‘Have you travelled far?’ Margaret offers a cautious smile, pouring tea from a brown-speckled pot. She’s wearing a long, ankle-length floral dress. Bleached-blonde hair flows around her shoulders.
Olly’s mother has never left the 1970s, fashion-wise. I suppose it was the decade she felt her best. Before everything went wrong with Olly’s father.
It’s Saturday and we’ve agreed to meet in the Hyde Park pavilion – miles from Olly’s flat, and miles from my new house, although Margaret doesn’t know how many miles.
Neutral ground.
Anonymous.
‘Not too far.’
A young waitress in jeans and a black apron clinks another teapot onto the table. ‘Fruit tea?’ the waitress asks.
‘Thank you,’ I reply. ‘And there was a juice too.’
‘Oh. Right.’ The waitress puts a hand to her forehead. ‘For the little boy. Sorry. I forgot.’
Tom sits on Margaret’s lap playing with Duplo bricks, sorting them into colours. Tom’s too old for Duplo now, but these are the only toys the café has and he’s a good boy, not making a fuss.
Tom talks about colours as he sorts: ‘This one is green. Another blue.’
Margaret gives me a look. She knows what colours mean. ‘Are you feeling a bit out of sorts, Tom?’ she asks, cuddling him extra tight. ‘Must be a bit strange. We haven’t seen each other in a while, and now we’re meeting up in this new place.’
‘I like the café,’ says Tom. ‘I’ve missed you, Granny.’
Margaret gives the waitress a joyous smile. ‘This is my grandson.’
The waitress feigns interest. ‘That’s nice.’
‘Isn’t he lovely?’ says Margaret. ‘I’ve really missed him.’ She turns to me. ‘And I’ve missed you too, Lizzie. I been worrying so much. It’s a lot you’re taking on: new house, new life. I’ve been where you are, love. Making a new start. It’s hard. How have you been?’
‘Really busy,’ I say. ‘With the house move and everything – it’s been hard to keep on top of things.’
‘So, have you moved out of London?’ Margaret asks.
‘I can’t tell you that,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry. In case you accidentally mention something. I don’t want Olly knowing where we live.
‘I’d never tell Olly where you are. You know that, love.’
‘I know. Not on purpose. But sometimes things slip out.’
‘You cut your hair. That’s a big change. It looks lovely.’
‘Yes.’ My hand goes to my new short haircut. It’s been neatened by the hairdresser and I’m growing more pleased with it by the day. It suits my face, actually. I have delicate features, like a ballet dancer. I was drowning in the long hair Olly liked.
‘This isn’t such a bad place, is it?’ Margaret gestures to the café, with its huge windows and wrought iron tables. ‘A bit expensive, but you can’t have everything.’
‘We can’t stay long,’ I say. ‘Sorry. Tom has a doctor’s appointment later.’
‘Oh?’ says Margaret.
‘We’re still trying to find out why he had the seizure.’
‘I thought they said it was a one-off.’ Margaret rearranges Tom so she can dig into a huge shopping bag placed by her plimsolls.
‘Yes. But he hasn’t been right since he had it. He’s dazed sometimes. Disorientated. Zonked out. He goes to bed so early and he had a terrible nosebleed.’
‘I’ve got a few bits and pieces in here,’ says Margaret. ‘Transformers magazine. A few other things. We’ve got a lot of catching up to do.’
‘Tom,’ I say. ‘Say thank you.’
Tom blinks blue eyes. ‘Thank you so much, Granny. You always get me the best things. You always know.’
Margaret’s face crumples. ‘Have you missed your old Granny then?’
‘Yes,’ says Tom. ‘You’re like a big rainbow. All different colours.’
‘Oi, less of the big!’ Margaret chuckles. ‘How long do I get to see you today? Is there time for a play in the park?’
Tom looks at me, and I give the tiniest shake of my head. ‘We have to see the doctor.’
‘Sorry, Granny,’ says Tom.
‘Oh, come on,’ Margaret colludes. ‘Just a little play.’
‘I’m sorry, Margaret,’ I say. ‘We’ll arrange a longer visit soon. We’ve just been so busy.’
