‘I know it’s mad.’
It seems to be the first thing I say to everyone. As soon as I say it to the group, I can’t stop saying it. And in the end, I have to say it to Ian. Bhopal. The bafflement of anyone else is nothing compared to the arguments I put up in my own head. What’s the point? You’ll just be in the way. What use are you, another white Westerner coming and just looking at the situation? (After all, it was a Western company that caused all this in the first place.) Who d’you think you are? Are you just looking for that boy because of Paul – so that in the end it’s all about you? Etc., etc.
I can’t really answer those questions. It’s not about the boy any more, that I do know. All I know is, I have to go. I am involved whether I like it or not and I want to understand better. And that’s about it really.
‘I’m only talking about a week – two at most,’ I say to my baffled husband. ‘Seriously, that’s all. I’ll be back and things will be . . . I’ll be here.’
And when one evening as we sit with a drink at the table on the little patio at the back of the house, I explain why – as much as I can – and how I feel, Ian is sweet about it. He’s seeing a counsellor one evening a week now, a man called Evan who lives in Kings Heath and it seems to be helping.
‘We’ve got the money,’ he says. ‘We’d have gone somewhere with Paul.’ He looks shyly at me. ‘I’d never’ve got through the last few weeks without you being so – well, so great. I don’t know as I’ve been much good to you through it all. I look back and I think . . .’ He shakes his head.
‘I suppose we lost each other for a bit when we lost him,’ I say. ‘But . . . I guess we’re still the only people now who really understand, who loved him. Shall we . . .’ I hesitate. ‘Shall we have a look through the albums later?’
Our albums of Paul, the blue one and the brown one which I made such efforts to compile – the building of our memories, our family. We have never looked at them together since he died.
‘Not sure I can yet,’ Ian says. But then he tries. ‘Yeah, maybe. And Jo – what we were talking about. I thought you were going to get a job?’
‘I don’t know.’ I smile at him. ‘I mean, I will – do something. There’s no reason you have to earn all the money all the time.’
‘Well, it’s one thing I’m good for.’
I touch his arm. ‘Don’t. You know it’s not like that.’
He gives me his lopsided smile. ‘If you say so.’
‘The trouble is, I don’t know what to do. I don’t know anything any more either – other than that I can’t just go back to doing the same job as before. All I know at the moment is that I need to do this one thing.’
‘Will you be all right? I mean, you know you’ve travelled before and everything.’
‘Pat wants to go.’
‘Pat?’ He laughs and it’s good to hear it. ‘What the hell’s Fred going to say?’
‘God knows.’ I laugh as well.
Pat constantly surprises me. When I next see her – she calls round for a coffee – I tell her I’ve emailed the British charity and they are fine for us to visit. They’ve sent advice about nearby accommodation, said there might be an interpreter who could lend us a hand if he’s free. She tells me, calmly, she has announced to Fred that she is coming with me and that is how it is.
‘Blimey, Pat,’ I say. ‘That’s a bit harsh. The poor man’s been used to you never moving more than a hundred yards from the house and now you’re talking about taking off several thousand miles!’
Pat giggles. She looks very tanned and healthy and her smile really brings her face to life.
‘I know. But the thing with Fred is, I don’t think the distance really makes much difference. If I said I was going to Scotland it would be much the same. Anyway, he went a bit quiet and then he said, “The thing is, I was thinking I might go with Len and the other lads on that golfing week they were on about in Majorca. But I didn’t like to ask you . . .” ’
‘What – at the same time?’
‘No, it’s quite soon. Len told him there’d been a lad pull out. And he wasn’t going to ask me because he thought I minded him going.’
I stare at her and then we both start laughing hysterically.
‘Talk about Stockholm syndrome,’ I manage to say eventually.
‘Oh, I don’t think it’s quite that bad,’ Pat says. ‘More a case of a great big rut. And neither of us has been used to being able to go far – we could never have afforded it and then it just wasn’t something we’d ever done. But now the boys have grown up and . . . well, it’s not out of the question. And to give Fred his due, he’s been very good about it. Said he’d drive us to the airport if we want – even if it’s London.’
Part of me wants to resist this because it just feels like Fred trying to be in control of everything again, until the last minute. But I have to agree it’s a kind offer.
‘What about the kids you look after?’
‘I can get someone to cover me. I think she’ll be glad of the money.’
‘So you’re really coming?’
‘If we’re really going?’
We look at each other in some amazement and then I say, ‘Yes, I think we are.’
We make arrangements – tickets, visas, jabs, accommodation. How things have changed – booking on the Internet is not how I did it all those years ago. We have ten days altogether – almost a week in Bhopal and a couple of days sightseeing in Delhi afterwards. Whenever Pat and I meet, our talk is of flights and arrangements and packing. I am amazed at her. She seems up for anything – not at all the way I would have expected her to be when I first met her.
And in a way Fred seems excited about it. When I see him, in the middle of all this, he says, ‘So, got everything sorted out, have you?’ He seems to regard me as an expert in the travel department.
‘Nearly,’ I say.
Out of the blue, whether to impress me or what I don’t know, he suddenly announces, ‘I’ve been thinking I might learn French.’
Pat looks astounded by this declaration.
‘Great,’ I say. ‘Brilliant idea.’
As the preparations move forward, I can’t help feeling guilty about doing all this without Ian. ‘I’ll stock the freezer with stuff,’ I tell him. ‘It’ll keep you going while we’re away.’
‘Don’t worry, I can cook some of the time,’ he says. ‘Time I learned to fend for myself a bit more. Actually, I was thinking, while you’re away, maybe I’ll go down of a weekend – Saturday night – and see Cynth and the boys.’
‘Great,’ I say again, to another man who seems suddenly full of ideas. He’s never, ever suggested that before! But with Dorrie gone, he and Cynth both know they don’t have anyone else much. I’m glad for him. ‘You can see Sweep as well.’
Our date for departure is very near the end of October. After Paul’s anniversary. I don’t want to go before then. Pat confides in me that her baby daughter was born in October too – on the seventeenth. Our visit takes on a feeling of memorial – of honouring them as well as honouring the mothers and children we are going to see. Throughout this time, as the nights darken, the air smells of woodsmoke and the first fireworks start going off, I am glad to have the distraction of getting ready for the journey. So that every second of my day is not spent picturing a drunk Lee Parry, already well out of control, folding his puny body into that car that did not belong to him, revving up and starting his brainless, selfish, death-dealing course towards our son.