Tim Connor Hits Trouble (33 page)

Rachel looked puzzled. Aisha was stunned.

‘You are what? Ill? Finish your sentence,' Rachel demanded.

‘No, pregnant,' Erica insisted.

Rachel gaped, her mind frozen in pre-response mode. Erica got to her feet and gripped Rachel firmly by the shoulders. Eye-ball to eyeball Erica said in slow staccato:

‘You're supposed to congratulate me.'

‘Congr… whooo…' Rachel appeared to be hyperventilating, ‘whooo…'

At this point Aisha decided that, as nearly as possible, the announcement of the pregnancies should be simultaneous. She joined Erica and Rachel in the middle of the room.

‘Erica, Rachel, I was going to tell you this later – after tea – but, well, here goes. I'm pregnant too.'

Erica quickly let go of Rachel and gave Aisha an almighty
hug. The two of them then attempted to scrum up to Rachel who, far from wanting to cavort around sank to the floor in a state of semi-collapse. The two younger women helped her to her feet and led her gently to the sofa before embarking together on an enthusiastic jig.

The rest of the afternoon took on a different aspect from Rachel's original intention. Once she had established, with as much sensitivity as she could muster that the two women were as happy about their pregnancies as they appeared to be, she began to adjust to the situation. By the time they left she was more or less on board to the idea that her brave new future would encompass the needs of her pregnant co-trailblazers. The first thing she would do was to check out that the university crèche was functioning properly.

Erica had not intended to announce her pregnancy just yet and certainly not in the impromptu manner that had just arisen. Not that she ever doubted that she would have this baby. She had decided that she wanted at least one child some years ago and at nearly thirty years old this seemed about the right time. She had not particularly planned to get pregnant, but had allowed herself to be as careless as Tim sometimes was about contraception. If Tim did not want the child she had the resources and support to bring it up. She had kept quiet about her pregnancy because she wanted to get used to the idea of becoming a mother, especially if she was to be a lone parent. Having a baby might mean, surely it would mean, a massive change of lifestyle. The pregnancy was now almost at three months and she knew that in fairness she ought to tell Tim soon. Her concern now was that he might hear the news from someone else even though Rachel and Erica had promised not to tell anyone until she gave them the go-ahead. She trusted them but felt that once three people were aware of her condition it didn't make sense to try to keep it quiet for much longer. She decided to talk to Tim immediately after she had left Rachel's. She got him on his mobile and arranged
immediately to go round to his place. He was puzzled at her urgent and mysterious tone but delighted at the prospect of an unexpected visit.

She decided to walk the couple of miles or so between Rachel and Tim's houses. She needed some thinking time. She knew that she wanted the child even if Tim did not, but the imminent prospect of hearing what he actually felt was nerve-wracking. His intentions would have huge practical consequences for her and the child but just now it was his emotional response that mattered. And how she felt about him was just as important. She had come to realise that she not only found it difficult to trust men but that she had not really given it a try, except briefly as a child with her father but never since. As Rachel hinted from time to time, Tim might not be the best man to start a serious, trusting relationship with. But they had been getting closer in recent weeks. She enjoyed their intimacy and did not want to lose it. Their break in Bognor had been something of a turning point. It was not so much that he had been prepared to risk his own life to save hers but afterwards they had opened up to each other in a deeper way. Perhaps it
was
cause and effect: it felt quite natural to be open to someone who has just saved your life, especially if they were also your lover. They had enjoyed moments of intimacy before, but their closeness now was different, more a state of being, part of her life. It was a new experience for her. She supposed this was perhaps what happened when people were ‘in love'. She wasn't too fussed about the words but the notion appealed to her. Yes, she loved Tim. Very soon, she would know for sure if he loved her.

Keen to get to him as quickly as possible she left the main pedestrian route to take a shortcut through a dedicated zone of small-scale industry and miscellaneous warehouses close to the river. She was making her way through an alleyway at the back of a row of workshops when she was accosted by a familiar voice, sardonic and with a hint of threat.

‘Hello blondie, aren't you my f…ing ex-neighbour's piece?'

Erica froze. It was Darren Naylor. He stood a few yards in front of her, his van and large bulk almost blocking her way. Instead of moving aside to let her pass he shifted across, blocking the remaining space. She could attempt to squeeze past him or retreat. Either way there was a risk she would not be rid of him.

‘Come on darlin'. There's nothing to worry about. I always did take a liking to you. I fink there's about enough room for you to wriggle by. Come on then.'

Backing off she pulled her mobile out of her pocket.

‘I'm phoning the police.'

‘Naw, why ye doin that?' Naylor edged forward a couple of steps.

His move made up her mind. She turned and ran. She didn't look back until she had reached a main thoroughfare. There was no sign of Naylor. She was still clutching her mobile. Checking the panel she saw that that the numbers were scrambled – her attempted call would not have brought help. Still breathless and upset she decided to call Tim. For now she wanted the reassurance of hearing his voice, she would tell him about the Naylor incident later.

‘Tim, hi, I'm on my way.'

‘That's great. How long? You sound a bit out of breath.'

