The Godmother (9 page)

“I could call an ambulance,” she said.

“An ambulance? I wouldn't want to take up their time.”

“He might have taken something.”

“Taken?
”

“You could search his pockets.”

I must have looked terrified because she became much more reassuring. “Let's ignore the legal side of this for a moment. And worry about his health.”

I thought for a second and then decided to take the woman at her word. She'd know more about this than any parent. She must have seen kids in this state all the time.

“We've been having a bit of a problem with cannabis recently.” The imaginary “we.”

“Do you know how much?”

I shook my head.

“Is he experimenting with anything else?”

“Like?”

“Amphetamines, cocaine…”

“He doesn't have access to that sort of money,” I said, then swore loudly.

“What?”

“I don't believe it.” I looked at Caspar, my sweet, cherubic boy, lying in his own vomit and other people's urine. “The little bastard stole fifty quid off me.” I went through his pockets at that point and quickly found the tin I'd seen during his sister's birthday party. I'd been fooled by the beanbag, the teen
posters on the wall, the remnants of childhood on the shelves, but here, against the backdrop of cold, hard cement, the tin didn't look quite so innocuous as it had before. I opened it up. It was nearly empty, but the accoutrements were all present and correct. Rizla papers. Torn cardboard. A pouch of tobacco. And a smattering of grass. The policewoman took it from me. She sniffed the tin.

“Skunk,” she said. “I think you need to talk to your son.”

My son…My son…I couldn't tell her now.

“This is a very high-strength variant of cannabis which could be responsible for the increase in psychotic episodes among adolescents. The anecdotal evidence is fairly damning. It's expensive too, which may explain the fifty quid.”

“Psychotic episodes?”

“Have you noticed any changes in his behavior?”

Francesca had. “I thought it was just puberty.”

“It could be. But skunk is a bad sign. I think that statistics are something like of all the children referred to doctors with mental problems, 85 per cent of them are smoking skunk.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“The government is considering a rethink.”

“I read about it, but didn't think it related to me.”

“No one ever does.”

She was right, of course. It wasn't that I hadn't noticed the change in Caspar, but that I had chosen to ignore it. Francesca and Nick were having an impossible time with him and I had disregarded them both. Some godmother I was. Caspar started retching again. This time nothing came out.

“Keep him in the recovery position so he doesn't swallow his tongue,” said the policewoman.

Nice.

Finally the cab arrived. It took all my legal powers of persuasion to cajole the driver into accepting the fare. It took the three of us to get Caspar into the taxi and lie him down, on his side, on the floor. That was when I saw the small rectangle of folded paper peeking out from his back pocket. I looked at the policewoman; she'd seen it too. I bent down and pulled it out. I passed it straight to her.

“Are we still forgetting the legality of things?”

She didn't answer. I didn't blame her. I'd already asked enough of her. We watched as she unwrapped the paper. She shone her torch on its contents, put her finger in it and rubbed it between her fingers. I saw the white powder and felt my heart break. Grass was one thing, even strong grass which turned children into schizophrenics, but this—this was worse.

“Looks like I won't be taking you home after all,” said the cab driver.

“Yes, you will,” said the policewoman.

“He will?”

She held open the packet.

“Talcum powder,” she said.

“Damn,” said the driver, under his breath.

I peered at it more closely. “Are you sure?”

“Absolutely. The young ones often get duped like this.”

“Thank God,” I said.

“I wouldn't be too relieved,” she said, holding open the taxi door. “Your son didn't set out to buy talcum powder this evening.”

Roman had seen me come and go in many states with numerous people, but until now he hadn't seen me drag my prey across the lobby floor. The taxi driver had taken his enormous tip and scarpered.

“Good grief, who is this?” asked Roman, taking an arm.

“My godson.”

“Young Caspar? No!”

Yes, my doorman knew the name of my godchildren. At the time I thought there was nothing wrong in that.

“He turned sixteen today.”

“Well, he's learned now. Yes?” Roman nodded encouragingly. I was not encouraged.

Roman helped me get Caspar all the way to my bedroom, then left me. I stripped him and lay him on an old towel on my bed. He'd soiled himself and was sick again. I cleaned him up, wiped his bum, squeezed his nostrils free of debris, wrapped him in a clean white towel and put him back in the fetal position to await the next projectile vomit, terrified he would choke or swallow his own tongue. I was up all night. As dawn broke I felt as though I'd given birth to a teenager.

