Love Is a Secret (2 page)

2

SUSAN

05:28

This little bear can make your dreams come true by Christmas! Just send him to six friends and then make a wish. You’ll also be automatically entered in a draw for a free trip to Paris. Do not delete this email or your wish won’t come true!

This has been brought to you by www.whatmumsknow.co.uk, a new website for mums everywhere. Check us out for news, views and tips.

One of Susan’s treats – as her friend Joy said, they had few enough – was to get up when Tabitha was still asleep and surf the internet. But Susan didn’t see it as surfing; more like dipping her toe into the water of a world where she wasn’t any different from other mothers – at a time when the house was peaceful enough for her to think clearly and simply be herself.

The website, which had been advertised on the centre’s noticeboard, looked intriguing.
What Mums Know
. . . It had a comforting ring to it, reminiscent of butterfly cakes with squidgy icing,
Blue Peter
and
The Archers
, her favourite radio programme.

This little bear can make your dreams come true . . .

One simple wish that would change her life. Wave a magic wand and be in Happy Ever After Land, as shown on her very own screensaver. There it was: the photograph of Tabitha’s christening, which she had copied on to the computer as a self-imposed daily penance: a reminder of what might have been. Herself, slim and smiling in her peacock-blue floaty Monsoon outfit, head nestled against Josh’s broad shoulder. And in her arms, a cream lacy shawl that had belonged to her great-grandmother. Somewhere inside it, Tabitha lay sleeping peacefully. Not knowing any better. Blissfully in the dark, just as her parents had been.

Susan moved the mouse to return to the bear and, as she did so, her arm knocked her thesaurus, so useful for crosswords, on to the floor. There was a little whimper from the room next door and Susan held her breath. Don’t wake up. Not yet. This was the only time she had to herself before a long day of nappies, feeding, mopping up rejected meals from the floor and hauling the wheelchair in and out of the bus.

Silence. But there
had
been a noise. Perhaps she ought to check Tabitha. But that might really wake her up. Besides, it was so reassuring sitting here, checking out different sites, glancing at the news headlines and Googling whatever took her fancy – like holidays she couldn’t possibly afford. In the old days, before Tabitha, she’d read proper books. Always had her nose in one, her dad used to say. But now there wasn’t time so instead she surfed or read her inbox. Of course, you got some weirdos, like strangers trying to sell her Viagra or cosmetic surgery, or someone informing her she’d won a million quid in some dubious-sounding lottery. But it was exciting. Like opening a surprise parcel every day. Take this sample tip from
What Mums Know
: You know the mesh bag that comes with Persil tablets? Keep it to store pound coins in.

The computer had been a gift  from her father. ‘It’s not new. Someone was selling it at work,’ he’d said brightly, when he arrived unexpectedly one weekend. ‘But it’ll do the job. We can email each other and it will give you something to do.’

What he’d meant was that it would give her something
normal
to do, and he had been right. She avoided the links to the numerous self-help groups for special-needs kids because that wasn’t what she wanted. But the news items got her brain cells working again – as did the online crosswords. On good days, even Tabitha could type at the keyboard in her own one-fingered way.

Briefly, she skimmed the homepage again.

What Mums Know
is a new website for mums everywhere! Some of us work and some of us are full-time mums. We want to share chat, tips and experiences. If you’d like to join us, please register below.

An ordinary website for ordinary mums with ordinary kids! A website where she could ‘talk’ to people without seeing automatic pity in their eyes as they glanced down at Tabitha in her wheelchair. Susan got so fed up with talking to other ‘disabled mums’ at the centre. All they did was discuss their problems. There was a preschool nursery for ‘normal’ kids there too – next to their bit – and she often envied the parents with young children who could already talk and walk better than Tabitha and her friends.

Maybe she
would
sign up for
What Mums Know
. Susan allowed the cursor to hover over the space for a username. But no. She was far too boring. Susan was the kind of woman who always replaced the loo roll before the last square ran out, who returned her library books on time, who never had anything interesting to talk about any more. That was what Josh had said before he left. And more.

She looked out of the window at the early-morning mist nudging the top of the rape fields, and breathed in their inimitable sweet smell. Pale colours were breaking out through the haze in an arc. A rainbow! Susan felt a prickle of childish excitement. That was it! ‘Rainbow’ suggested someone who was always smiling, never complaining. The kind of person she used to be and whom she wanted to be again – a woman who sprayed Nina Ricci into the dimples at the back of her knees, who never went out without her makeup and fitted effortlessly into a size ten. A girl, for that was what she felt like inside, despite everything, whose striking auburn hair was cut in a soft bob every five weeks instead of tied back with a scrunchie because she had neither time nor money for regular cuts.