‘All right, love. I know it’s tough, fitting everything in.’ Margaret arranges her presents on the table. ‘How’s your new school, Tom? Making lots of friends? Have you got yourself a best mate yet?’
‘Sort of,’ says Tom. ‘There’s this boy in my class – Pauly Neilson. He’s looking out for me.’
‘He’s a little thug,’ I say.
‘He’s okay,’ Tom insists. ‘I just have to keep on the right side of him. The kids that don’t … his big brother comes after them.’
‘They’re trouble, Tom,’ I say.
Tom’s pale forehead creases. ‘They’re not really. Well, not much. They’re too scared of the headmaster.’
‘You should stay away from those boys, Tom. Meet some other kids.’
‘Is he a bit cheeky then? This Pauly?’ Margaret probes, grinning and showing black spaces around her molars.
Tom takes a big sip of juice. ‘Yeah.’
‘Like your mum says, just stay out of trouble,’ says Margaret, wagging a finger. ‘Your dad was a bit naughty at school, you know.’
Tom’s juice carton slips from his fingers. It falls onto the table, watery orange squirting from the straw.
‘Sorry.’ Margaret clutches Tom tight. ‘I shouldn’t have … Sorry. So, this new school of yours, Tom, it’s an academy or something, isn’t it? How does that all work? Do you learn the same things?’
Tom slides off Margaret’s lap and comes to sit with me, his hand taking mine. I hold it tight to stop it shaking.
‘It’s hard to remember,’ says Tom, voice quiet. ‘I think … we have to say things over and over again sometimes. Like about honour and promising to follow the rules. And … I don’t remember.’
‘And you’re well, are you, Tom?’ Margaret asks.
‘Yes,’ says Tom.
‘He hasn’t been totally well,’ I say. ‘Not since the seizure.’
There’s an awkward silence, and I know Margaret wants to tell me something.
‘Sweetheart, do you want to find more Duplo bricks?’ I ask Tom. ‘While Granny and I chat?’ Obediently, Tom hops down and begins quietly sweeping Duplo bricks together. ‘Come on, Margaret,’ I say, trying for a smile. ‘Out with it. I always know when you want to talk about Olly.’
‘I saw him last week,’ says Margaret, eyes apologetic. ‘I know he’s done wrong, but he misses Tom terribly.’
‘That’s his problem. He should have thought of that before he did what he did.’
‘I know,’ says Margaret, kind eyes meeting mine. ‘I know that. I’m on your side. But he’s getting help.’
‘From what I hear, people with anger issues rarely change.’ I don’t mean to raise my voice, but for goodness sake – she was there in court. She heard all the details.
Tom’s head snaps in our direction, and I lower my voice to a whisper. ‘Tom still has nightmares about Olly. He’s terrified of him, and rightly so.’
‘I know you’ve both been through the wringer,’ says Margaret. ‘I know he did wrong. More than wrong. But forgiveness—’
‘As long as I’m still breathing, Olly is coming nowhere near my son,’ I say. ‘Tom doesn’t want to see his father. And it’s his right to decide. Social services and the courts assured us of that. There is no way I’m setting up visitation. I’m getting organised. The house is coming to order. I’m doing everything on my own. We’re leaving the bad times behind us.’
‘Maybe in time you can forgive,’ says Margaret.
‘Forgive?’ I snap. ‘You know what happened to Tom under Olly’s care. I’ll never forgive him. Or myself.’
I break down then, words choking in my throat.
Margaret looks at her white fingers, clenched tight around her tea mug. I know she feels bad about Olly’s upbringing. ‘I’m sorry I brought it up,’ she says. ‘It was thoughtless. You’re right. You can’t forgive and forget. Not after what he did.’
On the way home, we stop at the shopping precinct. There is a little pharmacy here, next to a flower shop.
I’m often picking up bits from the pharmacy, but this time I buy something new – a box of platinum-blonde peroxide.
We’ve moved house. I’ve changed my clothes. Cut my hair. Now it’s time for something bolder.
It’s only a change in hair colour. But it symbolises something bigger.
I am a new person without Olly. Capable. Confident.
This is a fresh start.