I heard the knock at the door, but it didn't register through my sleepy fog. Then I heard my mobile ring. When that went unanswered, my landline rang. I patted around the vicinity of the sofa where I had crashed out an hour after Caspar had finally stopped retching. I knew the phone was down there somewhere because I'd used it to call NHS Direct. Caspar had felt so cold, no matter how many blankets I put on him, that, befuddled by lack of sleep, I had been convinced that he was dying of hypothermia.

“Open the door, it's me.”

“Errrrrrrrr.”

“I've got fresh coffee.”

I opened an eye and spoke to the phone. “Claudia?”

“Who did you think it was?”

“I don't know. I was dreaming.”

“I'm outside your flat. It's nearly twelve—get up.”

I crossed to the door.

“Oh God,” said Claudia, handing me a coffee. “Have you just come in?” I was still wearing my top-totty outfit. Though now, of course, I looked psychotic.

“Long night?”

I took a sip of the milky, sugary coffee and nearly wept with gratitude. I nodded and swallowed. She followed me down the partial passageway to the kitchen bar.

“Hmm,” said Claudia, eyeing the strewn clothes around my living area. She kicked at the jeans. Toed the battered Converse. “Either you're shagging a rock star, or your conquests are getting younger.”

I held a finger up in an unladylike gesture.

“Is he still here, or did he run out semi-naked?” Claudia continued, not in the slightest bit offended. I still couldn't speak so I pointed to the bookshelf. Claudia peered over. There, lying on his back, his arms spread wide, all tangled up in my sheets, was Caspar. He looked angelic, the bastard. Whereas I looked like something an owl coughs up. I needed more caffeine and some decent foundation before I could be ready to give him the moral lecture of his lifetime, and mine. Claudia was staring at me with a look of horror on her face.

“I know,” I said, nodding. “I've been up all night with him. It's terrible. I'm exhausted, I don't have the stamina any more.”

Claudia blocked her ears. “Jesus, Tessa. I don't want to know.”

“Know what?”

“He's fifteen, are you mad?”

“Sixteen, since yesterday.”

“That doesn't make it any better, Tessa.”

“I know. It meant they could have charged him with public intoxication or worse.”

“Public intoxication?”

“Horribly, disgustingly drunk. I didn't want to freak out Fran, so I brought him here.”

“Oh.”

“What did you think I was talking about?” Then the horror of what she'd thought struck me with the unpalatable force of elephant dung. “Claudia!”

“He's naked.”

“I'm old enough to be his mother. I almost am his mother. That's disgusting. You're gross.”

Claudia started laughing.

“You are a filthy-minded cow, dressed up in a pretty Laura Ashley dress,” I said accusingly. “How could you?”

“I don't wear Laura Ashley.”

“Liar.”

“OK, but only in the summer.”

This time we both laughed. “I can't believe you thought I'd slept with Caspar. What sort of desperate witch do you take me for?”

“Sorry, Tessa, it's the hormones. I'm all over the place.”

The mention of hormones is Claudia's ultimate trump card. All irritation, horror, boredom, jealousy—whatever one sporadically feels towards one's friends—vanishes. I couldn't feel any anger towards her after that.

“I didn't realize you'd started another round, sorry.”

“Yeah. I just had to drop a charming urine sample into the Lister—it's so much easier on a Sunday because I can park. Then I thought maybe I'd get to see you too. So here I am. Sorry I didn't call.”

I hadn't really listened beyond the word Lister. It had so many connotations: the Lister, a hospital that performed IVF. I didn't know how to react. It had been the kernel of so many hopes, created then dashed, created then dashed, created then…

“Are you starting the injections again?”

“We're going down another track actually,” said Claudia, who'd sniffed and injected more hormones than the U.S. beef industry.

“Is that good or bad?”

“Good. Sit down, Tess. I've got something to ask you.”

This was it. I wished she'd chosen a better time to ask, one where I was less weakened by exhaustion, one where all my rehearsed arguments against her request that I be a surrogate mother to their baby flowed convincingly from within. Now I was going to cry and I promised I wouldn't when the time came, because the poor girl had been through enough and this wasn't about me, it was about her and Al, and God, why was I such a selfish cow…

“Would you consider…”

AAAAAAAAhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

“…being godmother to our child?”