That was
definitely
a whimper from next door. Hurry. Susan’s fingers flew over the rest of the form. Details of children – names and ages. Hobbies. Send.

‘Mummummum.’

‘Coming, Tabs.’ Susan jumped up, wincing as she knocked into the chair behind her, bruising her shin.

‘Mummummummum . . .’

If she didn’t hurry, the bed would be even wetter.

‘Mummum.’

One wish
. Susan closed her eyes tightly, as she had in childhood to pray. A teddy wish. A prayer. A scream. A shout. What was the difference? Paris . . . She’d always wanted to go to Paris. Josh – such a dreamer – had promised to take her one day.

‘The Eiffel Tower,’ he had crooned, in a lumpy bed during their honeymoon in wet Weston-super-Mare. ‘That’s where we’ll go when we have the money.’

She’d believed him.

‘Mum!’

‘I’m here, Tabitha. I’m here.’

She could smell her daughter from the doorway. ‘It’s all right, love. It’s all right.’ Holding her breath, she reached for the thick kitchen roll she kept in her room for this purpose. Where was the disinfectant? There. Almost empty.

‘Don’t worry, love. We’ll have you clean and dry in no time.’ Puffing with the strain, Susan supported her daughter as they waddled together to the bathroom. A stand-up job in the bath except Tabitha didn’t do stand-up very easily. Warm flannel over private parts that any other twelve-year-old would never have let her mother see. Over the last few months, she’d seen the shame in Tabitha’s eyes when this happened. Her daughter was no fool: she knew all too well that she was different from others. Susan patted the last bits dry. ‘See? All nice and clean again.’

‘Smell, smell.’ Tabitha was urgently pointing to the bathroom shelf.

‘What do you want, love?’

‘Smell, smell.’ Tabitha’s eyes were feverishly insistent.

‘But you don’t smell any more, love . . . Oh, I see.’

She wanted the cheap talcum powder that sat on the shelf along with other necessities, like incontinence pads. Powder that Josh had sent two Christmases ago, and Tabitha treated as reverently as if it were frankincense or myrrh.

‘Just a bit, then.’

Susan shook some over her daughter and rubbed it in. Tabitha smiled toothily.

‘We’ll get you some of your medicine. OK?’

Tabitha grimaced. The poor kid hated the medicine their GP had prescribed for her loose tummies and Susan didn’t blame her. It smelt horrible. It would also help if she could get the flipping top off. Child-proof, it said on the bottle. More like parent-proof.

Susan tussled with the plastic lid and cursed softly as it came away, spilling the contents over her dressing-gown, the carpet and Tabitha’s clean pyjamas. It was sticky too. The kind of stickiness that didn’t always come out in the wash. She could have cried but Tabitha’s wary eyes stopped her. It was at times like this that she needed someone else around: someone to help her put spilt medicine into perspective.

‘See?’ she said, forcing herself to sound bright. ‘I’ve made a mess too!’

Tabitha’s face relaxed.

‘Down it goes,’ said Susan, popping the spoon into her daughter’s mouth. ‘Good girl. Now I’ll just mop up this mess and we’ll have breakfast. OK?’

Swiftly, she washed her hands, which were always red and raw from being in water so much. Her ring finger remained misshapen from the pressure of her wedding band, even though she hadn’t worn it for years. The bareness still startled her. In the distance, she could hear a tractor purring. In a minute, she’d turn on breakfast television, and maybe later she’d have a chance to explore the
What Mums Know
site.

‘Ready for breakfast, love?’ she said cheerfully.

Tabitha nodded.

Susan repressed the sigh that was fighting its way up her chest. Think of something nice. Thick wholemeal toast, oozing with butter and marmalade. Food. Meals. As Joy said, few pleasures came three times a day so they might as well make the most of it.

3

MARK

06.40

This little bear can make your dreams come true by Christmas!

Delete, damn you. Delete!

Mark’s finger stabbed the button on his laptop, but nothing happened. The bloody thing had frozen and he knew why. Florrie had been downloading music from one of those illegal sites again. Not only was it illegal but it also – according to the geek at the computer shop – introduced viruses that gradually crippled the machine: it got slower and slower until it ground to a halt.

