Chapter 14
14
PAPA DON’T PREACH
Becca
I’m excited about our trip. Ridiculously excited. Even if it will involve a yurt and meeting new people and probably some weird workshops. Three things that would usually send me into a tailspin of anxiety.
That I’m so excited probably says a lot about how little I’ve managed to get away from normality over the last few years. It’s been so infrequent that I’m at the stage that even a night in a haunted hotel being forced to watch Mrs Brown’s Boys reruns on a loop while someone scrapes their fingernails down a blackboard beside me would sound a little appealing.
Between raising the boys and simply trying to get the bills paid and the dog looked after, nights away from home have not been on my list of priorities. Admittedly the boys and I did get a night in a hotel when we went to my cousin’s wedding – but I’m not sure sharing a hotel room with two twelve-year-olds, as they were then, off their tits on Fanta counts as a relaxing break.
I’d stayed in a Travelodge when I’d dropped the boys at university but I was too emotionally fragile to fully appreciate the luxuries of a budget hotel buffet breakfast.
But apart from that, I am embarrassingly not well-travelled. My boys have seen more of the world than I have thanks to Simon taking them on holidays. I am, at least, grateful for that.
Last year, when we uncovered the time capsule, I made myself a promise that I would finally make plans and start to travel to far-flung places. It’s what sixteen-year-old me dreamt of. While I’m pretty sure Inishowen doesn’t count as ‘far-flung’ by anyone’s standards – being just an hour’s drive from home – I quiet her with the reassurance it’s just a start.
Having the girls with me will make it extra nice. It will make it feel special – a little like those girls’ holidays we dreamt of all those years ago. That’s enough to make me look forward to it. It’s even enough to make me feel less guilty about using the weekend to go to a ‘Female Empowerment’ retreat instead of blocking out some much-needed time with Conal. Thankfully he has been more than understanding, if disappointed. ‘It’s work,’ he reminded me when I felt that disappointment wash over me too. ‘You have to go. It’s too good an opportunity.’
He’s right, of course. It’s exciting, or it will be after I get through some of the less appealing conversations I have to have with both my mother and Simon.
Adam offered to talk to them both himself, but I’ve known him long enough and well enough to recognise the flicker of panic in his eyes as he told me that. Telling his granny, and his father, that he is going to be a dad is a lot for a nineteen-year-old to deal with. Even one as sensible and reliable as Adam. In fact, maybe even more so given his reputation as the sensible and reliable one. I know my son is cut from the same cloth as me. A cloth that is permanently terrified of disappointing people.
Surprisingly perhaps, the person he is most worried about disappointing is not his father but rather his granny. He revels in her pride at his achievements and can’t bear the thought of upsetting her.
It doesn’t matter that I’ve told him a hundred times over there is nothing he could ever do that could change how she feels about him. My mother loves him and his brother more than she loves the children she actually birthed herself. I knew this within seconds of the first time she and my father met these tiny, pink-faced little babies who had just arrived in the world kicking and screaming. My mother had held Adam, and my father had cradled Saul, and I had witnessed their transformation into doting grandparents in all its immediate and overwhelming glory.
As for telling Simon, well, there’s a different kind of trepidation tied up with that one. Adam fears his dad will lecture him and tell him he’s ruining his life – choosing to focus only on the negative aspects of parenthood and not the blessings. If we’d describe Niamh’s Paul as being a ‘bit of a dick’ about the situation , then it’s likely Simon will react in way that makes us see him as a ‘whole dick, and balls’ about things.
Simon’s not a bad person, per se. Yes, he did up and leave me with two shellshocked nine-year-olds when our marriage crumbled around us, but apart from that , I can see that he tries. I’ll give him that. A solid B for effort.
He tries to be a hands-on father with the twins but he always seems to shoot himself in the foot by saying or doing the wrong things just as everything has reached a peaceful impasse.
He will unleash the side of himself that is prone to overreacting instead of taking the time to listen, and think through his response, before he opens his mouth. And I’m often left to pick up the pieces and try to put everything back together after.
I dread to think what absolute clangers he’s likely to drop in the course of this conversation, so Adam needs me to be there, and more than that, he needs me to bring my A game with me. I need to be calm, rational and on his side. I have to realise this is not about me, but instead entirely about my son and his new family.
Adam and I plan Operation Break the News with military precision. We know we have to schedule our metaphorical bombshells to land at times in the day when the recipients are likely to be most receptive to listening and giving us their full attention.
For example, everyone who knows my mother knows that you do not try and conduct a conversation with her – no matter how important – when Coronation Street is on. There is nothing, she insists, in this world so important that it can’t wait half an hour so she can catch up with the latest events on the cobbles. We often joke that if Jesus Christ himself decided to descend from the heavens to bestow onto her all the mysteries of this world and the next, she would make him take a seat and keep his mouth shut until the Rovers Return was closed for the evening.
As for Simon, it’s always wise to make sure he has been fed and watered and has changed out of his work suit into his joggers and T-shirt. Even more advisable to wait until his two younger children – Saskia and Theo – are in bed. This is especially important today because they love the very bones of their big brother and the last thing he needs is to have them clinging to him demanding he play when he’s trying to have a serious conversation.
In what is either an act of self-preservation, or absolute masochism, we decide to get both of our visits over and done with on the same night.
We debate which order to carry them out in, and not just because of the timing of Coronation Street and the bedtimes of Adam’s half-siblings.
