Page 109 of For Real

“God no. Never. Not with me.”

Relief rolled through me, and then I felt like a hypocrite. I was quick enough to react to the possibility of other people hurting Toby, noticeably less so when it was me.

He stared blankly at his tea. “My grandmother married really young just to get away from him, and she wouldn’t let him near my mum when she was born. But then when she got pregnant—my mum, I mean—and they threw her out, suddenly he was there, supporting her, taking care of me. He had one of those…baby carrier things you strap to your chest. Used to carry me everywhere like a little monkey.”

I reached up and peeled his fingers off the cup. He didn’t resist when I took it away and put it down, just held my hand instead. “People change. There’s nothing strange or wrong about it.”

“I guess. He had to have this operation, you know, in like the sixties or seventies. He was injured at Dunkirk and shrapnel got in his heart, so this doctor came all the way over from America to get it out. It took like nine hours or something, and he had this massive scar running all the way down his front and his back. Everybody thought he was going to die. My mum thinks that’s what changed him.”

“Does it matter?”

For a moment or two, he didn’t say anything. Then he shrugged. “I guess not. Not anymore, anyway.”

It was harder than I would have imagined possible to see him like this, so uncertain and so sad, but he was still my boy, my Toby, still so full of light. I could picture him in some churchyard, a small splash of dark beneath a grey sky. And I should have been there beside him. He shouldn’t have had to mourn alone. I hated myself for that. “The fact he treated other people badly doesn’t change the fact he loved you.”

“No, I know. It’s just”—he squeezed my fingers—“kind of lonely.”

I swallowed, guilt and shame, pain and love twisting together inside me like wire wool until I wasn’t sure how I could bear it or keep it all contained.

“Like normally,” he went on, “all the love and loss and all the rest of that shit is spread around, but there’s just me. He was there for me my whole life. How the fuck am I supposed to make that matter enough?”

I pressed myself against his leg, my face usefully hidden against his thigh, and tried to give him some sort of answer. “You grieve and you remember and you live.”

My voice must have betrayed me because his free hand curled into my hair and pulled a little, as if he wanted me to look at him. “Laurie, are you crying?”

Fuck. I was. Horrible, sticky tears that burned in my eyes. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“Are you really crying for me?”

Apparently so. As if it could somehow ease his pain. Another tug made me lift my head, and I glanced up at him, embarrassed and wet-eyed, helplessly hurting for him.

“God.” His thumb swept under my lashes, gathering caught moisture. “Wow.”

“I know it’s not about me,” I mumbled, “but I’m sorry I wasn’t there with you, and I’m sorry for your loss, and I’m sorry it’s been difficult for you, and I’m sorry it’s probably going to be difficult for a while. I wish I could make that better, but I know can’t.” I took a deep, ragged, teary breath. “And I’m really sorry I’m crying like an idiot, because I have no fucking idea why I’m doing that.”

“‘S’okay.” He tumbled off the sofa and into my lap, and kissed me through a mess of hopeless words and salt. “It’s…nice. It helps. Everything kind of comes and goes. Like sometimes I feel so nothingy it’s almost like I’ve forgotten he’s dead, or maybe I’m dead or something.” He curled into my arms, and I wrapped him up as tight and safe as I could. “Cry for me, okay? Since I can’t right now.”

So I did, just for a little while as I held him, and Toby told me stories of his grandfather—a man who had fought a war, made terrible mistakes, and learned so very late in life how to love.

Later, I carried him upstairs, undressed him, and took him to bed. At first we simply lay, our bodies entwined, but then we came together more certainly, more urgently, seeking each other in kisses and touches, some scattered words and a few more tears, and Toby mastered me with nothing but himself.

* * *

I woke in the early hours of the morning to discover I was alone. My first reaction was a wave of panicky abandonment followed by visions of a grief-stricken Toby wandering the streets of London in the middle of the night. Common sense reasserted itself as sleep receded, and I realised it was far more likely he was just somewhere else in the house. So I slipped out of bed, pulled on my dressing gown, and went looking for him.

I found him in the living room, cross-legged on the floor, his hands full of rope. In the flicking light from a black and white movie, he seemed to be practicing knots from a battered copy of The Boy Scout Knot Book.

He flinched when I put a hand on his bare shoulder. “Couldn’t sleep?”

“Sorry. I didn’t want to wake you.”

“Always wake me.” I knelt down next to him. “What are you doing?”

He shrugged. “Dunno. Thought it might help or something. Give me something to do with my brain that isn’t think about Granddad. It’s…it’s like the emotional equivalent of having a tooth out, y’know? I keep touching the space with my tongue to make sure there’s really…nothing there.”

“Oh darling.”

He rubbed the heel of his hand across his eyes. “Wish I could cry. That’d be normal, right? And then I could get better.”

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