended circle
of colleagues – Maxine Da Souza from the School of Cultures. Spectacular and vast in the company of four or five diminutive Indian men, she waved again to make sure Dad had seen her.

‘Shit,’ he said through gritted teeth. He forced a smile and put a hand on my shoulder, whispered down to me. ‘Wait here, Rache, otherwise we’ll never bloody get away. Don’t go wandering. You’re my get-out! Hear me? Stay right here.’

Stay right here? No chance. I watched with amusement as the exuberant Maxine engulfed Dad in her bosom, immediately swaying her hips to the music, and implicating him in her lascivious dance. I kept them in sight as I began, inch by inch, to back away. Then, certain I was out of range, I turned and ran as fast as I could, back in the direction of Big Mamma’s mobile canteen. I was intoxicated. Ruben was my mission and the very act of tracking him was magical in itself. I could have stayed all night, chasing the promise of this enchanted other-world, walking round and round the park, drinking it all in; the noise and laughter and the constant sub-bass rumble. And the crowds, the boys, all those knots and sways of beautiful, dangerous lads; their dapper dads and uncles, all drinking from yard-long cans of Red Stripe; and the girls walking five abreast, linking arms and twitching their bums as they giggled and acted coy, although their eyes were a dead giveaway. Their eyes were alive with the same life-force that was coursing my veins.

I slowed my speed once I was in the thick of the throng, tried to walk loose and sure, but the twinkling makeshift lamplight in the trees tailed out as the path shrank down to nothing and suddenly all ahead was darkness. I narrowed my eyes to follow a vague flit of movement in the trees; money changing hands. Ahead, a small group of men and the intermittent amber glow of cig and spliff, bobbing up and down in the dark. Angry, frightened dogs growling; I’d wandered far enough. I turned with all the nonchalance I could muster but, anxious now, kicked purpose into my stride as I headed back up the pathway to the main festival site, and the big iron gates beyond.

I could see Dad again now. He was laughing, his head thrown right back. He was fine. He’d forgotten about me. And I was a moment away from calling out to him when suddenly Ruben was at my side.

I felt the carnival rush away from me, the music fade down to a distant thrum. All I could hear was the boom-boom-boom of blood in my ears, taste the metallic panic in my throat.

‘Not leaving already, are you?’ he said. ‘It’s only just kicking off.’

He’d changed into jeans and a fresh t-shirt, but his skin gave off the faint scent of slightly rendered sweat; oil, spice and sweetness. I turned my head slightly as I struggled to come back with something clever.

‘I’ve got to get the old man home,’ I said and nodded
over to Dad, now dancing gamely with Maxine. ‘He’s on curfew.’ Ruben stared at Dad then back at me, unsure. My face flamed up. ‘I know,’ I laughed, torn right through with the love of my father yet humiliated at the sight of him; his suit, his dancing, his too-shiny, fussy shoes.

Ruben watched Dad dance a second longer then shook his head, amused. He turned to me, looked directly into my eyes.

‘Fancy getting off somewhere?’

‘What? Right now?’

‘Yeah. Now.’

My silence said Yes. Yes. Take me somewhere – now. And then he was leading me away from the gates, away from the lilting peal of the steel drums. We ducked through hedges and holly bushes, away from the crash and clamour of the carnival, down towards the lake.

‘Here. Just hold my hand.’ And, God! Just touching his flesh, the lightning bolt struck me from nowhere, my tiny hand swallowed up by his big, soft palm.

Ahead of us was the bank of the lake and beyond it, the tiny little island with its hillock, jutting from the tangle of nettles and vine.

He went first, balancing precariously on struts of wood, a jetty submerged just below the surface of the water.

‘Watch my feet, yeah? Don’t look forward, just follow my feet.’

‘Is it safe?’

He laughed to himself as though he’d never given this, or safety, much thought.

‘You just have to know where you’re going, is all.’

As nimble as a goat he stepped, without hesitation, and with one final, protracted jump, we were on the islet, facing the sound and light of the carnival – and facing each other. I was anxious now. Would this be it? Would we do it? Would he have me here on the floor, just like that? Sensing my hesitation, he took me gently by the hand and pulled me down. We sat in silence for ages, staring out over the water. We barely breathed. I clenched myself tight, desperate to give nothing away – yet how I was dying for him to just dip down and kiss me.

