Page 50 of Statistically Speaking
Karim returns with the drinks and his usual selection of snack products. For a PE teacher, he puts away a lot of junk food.
“Okay,” he says, sitting down next to me, “I have just one more thing to suggest for today.”
“Unless it’s a shower and sleep, I’m not sure I’m up for it,” I reply.
Sleep, I know, might be hard to come by tonight—and not only because of the day I’ve had. The students are going to need some supervision, and it seems unlikely that I’ll get through the whole evening without being disturbed by someone or something. Entirely possible it will be Lucy climbing out of the window so she can have a night on the tiles.
“Well, Geoff with a G, as you always call him, sounds like he was a great bloke.”
“He was. One of the few.”
“And you lost touch with him as well?”
I pull a face and nod. “I did—but I think that was the right thing to do, really. I mean, he was a great bloke, like you say, but he was just doing his job. Admittedly doing it well, and definitely doing more than he needed to, but it’s not like he was my friend or anything. He was ancient—or at least he seemed it at the time. I invited him to my graduation, as a kind of thank-you, really, and after that—well, I had his work phone number, but that was it. I knew he was there if I needed him, but I didn’t.”
I shrug, wondering if this sounds harsh. It didn’t feel it at the time, and I was sure Geoff had lots of other people to help. We just both seemed to know that it was time to let go, to drift out of each other’s orbit.
“And what about the woman you lived with? Audrey, was it?”
“Now, she did die, I know for certain. I googled her for some reason a few years back—one of my rare idle moments—and found a local newspaper article about it. She’d fostered overa hundred kids, apparently. I sent a card to her husband, but that’s a—”
I pause, wrinkling my nose.
“You want to say ‘dead end’ but think it’s in poor taste, don’t you?” he responds, smiling.
“Yes! And Audrey was good to me, in her own way. She wasn’t one of those touchy-feely mumsy types—she was quite professional and strict with us all—but I actually appreciated that. She gave me a lot of stability at least. So. What’s your cunning plan?”
“It’s not exactly cunning. I’m not sure it’s even a plan. But his name isn’t that common, so I thought maybe we could find him online? I had a quick look while I was at the bar, and there are some on Facebook that look about the right age.”
He gets out his phone and leans close as he shows me the screen. I flick through them, cursing the ones with avatars and pictures of motorbikes as their profiles, and finally come across one that could very well be Geoff with a G.
I get my own phone out instead, and find the right page. He has the privacy settings on so I can’t see posts, but I can see a photo and a brief “about” section that describes him as “Dad, granddad, fan of fishing, retired social worker.”
I enlarge the picture and stare at it as I sip my fifth-ever brandy.
Obviously, he looks older. He has different glasses. Less hair on his head, more on his face—but the same kind smile that I first saw when I was sixteen, sitting across from him in his cubbyhole office at the hospital, determined not to like him or to admit that I needed anyone.
“I think it’s him,” I say quietly. “But I’m not quite sure how you think it will help?”
“I think, my darling girl, that it will help in a few ways. First of all, he might know more about what happened to your mum—I presume he met her, knew about her situation? Maybe even liaised with her caseworker or whatever?”
I nod. All of that is true.
“So, social workers are like teachers—they talk to each other. They swap stories. They stay in touch. So he could be able to fill in some of the gaps for you. But also—well, maybe it’d just be nice? To say hello to him? I bet he’d be so proud of what you’ve made of your life.”
I look away from the phone and into Karim’s eyes. I make a promise to myself that I will never take this for granted—this support, this encouragement, this strange belief he has in me. If only I could always see myself through his eyes—sometimes I think he perceives a totally different Gemma than me.
“You’re kind of cool,” I say. “Do you know that?”
“I do,” he replies, shrugging. “Just comes naturally, what can I say? Now send the man a message!”
I nod, send off a friend request, and type a message.
“He probably won’t even remember me,” I say as I tap the keyboard, a few bland lines reintroducing myself and saying I hope he’s the right Geoff and if not, to ignore me.
I finish off, put the phone down, and drink the brandy. I feel strangely better—maybe it’s simply getting away from the place I grew up. Or actually doing something that feels proactive.
Now, of course, I have to wait—in the same way that I am still waiting to hear from my daughter. My whole life seems to consist of waiting.
