Non Pratt - Trouble

“Same with Hannah. Thank God those two have their heads screwed on.”

I cried myself to sleep that night.

Of course, there is also the issue of the Father. But whilst we’re on the subject of dads, there’s always mine lurking in the background to add a little turd to the icing on my fucked-up cake of awfulness. I got an email from him part-way through the exams.

Dear Hannah, here’s wishing you the best of luck in your exams. I know you’ll nail them. Luv, Dad.

And there was an e-card with a four-leaf clover where the leaves peeled away to reveal a leprechaun dancing a jig with “All the luck o’ the Irish” in a speech bubble over his head.

Seriously. WTF?

“I know you’ll nail them” — really? Have you spoken to Mum recently? Have you seen my reports? Nail them in the sense of literally taking in a hammer and pounding the sheets to the desk with a nail?

“Luv” is a word used by boys when they’re too chicken to come out with the real thing on a Valentine’s card. It is not OK to use it to express fatherly affection at the end of an email.

The card. There are no words.

From where I’m sitting I can see the seconds ticking away and watch as the minute hand jerks forwards towards fifteen-minutes past the hour. I stare at the hand as it edges round until it’s nearly reached twenty past.

That’s when I look down from the far end of the hall to the English paper on my desk, a half-started sentence about Macbeth scrawled on the top of my sheet of paper. I have failed these exams and now I’ve failed my baby.

“So are you coming out tonight or what?” Tyrone clamps a hand on my shoulder so hard that I have to suppress a wince. He has been uncomfortably nice to me since Rex’s party. I mean this in the most literal sense. I’ve endured nearly two months of regularly having his arm thrown round my shoulders, my back slapped, arm punched… Tyrone’s love hurts — and it’s earning me envious looks from the people who wish they had it. If only I could tell them that he’s doing this because he doesn’t like me, then the basketball lot could stop giving me death stares and go back to ignoring me… And then what would I do? Read books in my lunch hour and hang out with Neville until he falls asleep on his cards?

I don’t know. That sounds like a slippery slope to me. Better to have fake school friends than none at all.

It seems the way that everyone celebrates the end of term around here is much the same as they celebrate the end of a week. By going to the park. Joy. I pitch up late, having helped Neville seal and stamp his Christmas cards. There were more than I expected and I asked who they were for.

“Family,” was the gruff response, but after a little coaxing — and some of the Jack Daniel’s I’d planned on taking to the park — he warmed up and told me more.

“This one’s my brother. Greville.” I bit my lip and he nodded. “I know. Long story — and a boring one. You don’t need to worry about these two.” Both a “Mrs”, both in Scottish cities. “This one’s for my niece, Bea and her husband. Nice couple. This one’s for her ex-husband. Not a good husband, but a great nephew-in-law. He married the woman he was banging the day his kid was born.”

I looked suitably scandalized and Neville gave me every detail as if it was a lead story in today’s tabloids. The way his memory works is fascinating. I thought the elderly became vague about everything when they hit the seventy mark, but Neville is sharp as a razor on things like this and he’s pushing ninety. Knowing the difference between his dressing gown and his mac on the other hand…

“And this lot are all my favourite students.”

That brought me up short.

“You know I used to lecture History, don’t you?” And he filled in an answer in the empty crossword of his past. It explains why he’s such a pain to watch films with — in future I’ll bring ones set in a period he’s not an expert on. Like the future.

The park is freezing. This is not a surprise because it is, after all, December, traditionally a time when people congregate around log fires and sip mulled wine whilst wearing knitted jumpers with reindeer on the front. But we are teens and we throw snowballs in the face of frostbite. Or we would if it ever snowed.

Rex and Katie are together on the swings. The two of them kissed at his party and a few weeks ago Rex copped a feel in the bushes, but since then they appear to be locked in some kind of holding pattern — neither of them pulling anyone else, but not taking things further with each other. It’s driving Rex crazy — and in turn, me, as I’m the one he wants to talk to about it. I pointed out that Katie hates me and he should probably find someone else to help him, but he thought I was joking. The curse of Tyrone’s “funny” tag lives on.

Tonight it’s too cold for the pair to change the status quo and I get summoned over right away by the ever-clueless Rex. Hannah’s sitting on the swing next to them looking bored.

“Drink?” I wave my bottle at her and she shakes her head. I pull a Thermos out of my bag and wave that at her. She laughs and nods and I pour her a hot chocolate, ignoring the revolted expression on Katie’s face.

Hannah wraps her fingers around the plastic cup and breathes in the plumes of steam rising from the surface. She’s wearing a woolly beanie pulled low to cover her ears and it’s pushing the tip of her fringe across her face like a bird’s wing. She catches me looking and gives a little frown.

“I like your hat,” I say and sip from my own non-alcoholic cup, having handed Rex the whisky that Neville didn’t get through.

Hannah and I swing back and forth slightly out of time, but my swing slows as I scuff the toes of my trainers on the ground and we end up swinging in unison before the movement subsides. I enjoy the silence between us and the feel of the hot chocolate in my hands, the gentle sway of the swings. Simple pleasures that aren’t so simple to come by.

“I don’t know why he’s here.”