And then it happened, out of nowhere; he kissed me, full and deep, and my head span with the suck and probe of his lips and the strange sepia shadows that danced around us. We stayed necking, on and on, deeper and deeper into each other as the cowl of night laid down low across our fevered groping. It came easily to me, what to do. I felt him through his clothes, made him gasp. I wanted to see it and feel it, but couldn’t jam my hand down the front of his jeans, couldn’t prise it out. I let his hands go everywhere, his big fingers on my thighs, working under the hem of my shorts. The sensation of giving in, of letting him, was strong and shameful, and I knew that we should stop, and that I would never stop.

But then came the sound of shouting, a mad, jittery calling from the other side of the lake.

‘Ray-chul! Rache!’

Dad. Dad and his friends, all calling out my name – politely. I could hear it from here – he didn’t want to cave in to his worst fears. He wanted to trust all was well in this best of all possible worlds. I turned to Ruben.

‘Shit. Sorry.’

‘Nah.’

‘
Yes
!’

I needed him to see that I would have done anything; whatever he asked. He got up, adjusted his dick through the denim. I hung my head, let out a long sigh.

‘Want me to hang back and that?’

I jumped up, horrified.

‘No!’ I stared right into his eyes, trying to find the right thing to say – the thing that would please him most. ‘Please don’t say that.’

‘Sure?’

‘Yes!’

‘Your aul’ man won’t like it.’

I took his hand. Me, the fourteen-year-old veteran.

‘We walk out together. Okay?’

And there was something teasing, something superior in Ruben’s eyes. It wasn’t nasty, nothing malicious; but he knew better. And he was right. We hopped back across the stilts of the rotten jetty, through the undergrowth and back round towards the gates. As the bright lights of the park entrance illuminated us, Dad could not disguise his horror, his fear. As we got closer he looked
relieved for one brief moment, then horribly, desperately betrayed.

‘Rachel!’ Confused, he was addressing me but trying to smile at Ruben, knowing he should not be leaping to conclusions; any conclusions. ‘Where on earth? I distinctly told you . . .’

Ruben was on it straight away. He smiled to himself, but he was hurt.

‘Well. There you go.’ He pecked me on the cheek, gave Dad a look. ‘Safe and sound.’

And with that he was gone. Dad and I walked home, saying nothing till we reached the bottom of our road. Dad caved first, his need to know devouring him.

‘That boy . . .’

‘What about him?’

‘Did you . . .?’ He couldn’t say it. I knew full well what he wanted to ask. Dad exhaled, tetchy, and tried again. ‘Did you just meet him this evening?’

I jabbed my finger at him, furious.

‘You of all people, Dad! How
dare
you?’

Dad took me by the shoulders, tried to joke my fury away.

‘Rachel. You can’t just go wandering
off
like that.’ But it was eating him up. He had to say it; he had to get it said. ‘You can’t
do
that with just
any
one.’

I smiled. My dad the reggae fan, the tropical medicine man, the traveller through Africa who lived and breathed this culture – he loved it at arm’s length.

‘Let’s say what we mean here, Dad.
Articulate
your fears.’

And he was angry, then.

‘You’ll understand, one day. When you’ve got kids yourself.’

All I could think was that I would never, never forgive him for this.

The Somali team scrambles an equaliser. I smile and touch my belly. The sky blackens so I make my way home. It’s teeming gently now – late September rainfall. As I turn on to Belvidere I spot Vicky from the National Childbirth Trust group. She was the first to have her baby; I shall be the last. She’s stooped over one of those ultra-padded buggies, struggling with the rain shield. I shout to her, raise a hand but she doesn’t notice me. I can’t go any faster. I shout again to warn her but it’s too late – a lorry blares past, soaking her completely. As she splutters and wipes herself down, a car full of young lads deliberately swerves into the gutter, spraying a jet of rainwater all over her. Suddenly I feel uneasy and step back behind a tree. Vicky snaps up the brake and drags the buggy away from the kerb, cursing at the boy racers.