We wonder if we should face the potential shitshow with Simon first, and then uplift proceedings by visiting my mother afterwards. Or do we gird our loins with the love and acceptance of Granny Burnside before we walk into Mordor (aka Simon’s house)?
In the end, we opt for pulling the stickiest plaster off first and going to see Simon. After a pep talk to end all pep talks, we get in the car and set off, but very soon I can tell that even my most encouraging words aren’t hitting quite where I hoped they would.
As we park, I turn to face my son and even though it’s dark in the car, it’s not dark enough to hide the fact he is a sickly shade of grey.
‘Darling,’ I tell him, taking his hand, ‘you’ve not hurt anyone. You’ve not done anything wrong. You’re having a baby. You and Jodie are approaching this with so much maturity – more maturity than I’d have had, or your dad would’ve had, at your age. You keep that very firmly in your thoughts as we talk to him.’
Adam nods and gives my hand a squeeze. ‘I will, Mum. I just hope he doesn’t start talking about it like it’s the worst thing in the world that could ever happen. We didn’t plan it, and in an ideal world’ – he pauses and takes a deep breath – ‘well, ideally we’d be older and settled, but it is what it is and this baby is my son or daughter. I don’t want to listen to Dad or anyone else talk about it like it’s a disaster in the making.’
My throat tightens. I’m momentarily overwhelmed by the emotion – and more specifically the love – in my boy’s words. He’s right, of course. This is his baby in the making, and my grandchild for that matter. Whether we chose for this little life to come into ours now or not is largely irrelevant – they are already on their way and now we just have to celebrate that and make the most of it instead of treating it as a tragic event.
‘You’re absolutely right,’ I tell him, and I’m struck by a wave of maternal love and a protective instinct so strong I’m tempted to turn the key in the ignition and just drive home. I want to take him away from the possibility of anyone saying the wrong thing.
At the same time, I know I’d not be doing him any favours by putting this off any further. And who knows… Simon might just surprise us.
* * *
Simon does not surprise us.
It initially looks like he might. He nods and sits back in his chair, his face emotionless, and he says nothing. I’m happy with that. I’m perfectly okay with Simon Cooke saying nothing and continuing to say nothing for as long as possible. But of course, he has to speak eventually.
‘Oh, son,’ he says, his voice laden with woe. ‘What a colossal fuck-up.’
I immediately feel Adam bristle beside me, and that sense of irritation quickly moves, like a Mexican wave, right into my bones.
‘Simon!’ I chastise. ‘It’s not the end of the world!’
‘The boy is nineteen! He’s just gone to university. He has his whole life ahead of him and now what? He’s going to be saddled with a baby for the rest of his days. How’s he going to provide for it and get his education? Dear God, Adam, do you not know how to use protection? You’ve no idea what responsibility is about to be landed on your shoulders. You can’t just hand a baby back when it gets too much!’
‘Really?’ Adam says, and there’s a steely determination to his tone. ‘Because isn’t that exactly what you did? Walked away from us when it all got a bit much? I know we weren’t babies. Maybe it would have been easier if we were. Maybe we wouldn’t have felt so rejected. So I don’t think you’ve any right to be lecturing me on how to deal with responsibility.’
My stomach clenches. A mixture of pride in Adam and anger at Simon. And a healthy dose of guilt that our failed marriage has clearly left its mark on our son.
‘It wasn’t like that,’ Simon sputters while I sit frozen to the spot, not sure what to say or if I should even speak at all. ‘I didn’t hand you back or walk away because it got too much. Things weren’t working between your mother and me and it was better that we went our own ways.’
‘Better or easier?’ Adam asks, and I feel my face burn.
‘It wasn’t easy,’ I mutter, almost afraid to say the words out loud.
Both men stop and turn their heads to look at me, as if I’m the oracle of this situation and know exactly what pearls of wisdom to share.
‘It wasn’t easy,’ I repeat with more confidence. ‘But it was better for us all.’ I smile apologetically at Adam. I don’t want him to think I’m taking Simon’s side, so before my ex-husband has the chance to plant a smug expression on his face I speak up again. ‘But that doesn’t mean it was easy. Especially not on our boys. Nor does it mean, Simon, that this situation is a colossal fuck-up. Or that Adam isn’t aware of the responsibility he and Jodie are taking on. They are smart young adults. Smarter in a lot of ways than we were when we started our family. And they have support around them. Me. Niamh. Saul. Whatever they need. Obviously, we’d like to include you – and Jessica and the kids, for that matter – in the equation, but if you can’t be a helpful part of it then we will manage well enough on our own. Still, we thought you had a right to know and we’ve fulfilled that responsibility. The next move is entirely up to you.’
Dear God, but I’m proud of myself, I think, as I finish my second Jerry Maguire–esque speech of the week. My voice has not even wavered and while I can’t say Simon looks wowed, he does at least look chastened.
‘Come on,’ I say to Adam. ‘Let’s go and leave your father to mull it over.’
The two of us leave Simon’s house in silence and it’s only when we reach the car that I dare breathe out.
‘Mum, that was so bloody cool!’ Adam says, grinning.
‘Mind your language, Adam,’ I find myself saying, and it’s as if I’m hearing my mother’s voice leave my own mouth. So I very quickly throw in a ‘but it was bloody cool, wasn’t it?’