“He’s my mate, Katie,” Rex replies in a murmur that I only hear because I’m listening for the answer.

“’S’freak.” I look up at exactly the right moment to catch her looking at me. “What are you looking at, Emo Boy?”

“He’s probably looking at that massive mascara smudge halfway down your cheek,” Hannah says immediately, not giving me a chance to say something foolish.

Katie scowls, but she rubs a finger pink with cold under each eye. I have no idea whether there was a mascara smudge there in the first place, but there is now. I smile at Hannah, who grins back.

“Get a room,” Katie says, petulantly.

“Oh, fuck off, Katie,” Hannah says with a surprising amount of venom and stands up. “You coming? Leave these two to suck face instead of trying to make witty conversation.”

From the benches where we end up I can see a flicker of fire in one of the wire bins by the toilets. A small crowd has gathered around it and I recognize Marcy and Tyrone standing together throwing scrunched up paper on the flames. Hannah notices the direction of my gaze.

“Tyrone thought it would be a good idea to burn revision notes.”

“Because he’s never going to need them again…?”

“Yeah. If it’s an idea of Tyrone’s, it’s probably a bad one.” Hannah looks at me. “Thanks for keeping quiet about what happened at Rex’s party.”

“No one to tell.” I shrug, half-joking, half-truthful.

“Thanks anyway. I could do without the trouble right now.”

I hear the “right now”, but I don’t really know if I should question it, so I don’t. Hannah reaches out and puts her hand on mine, sliding her fingers between my gloved ones and squeezing. I’m not sure what this is about, but I squeeze back, although it’s hard to tell how much through the inch-thick material.

“I can’t work you out, Aaron Tyler, but you do seem to have a knack for doing the right thing at the right time.”

“I haven’t done anything,” I say, mystified.

“That’s the point,” she says and takes her hand away.

“Hannah, I need you to take Lola shopping with you.” My mum never asks favours, she commands them.

Only I cannot accept this command. I. Really. Cannot. When Gran asked to see a picture of the scan I was forced to tell her I hadn’t gone. That is not what I expected of you, Hannah. The depth of her disappointment brought me to tears in seconds — even thinking about the look in her eyes is enough to cause my chest to burn with guilt. She stood over me as I rang to book in a new scan with my very angry midwife, and Gran’s arranged to come with me, in case I fail her — and the baby — again.

Christmas Eve isn’t exactly the best time to get out of family duties, but I’ve got to try. If Jay hadn’t deserted us to go on a last-minute ski trip with the other half of his family, I could have palmed this off on him. As it is, all I’m left with is: “I can’t take Lola with me. I’m buying her presents.”

Mum rolls her eyes. “I knew you’d leave it late. Look. I’ve bought her everything on her Christmas list…”

Everything?! I saw that list — it was, like, three pages long.

“I’ll say some are from you. I’m already doing that for Jay. You don’t even have to pay for them.”

I just stare at Mum. I’m having trouble processing my irrational rage at her for buying Lola everything she wants and for suggesting she’ll decide which ones I can give to my sister, as if I’m as thoughtless as Jay, who couldn’t even be bothered to come home, and… I think my brain just timed out. Shit. Come on, brain, get it together, or the second person you end up telling about the baby will be Lola.

This year I bought one Christmas card. I open the cellophane, take out the card and open it.

Blank, like my mind.

I stare at the white space so long that I lose sight of everything around me, something I’ve been known to do. There are no words for what I want to say.

I fold the card shut and close my eyes.

I see my nightmare.

Eyes open, Aaron. Card open, Aaron.

Dear Mr and Mrs Lam,

There are no words.

Thinking of you — always thinking of Chris. I think you should know this.

Ty

“What are we doing at the hospickal?”

“Hospital,” I correct Lola gently and pat her hand. On my other side, Gran squeezes my shoulder as she uses me to balance on the paving. It’s been salted, but none of us want her to slip — although I guess there are worse places to do it than right outside A&E. Once inside, the three of us head to the maternity unit.

“Name?” says the woman at the desk.

“Hannah Sheppard.”

“What’s going on, Hannah?” Lola is tugging insistently at my jacket.

“I’ll tell you in a minute.”

“You said that ages ago.”

“…down there.” The woman is pointing to a partly occupied row of chairs.

“Sorry? I didn’t catch that.”

“If you take a seat down there, someone will call you.”

“Thanks.”

“White book, please.”

“What?”

“She asked for your white book, love,” Gran says, in a way that isn’t actually helpful.

“Yes, I know!”

“No need to shout at Granny Ivy!” Lola starts to cry.

I look desperately at Gran and at the woman at reception, who hasn’t quite lost it on the patience front. Yet. I flounder around in my bag, knowing that I’ve got the stupid thing with me because I have to take it with me all the time in case I get hit by a falling piano or something and whoever treats me needs to know how pregnant I am. I taped the cover of a magazine over it so it wouldn’t look so suss — there it is!

“This is a copy of Cosmopolitan,” the woman says.

“No, my white book’s inside,” I explain. Only she flaps the cover open and she’s right: it is a copy of Cosmo, and I start to panic that I’ve left my white book on the kitchen table…