“I've thought about this and I'm afraid…Sorry, what did you say?”

“Would you consider being godmother to our child?”

I could feel the puzzled expression on my face cracking through last night's foundation. “You don't want me to have your baby for you?”

“Jesus, Tessa, I wouldn't put you through that,” said Claudia.

“I'd do it.”

“Liar.”

“You're right. Sorry. I've thought about it, though.”

“So have I, and it isn't an option. But being a godmother is, so will you?”

“Of course. You don't even have to ask, I'd be delighted, but there is one small observation I feel inclined to make…”

“What child?” Claudia finished for me.

“Exactly.”

Claudia opened her bag and for a moment I thought that she was literally going to pull a baby out of the bag. This isn't as stupid as it sounds. It was a big bag. A Mary Poppins sort of bag. Excuse me, I was operating on limited sleep.

“Our daughter,” said Claudia, passing over a grainy black and white ultrasound image of perfection. A clenched hand floated over a pouting mouth, a tiny thumb extended to the ready. Above it perched a ski-jump nose and a bowling ball head which tapered into a softly curved nape. I stared and stared at it. Look, I've seen these things before and they've all looked the same to me. I've often wondered if it wasn't a great con—different women go into the scanning rooms but only one picture comes out. But this little lady looked as complete and unique as if she were swaddled on my lap.

“I'm three months' pregnant,” said Claudia. “I haven't told anyone, just in case. There is only so much sympathy a person can take, but she's still here and the doctors tell me I'm as safe as any other woman at this stage.”

I nodded because I couldn't speak. Then she pulled me towards her and I sobbed in the same way that Claudia had done as time and time again they had failed to make a baby. She held me, like I'd held her. I hadn't realized until that moment what a huge strain it had been watching my dear friend go through something that I couldn't help her with. I sobbed and sobbed with relief, fear and joy.

“I know, I have a long way to go, but right now I'm pregnant, Tessa, I'm pregnant. I'm not going to fear this miracle. I'm going to be like any other expectant mum. The doctors say I'm playing on an even field, and I'm determined to enjoy it.”

I cried again. So much for bravery.

Claudia made me tea and toast. I think I was in shock. While Caspar slept on, she filled me in on the previous three months. “And then yesterday I could have sworn I felt it move,” said Claudia. “It was like someone was blowing bubbles inside me. It was amazing.” She was radiating happiness.

“Fran said it was like butterflies dancing,” I said, as always, falling back on my friends' experiences in all things domestic and familial as if they were my own. Actually, Fran had said that about Caspar, the first one. She hadn't been so complimentary about the girls' first signals. Katie wasn't butterflies fluttering, she was six extra pounds overnight and the sure knowledge that the scales were only moving in one direction.

“How is Al?” I asked.

“Cautious, but ecstatic,” said Claudia, taking a seat on my cream sofa. “God, this view is incredible,” she said, changing the subject and staring out over the river. “It never fails to amaze me.”

“I'm very proud of you,” I said, taking Claudia's hand. “You and Al are amazing. Most couples fold after being subjected to one tenth of what you've been subjected to. This little girl is very lucky to have you as parents,” I said.

“Luckier still to have the best godmother in the world.”

“Hardly.”

“You let your godson puke up all over your 100 percent Egyptian cotton bed sheets. If that was all I knew about you it would be enough.”

“Royal sateen percale cotton bed sheets, with a thread count of 250,” I said.

“Well, there you go.”

We sat on my sofa, our hands held over her little belly that contained a seven-centimeter miracle and stared out at the diamond-freckled river below us. She was right, it was an amazing view. I felt blessed.

