Forget Me Not. Isabel Wolff

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      ‘I won’t be a nuisance.’ I rolled my eyes. ‘And I’ll babysit for you. You should take me up on that, Anna. Babysitting’s expensive.’

      ‘That’s kind, but you’ll need to get out yourself – see your friends – go to your club, plus I’ve got Luisa now, haven’t I?’

      ‘That’s true.’

      I reflected gratefully on what wonderful value for money au pairs are. I could never have afforded a part-time nanny – especially with the fees for Milly’s new nursery school. But for seventy pounds a week, I get up to five hours’ help a day from Luisa, plus two babysits. She’s a godsend.

      ‘Not that I go out that much,’ I told Dad. ‘I usually work when Milly’s asleep. I can get a lot done then.’

      ‘You should go out more,’ he said. ‘It would be good for you. Especially in your situation.’ He set off down the garden – Milly and I following – then he stopped to hold back an overhanging spray of winter jasmine. Everything looked so unkempt.

      ‘Thanks for all the sorting out you’ve done over the past month,’ he added as we walked on. ‘I know I’ve said it before, but I’ve really appreciated it.’

      ‘All I did was a few runs to Oxfam, and I didn’t clear everything.’

      ‘Well, it was wonderful just having you here. I’d have got very down doing it on my own.’

      I thought, irritably, of my siblings. Mark’s in the States, fair enough; but Cassie could have helped. She only came once, to clear her own room. Not that Dad seemed to mind. But then he indulges Cassie, as though she’s nine years old, not twenty-nine. Being the ‘baby’, she’s always been spoilt.

      Our feet crunched over the gravel as Milly and I followed Dad down the long, narrow path, past the silver birch and the greenhouse. I had a sudden image of my mother in there, in her straw hat, bent over a tray of seedlings. I imagined her glancing up, then waving to us. We walked on, and I assumed that Dad was taking the box to the garage to put in the car. Instead, he stopped by the bonfire patch and began to pile bits of wood on to the blackened earth with a fork.

      ‘I saw Xan yesterday,’ I heard him say as he splintered an old crate underfoot.

      My heart stopped for a beat, as it always does at Xan’s name.

      ‘Where was that, then?’ I smiled a bitter little smile. ‘On the nine o’clock news? The one o’clock? Panorama?’

      ‘Newsnight.’

      ‘Oh.’ A solitary magpie flew overhead. ‘What was he talking about?’

      ‘Illegal logging.’

      ‘I see …’

      ‘Poor you,’ Dad said. He leaned on the fork. ‘You cope very well, Anna, but being a single mum’s not what your mother and I would have wished for you.’

      What you need is a hardy perennial. Someone who’ll always be there for you. Whatever …

      ‘Don’t misunderstand me,’ Dad added quickly. ‘I love Milly so much …’ He reached out to stroke her head and I noticed how frayed the cuffs of his shirt were. I made a mental note to take him shopping for some new ones. ‘But I wish you had a better set-up, that’s all.’

      ‘Well … I wish I did too.’

      ‘It can’t be easy.’

      ‘It isn’t.’ In fact, it’s hard, I reflected grimly. However much you love your child, it’s hard bringing them up on your own. It’s hard not having anyone with whom to share the daily anxieties, or the responsibility, or the joys, let alone the long, lonely nights when they’re tiny babies, or the naked terror when they’re ill. ‘But this is the set-up I’ve got. And there are plenty of kids who have no contact with their fathers.’ I thought of Jenny, my friend from NCT. ‘And at least Milly does have some sort of relationship with her dad’ – I bit my lip. I had uttered the dreaded ‘D’ word.

      ‘Daddy!’ Milly yelled, right on cue. ‘Daddy!’ She’s only met Xan six times in her two and a half years, but she adores him. ‘Dad-dy!’ she repeated indignantly. She stamped her feet, dancing on the spot with frustration, then threw back her head. ‘Dad-deee!’ she yelled, as though she thought she might summon him.

      ‘It’s all right, darling,’ I soothed. ‘You’ll see Daddy soon.’ This wasn’t so much a white lie, as a neon-flashing Technicolor one, as I hadn’t the slightest idea when we’d next see Xan. Milly has to make do with seeing him on TV. She’s elated for the few moments he’s on-screen, then she bursts into tears. I know just how she feels.

      ‘Dad-eee …’ Her face had crumpled and her big grey-blue eyes had filled. My father distracted her by getting her to help him pick up leaves. I stooped to pick some up too and, as I did so, my eye fell on the cardboard box, which seemed to be full of old papers. On one yellowing envelope I saw my mother’s neat italics.

      ‘Good girl,’ I heard Dad say as Milly scooped up twigs in her mittened hands. ‘Let’s pick up these leaves over here, shall we – they’re nice and dry. That’s it, poppet. Now, go and stand next to Mummy while I light the fire.’

      ‘I always thought I’d be just like Mum,’ I said, almost to myself now, as Milly wrapped her arms round my knees. ‘I thought I’d have a completely conventional family life – just like she did.’ Dad didn’t reply. He was trying to strike a match, but they kept breaking. ‘I thought I’d have a husband and kids. I never imagined myself bringing up a child alone, but then …’ I shook my head.

      ‘… then life happened,’ Dad said quietly. The match flared and he cupped it, then put it to the pile.

      ‘Yes. That’s what happened. Life.’ We heard the crackle of burning leaves and a thread of pewtery smoke began to curl upwards, scenting the air.

      Dad straightened up. ‘Have you taken absolutely everything you want from the house? Because what doesn’t go in the removals van will be disposed of by the cleaners. I left out a pile of your mum’s gardening books I thought you might want. Did you see them?’

      ‘Yes, thanks. I just took three, and her trowel and fork – I wanted to have those.’

      ‘That would make her happy,’ he said. ‘She’d be so pleased at what you’re doing. Not just because she loved gardening so much, but because she thought the City was too hard for you – those long hours you had to do.’

      ‘I do long hours now.’

      ‘That’s true.’ Dad began to fan the fire with the rusty lid from an old biscuit tin. ‘But at least you’re not a wage slave any longer – it’s all for you and Milly. Plus you enjoy what you’re doing more.’

      ‘Much more,’ I agreed happily. From the holly we heard the chittering of a wren. ‘I love being a garden designer.’

      ‘A fashionable one according to The Times, eh?’ That unexpected bit of coverage had really lifted my confidence; Sue, my former PA, had spotted it and phoned me. ‘And those appearances on GMTV must have СКАЧАТЬ