That was probably why he was getting rubbish like this. Someone really should do something about the amount of spam that got through, despite so-called filters. The only reason he’d got up at this unearthly hour was to check his inbox in case someone had sent him something urgent for work, not to waste time on rubbish – but you had to open these things to make sure they weren’t important. It only took a few seconds but they added up.

Turn the machine off, then on again. Pathetically simple but it often worked. Sure enough, it was OK now.

Mark stared at the screen, rubbing his eyes and making a mental note to get them tested. What was
What Mums Know
anyway? Probably some self-help group that had bought his address from one of the countless mailing lists he was on. That was one of the problems with being a self-employed public-relations consultant. You gave out your email address to all and sundry and ended up in address books across the world.

Do not delete this email or your wish won’t come true.

Mark snorted. He’d always hated Paris – at least since he and Hilary had had their honeymoon there.

He drained his coffee mug and rubbed the stubble on his chin. You wouldn’t get a man writing stuff like that. Then again, you wouldn’t get a man giving you suspicious looks at the kids’ holiday club, which started – shit! – in precisely an hour and a half.

He had to log off soon – there was so much to do. Get the kids up. Make their packed lunches, providing there was bread in the freezer. Stop off on the way to holiday club to fill up with petrol.

His own Inbox of Life was so full he’d have given anything to delete the lot. Apart from the kids, of course.

What Mums Know
is a new website for mums everywhere! Some of us work and some of us are full-time mums. We want to share chat, tips and experiences. If you’d like to join us, please register below.

Mark nibbled his thumb, as he always did when he felt uncertain. He had so much to do but the email was difficult to ignore. Take the ‘full-time mums’ bit. Not ‘dads’. Not even ‘parents’.

Typical! As though only a woman could do the job! Which was exactly what the parents at the kids’ old school in London had probably thought when they’d cold-shouldered him every morning.

We want to share chat, tips and experiences.

He hesitated. It would be nice to do that with a faceless group of mums who wouldn’t make judgements or, as had happened once in the school car park, an unexpected pass and, on another occasion, a comment from a father that might or might not have been racist, depending on the interpretation. He’d like to know how to deal with Florrie’s moods, and whether it was relatively normal for an eleven-year-old to push other kids about or whether Freddy really did need help, as that irate mother had complained to the holiday club last week . . . God, he could write a book about what he needed to know.

There was no one he could ask. Daphne, Hilary’s mother, did her best but she was of a different generation. And now he was no longer in an office environment, he had no one to take out for a drink and pump for parental advice. Besides, he didn’t know any other man who had full-time care of the kids.

If you’d like to join us, please register below.

He’d have to be a woman or it wouldn’t work. Dishonest? Yes. But useful. And refreshingly anonymous.

Username?
Mimi
. A sort of derivative of his own, which meant it wasn’t really cheating. Children’s details? He’d be truthful about that or the advice wouldn’t be pertinent.
Florrie, 12. Freddy, 11.
Hobbies?
No time.
Work?
Home-based public-relations consultant with quirky sense of humour.

Send.

Right. A quick flick through his other emails. Nothing that couldn’t wait. Check out History. Nothing. That meant the kids had deleted the websites they were on last night, which also meant they probably weren’t suitable. Mark did his best to check what they were on, usually by walking in unexpectedly, but otherwise he had to hope the NannyOnline system was up to Mary Poppins’s standards.

Spyware Search and Destroy. Do you want to update?

Definitely. Awful how saddos with nothing better to do could penetrate your messages unless you had the right protection. A bit like sex. Not that he’d had any, recently.

Delete email wish from
What Mums Know
, even if it did bring bad luck, and wake up kids.

‘Morning, Florrie, time to get up.’

There was a whiff of cheap scent as a half-dressed Florrie, in a little pale blue bra and pants set she’d bought last week, glowered at him. ‘Dad, I’ve told you before. Knock first!’

She was right. Embarrassed, he turned his head away. ‘Sorry but we’re late.’

When had she started to get breasts? How did she know the bra fitted properly? He’d have to ask Daphne. She’d love that. ‘Freddy, are you up?’ No danger of bras here. Just legs and stale air. ‘For Chrissake, Freddy, don’t kick! It hurts. And don’t think you can hide under the duvet like that. It’s time to get up.’

‘Fuck off, Dad.’

His hand tightened on the doorknob. ‘Don’t talk to me like that!’

‘Fuck off.’