A little while after Claudia had taken her prize possession home, Caspar walked unsteadily into the living room. As a lawyer, I'd seen the products of broken homes and abuse; Caspar was not one of these. I knew that everything in life was relative and I couldn't ask him to compare himself to a starving child in Sudan. That “Third World shit,” as he described it, was beyond his comprehension and sometimes mine, if I were honest. But was the softly, softly approach the way to go? Should I just drive him home and dump him in it? Was parental fury going to get to the bottom of this or make it worse? Why didn't children come with a manual? Maybe this was my chance to prove that I meant what I said when I took on the role of godmother. That I would step up to the plate. That I would be more than a donator of gifts and treats.
In spirit I believed myself more akin to Caspar and his generation than I did to his parents. I had not stepped over the fence. I had not said goodbye to irresponsibility. After all, I was young enough to be Caspar's friend with the added advantage of age. I could step into the role of mother. Not despite being childless, but because of it. Thinking about it, it had to be me. Who else was there?

I ran a bath for him, I made more tea and bacon sandwiches, I found some Gatorade and a couple of Aleve, and when he had relaxed, and all the defensiveness had left his body, I changed tack. It's another legal trick.

“I'm worried about you.”

“I'm fine,” he grunted.

“What I saw didn't look like ‘fine.'”

He gave me a sort of “Fuck off, Mum” face, before remembering he wasn't at home.

“Is that the thanks I get for scraping you off the pavement?”

“Sorry.”

“So tell me. I'm here for you.”

“Drank too much, I guess.”

“Kind of worked that one out for myself since the contents of your stomach are still in my shoes.”

He pulled a face.

“And it's not really the booze I'm worried about. How long have you been smoking this stuff for?”

He shrugged.

“Caspar, either you talk to me or we go home and you can tell Nick and Fran. You decide.”

He pulled a cushion up under his chin. “You wouldn't understand.”

“Try me.”

“I don't need to tell you anything,” he said, his voice taut with petulance.

“Oh yes you do. You'd be waking up in hospital if it wasn't for me. Or worse, not waking up at all, ever, since you were unconscious and still vomiting. Do you know how many people die a year choking on their own puke?”

At least he looked a little embarrassed.

“Not only that, if it wasn't for me you'd have the police to deal with,” I said.
“Because while you were unconscious you were searched. And they found this.” I held out the tin.

“It's not illegal to have it on you.”

“You're right. But it is illegal to have this!” I opened my other hand. The one holding the talcum powder. I was taking a gamble here, hoping he didn't know he'd been duped.

“So I'll ask you again. What the hell is going on?”

“You don't know what it's like.”

“What? Tell me. Are you being bullied?”

“No.”

“Someone broken your heart?”

“No.”

“Are you gay?”

“No!”

“Then what is it?”

I waited. He twiddled the cord of my dressing gown around his finger. He looked very small. I softened.

“Caspar, tell me. Whatever it is, we can sort it.”

“You'll think I'm being stupid.”

Probably. “I'll try very hard not to.”

That seemed to be an acceptable answer.

“Home,” he said.

“Home?”

He nodded. I could see that it hurt his head because he winced.

“What's going on at home?”

The fact that he wouldn't tell me made me worried at first; I let my imagination take me to places I shouldn't. Then it made me furious, because it was worse than I'd imagined—turned out it was nothing. Nothing. He felt left out. Left out. It seemed that Katie and Poppy took up too much of Nick and Francesca's time. I frowned, disappointed. “Let me get this straight. You're pissed off because you don't have exclusive rights over your parents?”

“I've never had exclusive rights. Nick and Francesca only have exclusive rights for themselves and the girls.”

The use of their first names annoyed me. “Don't disrespect your parents in my presence, you ungrateful little toad.”

He moved to get up. “Here we go.”

“Sit. Down.” Something in my voice worked. He sat back down. I leaned forward. “In four years' time you will give birth to a son. You won't be able to celebrate your twentieth birthday because your girlfriend has just struggled through her finals and soon after went into labor. While all your friends are partying hard, you and she are up all night with a baby you know nothing about. It's fun at first. Quite romantic, actually. But six months down the road your son still isn't sleeping through the night and you and she are exhausted. You are doing three jobs you hate in order to pay the rent and have enough money for milk and nappies. Remember, you are twenty years old. Four years from now. All your friends tell you to run, that you were trapped, that social workers will take care of your girlfriend and baby. It is mighty tempting because your girlfriend is too exhausted to talk to you as every last piece of her energy goes into keeping this tiny, dependent creature alive. Instead of bolting, you propose marriage, you take responsibility and spend the next sixteen years making your little family work. Can you imagine that? You, four years' time, a father for life.”