I know I should go over, invite her up to dry off, feed
the baby. Equally I know what’s preventing me. It’s stupid, it’s selfish, but it’s important too – to me it is. Vicky will do that thing of asking if I want to hold her baby; she’ll think she’s being nice. I’ll have no choice but to feign delight and offer up my arms. And it’s not that I don’t want to hold
her
baby, I just don’t want to hold
a
baby. Not yet. The truth is I’ve never held a newborn before; I changed a nappy for one of my teenage mums once – although honestly the toddler should have long been toilet trained – but I have never been intimate with a newborn. Towards the end of our NCT classes, they brought a new mum in from a former group and we were invited to hold her baby. I made my excuses and left. At the back of my mind, ever since I saw that kidney bean on the screen, I’ve always had it that the moment should be special, the moment they heft
my
child on to my chest. I’m saving myself, as fluffy and girly as it sounds. For my baby. For him. I want it to be brand new, I want it to be perfect. I’ve got this far.

I turn and let her go.

The NCT classes were Faye’s idea. She just appeared at my desk, that permanently concerned expression etched across her brow. She gave me the leaflet but, no time to read it, I put it on top of all the other jumbled correspondence, smiled a quick ‘thanks’ and turned back to my laptop to let her know I was busy. Faye jabbed a finger at the leaflet.

‘It’ll be a chance for you to meet new mothers,’ she exclaimed, tapping the NCT logo. ‘Excellent organisation – if you’ve got half a brain. And you’ve definitely got half a brain.’ My face must have said it all. I picked up the leaflet again to humour her. ‘Don’t be like that. You’ll be glad of the support when you’re stuck in that flat of yours, going out of your mind. You know what they say about strength in numbers.’

‘God, Faye – you make it sound
sooo
appealing!’

She snorted and batted my objections away with a flap of her hand.

‘Look, love – all I’m saying is it’s your first. You’ll be glad enough of the company once the baby’s here. Who else is going to be as fascinated as you are by the colour of your baby’s doings? Hey? Only the other mums.’

‘Now you’re
really
selling it.’

She picked up the phone, passed it to me. Gave me The Look.

‘Go on.’

I sighed and shook my head, made a big thing of taking the receiver.

‘If it gets you off my back. But I guarantee you, Faye mate, I will have
nothing
in common with those women.’

About that, I was right. I didn’t bond with any of the other mums and it was crazy of Faye to hope otherwise, just because we all happened to have had sex around the same time. But still, I’m glad I went and it’s good that
she made me. I found myself genuinely enjoying the classes, and I’ve more than had my money’s worth. And they
are
a good bunch really – just chalk and cheese to myself when it comes to the things that matter. None of them is big on music, or walking, or movies; all of them are living with the fathers of their babies. I’m neither bashful nor proud about Ruben. I made my decision. I’m comfortable with it. That’s that.

We did have a few things in common. We were all early thirties or thereabouts; we were all first-time mums; and we were all soon to be negotiating the great modern challenge of working parenthood – another thing dear Faye has been needling me about.

‘You only get one shot at this, love. There’s no reason on earth you have to come rushing back here.’

And she’s right, Faye is absolutely right about that – in theory. In practice, I just don’t see how this works without me there to cajole, bribe and bully my clients into making the choices that might somehow improve their prospects. And, if I’m honest, do I really want to hand over to Siobhan? Let’s see how she gets on without me to hold her hand, ha! She may turn heads but I don’t see Shiv turning young lives around.

But the baby, the baby. Who will look after the baby when I go back? There’s no one; or no one I’d trust, at least. Christ, he’s not even born and I’m already a slave of guilt to my bambino! I smile to myself, flushed right through from head to toe at the thought that soon the
little mite will be squinting up at me through tiny, squiffy eyes.

I let myself in through the front door. I’ve barely managed two flights of the five when my work phone starts to ring. I have to sit down just to fish it out from my bag – how the hell will I haul a toddler up here? I don’t recognise the number. I’m tired now; hot, wet through and aching all over, desperate just to soak in the bath, take the weight off for a while. My mobile has rung off by the time I retrieve it. I heave myself up, praying it doesn’t ring again. It does.