In his day, ‘language’ had meant French. Nowadays kids seemed fluent in Obscenity. Angrily, Mark yanked open the striped blue and yellow curtains, which Hilary had put up in another life, letting in the morning sunlight. ‘Right. You’re banned from the computer tonight and for the rest of the week.’

‘So?’ Freddy’s spiky hedgehog hair, bearing the remnants of yesterday’s gel, made him seem even more defiant.

Ignore him. It’s a stage, gut instinct told him, for what it was worth. ‘Give him a good smack,’ was Daphne’s view. Maybe
What Mums Know
could suggest a compromise.

Mark flung his son’s jeans on to the bed. They were frayed and grubby at the hems, reminding him that he should have washed them ages ago. His own weren’t much better, but working from home meant he didn’t have to worry too much about that. ‘I wish you’d behave for once. It would make my life so much easier. No wonder—’ He stopped, appalled at what he’d been about to say in anger.

‘No wonder what?’ said Freddy, from under the duvet.

‘Nothing.’

‘
What?
’

‘No wonder we’re late for holiday club,’ said Mark.

‘Don’t want to go.’

‘Well, I’m sorry but you have to. I’ve got to work. Now come on. And please,
please
, don’t lose your temper with the other kids today or we’ll both be in trouble again.’

Freddy scowled.

When had his little boy started to do that? At what age did children’s unlined faces develop frown lines?

‘Dad!’

Florrie was calling him from the kitchen. A smell of burnt toast floated up to him.

‘My legs are upstairs. I’ll be down in a minute.’

If he could have divided himself into two, he could have got things done so much faster. It used to annoy him when Hilary said she only had one pair of hands, but now he knew what she’d meant.

‘Freddy?’

‘What?’

‘If you could make one wish, what would it be?’

‘What are you on, Dad?’

‘I’m serious, Freddy.’

Something flickered in Freddy’s blue-green eyes and, for a second, Mark saw the little boy he had been.

‘I’d wish Mum was here.’

Of course. Mark wrapped his arms round his son. ‘She will be soon.’

‘Get off, Dad.’ Freddy lashed out with his fists, just missing him.

‘And get out of my room.’

Hurt, Mark moved away. ‘Not till you turn that music down. What the hell is that rubbish?’

Freddy’s eyes flashed. ‘My band, actually – Space Cadets.’

Mark gulped. Before they’d had to move here, Freddy had formed a band with his London friends. He’d been happy then, had lived with his guitar strapped to his hip. They had made a demo, and Mark was going to help them send it to some music companies. (It might not get anywhere but the boys were so keen, it seemed wrong to dampen their enthusiasm.) Now he’d destroyed what had been possibly the last vestige of his son’s confidence.

‘It’s only that it’s a bit loud,’ said Mark, hastily, in an attempt to repair the damage.

Freddy turned away from him, face to the wall. ‘You don’t like it.’

‘Well, the lyrics are quite rude, aren’t they?’

‘We'll put a Parents Advisory warning on it,’ mumbled Freddy.

‘Well, how about guitar lessons again, instead of the trumpet?’

With any luck, it might be less invasive on the eardrums.

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I can’t be arsed. Get out, Dad.
Please
.’

Suddenly there was a sound like a wardrobe crashing to the floor. Where did they get ring tones like that and how much had it cost? ‘Your phone,’ said Mark, wearily. ‘I’ve told you before not to have it on at night next to you.’

He picked it up and Freddy snatched it. ‘Give it here.’

‘OK, OK! I wasn’t going to read your text messages. Now, change, will you?’

Permanently, he added silently. Not just out of your pyjamas but with a lobotomy on top. ‘Then come down for breakfast.’

Freddy put his head under the pillow. ‘Not hungry.’

‘You’ve got to eat or you won’t get through the day.’

‘How are you going to make me? Feed me like a baby or some spastic?’ His voice was muffled.

‘You know, Freddy, today’s politically correct term is “special needs”. You and I are very lucky to have the use of all our limbs, and one day you might just realise it. And, in answer to your question, yes, maybe I will feed you, if that’s what it takes to get breakfast down you.’

Mark knew he was descending to his son’s level but he had a cousin, now in a home, who had never been able to walk or speak and his son’s comments had disturbed him. He’d always tried to explain social compassion for others but it looked like he’d failed.

Again.

‘Dad.
Dad!
’

Florrie was yelling up the stairs now. Always yelling. Never coming to find him.

‘What?’

‘There are flames coming out of the toaster.
Quick!
’