Page 119 of The Last Train Home
‘About what?’
‘About not having a clue what I’m doing.’
‘You will. And I’m here to do all the heavy lifting. And if you need a shoulder to cry on, when it all gets a bit too much …’
I finish his sentence for him. ‘Then I can lean on your shoulder?’
‘No way,’ he says with a sideways smile. ‘You can just mainline that box of Kleenex I’ve provided over there. I don’t want to know anything about it.’
‘Sod!’ I say as something catches my eye over on the bookshelves. ‘Tom, you kept it … all this time?’ I say as I see the grey Beanie Baby propped up on his hindquarters.
Tom smiles and then says quietly, ‘Of course.’
There’s noof courseabout it. I don’t know what to make of him keeping it. I don’t want to read too much into it. I remember that day, that night with him, dancing in the club, the impromptu trip to McDonald’s. I wonder if he attaches any significance to that or if it’s me being ridiculous. After all, it’s only a toy.
‘I take it you didn’t keep yours?’ he asks casually, but his eyes are locked onto me.
‘Of course I kept mine,’ I say. ‘I left it here when I went to Asia. But I kept it.’ In truth, it was important that I left it in the UK – important that I didnottake it with me, when I was supposed to be starting a new life with Sean. It stayed at Mum and Dad’s. Out of sight. Out of mind. As Tom was supposed to be, but never quite was.
We’re quiet for a moment.
‘Shall I make us some coffee or tea or … ?’ Tom asks, delicately slicing through what might have become an awkward silence.
‘No,’ I say. ‘I’ll make it and you sit down. You’ve earned it. After his protestations I begin hobbling around in the kitchen, familiarising myself with the layout and where the cups and coffee pods are kept. I’m desperate for something caffeinated. I can feel him watching me. For reasons that won’t present themselves, I can’t work out if I like it or not as Tom’s eyes trail me around the kitchen. I glance at him and he smiles, then looks away, almost embarrassed. And then, when I glance back, he’s crouched on the floor, trying to fit the overhead toys to the bar on the bouncer chair for my little girl to look at. My heart lifts itself into a place I didn’t know existed. I look back at the coffee machine. Have I put in a pod already? I’ve driven myself into a state of confusion.
From the chair my little girl screams with ferocity, suddenly making even Tom jump.
‘Boobs,’ he says loudly over her crying, which makes me sputter with laughter.
‘Is that shorthand forthe baby would like to be fed?’ I enquire.
‘It is. It’s faster to say.’
I can’t help but chuckle again, and sit down while Tom lifts her out and lowers her down to me. It’s so fluid, easy. Why is it so easy to be with Tom, like this, when our lives are now more complex than ever? It should have been easy back then, only it wasn’t.
I’m thinking about this so much that I stop thinking about the process of breastfeeding – my movements now natural. It’s become so normal to simply open my shirt, unclip mymaternity bra and flop out a boob that I do exactly that now, without a second thought. Tom gasps audibly and spins round, crashing into the changing unit.
‘Fuck! Forgot that was there. Sorry. I didn’t mean to look.’
I can’t reply because I’m laughing, and now baby’s struggling to latch on because my shoulders are shaking so much at Tom’s reaction. My newborn cries loudly with anger and rage that the boob she’s so desperate for is just out of grasp, shaking as I laugh. I lower it into her mouth and she suckles me eagerly. Tom’s still facing the corner of the room, like that scene inThe Blair Witch Projectthat always wigs me out.
‘You don’t have to do that,’ I say. ‘I think about a hundred student nurses and doctors got an eyeful of my breasts and my nether regions over the course of my stay there. What’s one more showing?’
‘Yeah, but …’ I think I can actually hear him swallow. ‘It’s your … I don’t—’ He stops.
None of those words made a sentence, and I close my mouth and make an unattractive snort from the back of my throat. I cover over the top of my boob, but there’s very little I can do about the bit where her mouth is.
Tom turns round, his hands over his eyes, and tries to navigate his way over to the coffee machine. I’d forgotten I’d been halfway through doing that.
Maybe itisn’tactually that easy being here with Tom, like this. Maybe this is going to be odd, awkward. It kind ofisalready odd, awkward, and to spare his blushes I say, ‘Do you know they put a catheter up me?’
‘What?’ he says, spinning round and catching sight of my half-uncovered breast and then spinning immediately back towards the coffee again.
‘I didn’t even know,’ I say, attempting to keep some level of normality between us. ‘One of the nurses came in to change it, and I had to confess I didn’t even know one was up there.’
He makes a whimpering noise and his stance at the coffee machine changes. He closes his legs tightly and I laugh again. Is Tom a bit squeamish?
‘Explains why I didn’t need to use the loo for twelve blissful hours,’ I continue. ‘Then they took it out and made me get up and walk.’
