Page 59 of Secrets of Starshine
“No, thank you, Cally. I think I just need to get my girls home.”
“Okay,” I reply, keeping my tone light despite how worried I am about him. “I’ll just go and say goodnight to the patient then.”
We walk into the living room, and find both girls happily munching away on Connie’s home-made chocolate chip cookies. Lilly looks exhausted but nowhere near as dramatically strung-out as she was when we first arrived – a combination of the magical power of cookies, and the comfort of having her dad back home again I suppose.
“Right, come on then,” says Archie, “time to go home! If you feel like it we can all have hot chocolate and watch some cartoons before bed.”
Meg’s eyes light up at this exciting prospect, but Lilly isn’t as keen. She is staring at her skinny knees, one bandaged up and one made entirely of bright red scrapes.
“I don’t want to do that,” she announces. “I’m very tired and I just want to go to bed. And I want Cally to come and read me a story.”
Archie freezes in his tracks, and I see him and Connie exchange an astonished look. I remember what he told me all that time ago, about how his little girl had refused to let anyone read to her since her mum died. I can almost feel the tension in the air as he gazes at me, eyebrows raised. I nod, telling him that I can do that, feeling like I have somehow done something very wrong without meaning to.
“Okey doke,” he says, recovering enough to at least sound normal. “Off we go.”
He scoops Lilly carefully up into his arms, and Meg holds up hers for me to carry her, attaching herself to me like a little monkey. We leave Connie at the door, looking wistful, and make the short journey through the night back to their home. We are all silent, the girls exhausted, me uncomfortable, Archie lost in his own thoughts as he opens the front door.
The girls traipse upstairs, and Archie goes with them. I hear the sounds of bed-time – teeth being brushed, loo flushing, doors opening and closing. I lurk at the bottom of the steps, unsure as to what to do. Eventually I decide that the only way is up, and follow them. I head along that corridor, filled with pictures and drawings and framed evidence of their lives together, and towards Lilly’s room.
I peek my head around the door, and see that Meg is sleeping in here as well, but instead of being on the bunk, Archie has dragged the mattress down onto the floor for her to lie on. She is curled up in a ball with her plushy dinosaur, and her eyes are pretty much already closed.
Archie tucks her in, leans down to give her a final kiss on the forehead, and does the same for Lilly. As he turns to leave the room, I see such sadness and pain in his eyes that I want to reach out, hold him, comfort him – because whatever he is feeling right now, whatever turmoil all of this has stirred up inside him, it is clearly hurting far more than a scraped knee.
He nods, and gives me half a smile, and disappears through the door. I stare after him, then squeeze my eyes shut and tell myself to get a grip. First rule of parenting: never let the kids see you’re upset. I get it.
I walk over to Lilly, perch on the edge of her bed by her side. She passes me a clearly much-loved copy of a book calledFirst Fairy Tales. The dust cover is torn, and the pages show the folds and creases of long use, and I can’t even bear to check the title page in case there is some heart-breaking message from her mum. That would just be too much.
She snuggles up closer to me, resting her head on my lap, and tells me she thinks she’d like the Princess and the Pea. I flick through the pages, admiring the pretty illustrations, and find the story she wants.
It has been a very long time since I’ve done anything like this, but I still remember the simple joy of lying in bed with Sam at night when he was little. He lovedThomas the Tank EngineandGuess How Much I Love Youand one about baby owls looking for their mum, but his absolute favourite wasWhere the Wild Things Are. I’d have to read it with gusto, throwing myself into it, and each time his eyes would light up with absolute amazement as Max sailed away to his adventures. Eventually we both knew the whole story off by heart. I could probably still recite chunks of it now.
Lilly settles, and I start to read the story to her. I use silly voices and make her giggle, and we both laugh as the poor princess tries to get comfy on twenty mattresses but still feels the pea digging into her. It only takes about five minutes, but by the end she is almost zonked out, eyes still open but flickering closed.
“Hey,” I say gently. “Do you want to hear a joke?”
She nods tiredly, and I ask: “What do you call a really smelly fairy?”
She screws her eyes up for a minute, trying to figure it out, then shakes her head.
“Stinkerbell,” I tell her, giving her a soft kiss on her forehead. She giggles, and lets me move her head onto the pillow as I tuck the duvet around her. Within seconds her eyes flutter shut, and she joins Meg in the land of slumber.
I stare at Lilly’s sleeping face for a while, with its scrapes and scratches bright against her pale skin. I smooth her hair back, and feel such a rush of affection that it threatens to overwhelm me. Something about sleeping children just has that effect on me, and I stand up and tip-toe out of the room before I become a blubbering wreck.
I pause outside their door, and take a few deep breaths. Archie was right – this night has definitely not turned out the way we imagined it would. Life is indeed a roller-coaster.
Downstairs, I find Archie sipping a glass of water, waiting for me in a way that suggests he might have been pacing the room.
“Is she okay?” he asks quietly as I emerge.
“She’s absolutely fine,” I reply. “Fast asleep, no worse for wear. Are you all right?”
I close the distance between us – physically at least. He takes an almost unnoticeable step back, and I stop myself from reaching out to touch him. Just a few hours ago we were flirting, laughing, enjoying a heady mix of friendship and what-might-happen-next. Now, he is standing right next to me, but feels like a stranger.
I tell myself that I am being silly. That I am over-reacting. That he has had a stressful night, and I need to give him time to unwind, to process. I tell myself that, but I’m not sure I’m being very convincing.
“I’m fine,” he says quickly, gulping down more water. “Just…well, you know, it’s not nice seeing them hurt, is it? Feeling like you’ve let them down? Anyway. Thank you, for your help. I’m pretty whacked myself, think I’ll turn in for the night.”
I nod, and grab my coat. In a different mood, I’d have joked – asked him if he wanted a bed-time story too – but this isn’t the right time. Archie looks like he might never laugh again.