‘I'm fine. Ten, fifteen minutes at the most. Look I wanted to say something. I couldn't wait until I got to you.'

‘Go on.'

‘I love you.'

‘I love you too.'

‘Really?'

‘Sure. Definitely.'

‘That's good. I hope you don't change your mind when you hear what I'm on my way to tell you.'

‘I know what you're going to tell me and it doesn't change my mind.'

‘You do?'

‘Yes, you – we – we're pregnant.'

Erica was silent for a moment.

‘Are you sure you're ok about it?'

‘Of course, ‘ok?' I'm totally paradisiacal.'

She felt a rush of pleasure and relief.

‘Me, too, I'm so full of everything, mainly baby! But how did you know?'

‘Well you've missed two periods. And that stomach of yours isn't quite as perfectly flat as usual. It's perfectly not quite flat. Anyway get yourself over here and we'll celebrate. I'm as happy as you are.'

‘Right. Get out the teabags and biscuits. I'll be with you soon. Bye, then.'

‘Bye.'

She patted her stomach, the worst, best kept secret of her life. Her smile was pure sunshine.

Moving into the preparation for baby phase consolidated Tim and Erica's relationship. Their delight with each other was strengthened by their delight at the prospect of the child to come. Pooling their resources enabled them to consider buying a decent sized house together close to the Khan's also awaiting their new arrival. Having confirmed with Erica that he was ‘number one' in her life Tim decided not to worry about her relationship with Rachel. He had limits to what he could accept in a relationship but they were more flexible than most. That was just the way he was.

Teresa’s death, although it came as no surprise and though she was ready to go, hit Tim hard. In the three years she spent in the care home he had finally found for her, she had drifted further and further into dementia. There were moments of tragicomic confusion. The most frequent was Teresa thinking that Tim was Dominic, her long dead husband. Tim was tempted to play along with it: from childhood he had sought to fill his father’s shoes and he was inclined to take Teresa’s conflation of him and his dad as some kind of endorsement that he had made the grade. On one occasion he indulged her illusion. His cameo was so convincing that Teresa seemed to believe that she had been reunited with her husband in heaven: a moment she had long ardently anticipated. After that, whenever she mistook his identity for Dominic’s he thought it better gently to convince Teresa that he was, in fact, himself. This proved satisfactory to Teresa although often within minutes she was again addressing him as Dominic.

The doctor who signed her death certificate was presented
with several ailments as the cause or contributory causes of death. He chose respiratory failure and dementia but the reality was that she had simply ‘conked out.’ She was intermittently sufficiently aware of what was happening, that she was dying, to come to a terms with it. Physically she was ready. Her own words, spoken without self-pity but with a touch of irritation, were ‘I’ve had enough.’ A combination of drugs and sensory decline meant that she experienced little pain but she was beyond exhaustion in her increasingly feeble attempts to make the brain-body link function. Due to her diminished and erratic state of mind Tim found it difficult to judge how she embraced death spiritually. He had no wish to project his own spiritual uncertainties onto her. She was long past attempting to fit herself or the world into any framework of divine intent, intelligent or otherwise. Her readiness for the great transition reflected a habitual state of mind rather than a conscious reaching out. In any case, the final resolution is the most personal moment of all, unknowable to those on this side of the veil.

Those around her made sure that the support and comforts of her faith were there in her final days. The parish priest and the chaplain to the hospital visited her regularly. As she had always wanted, she received the last sacraments fully aware and in good time before she died. What difference they made in the great scheme of things, she was now in a better position to know, than those she left behind.

Tim was round and about Teresa throughout her last few days. Gina and Erica shared the vigil with him, Gina mainly out of loyalty and affection for Teresa and consideration for Tim, Erica mainly for Tim. The younger women had not exactly become friends but they got on well together. There was no cause for animosity between them. They had plenty in common, both working in the educational sector and each the mother of a two-year-old boy. It helped that Tim and Gina had slowly managed to establish a friendship that neither of their new partners found threatening.
This was not merely the result of the passage of time, they both worked at it for Maria’s sake. For his part, Rupert had the good sense not to challenge Tim’s role as Maria’s ‘real’ father, as the child herself put it.

Teresa faded so slowly that it was difficult for Tim to know the precise moment when she was gone. He and she had been alone together for some hours when a nurse came in. After a couple of minutes attending to Teresa she turned to Tim and told him quietly that she thought his mother had died. A doctor was called and quickly confirmed this. Tim reached for her hand, heavy and rough in his own, the hand of someone who had worked hard and unselfishly, mostly, as he had come to realise, for him. His tears were his first since his father’s funeral. They came as silently and unbidden as the angel of death.

Dealing with the practical matters following his mother’s death helped him with the first pain of loss. The sadness that followed would linger, fade and from time to time return. Immediately, he had the funeral arrangements to get under way. His first stop was the presbytery of the parish in which his mother had spent her life, apart from the few years when she had moved around with Dominic as he made a couple of late career transfers. The priest, Father Canon, a confident youngish man, sporting hair evocative of a wild cactus, was up to the demands of the occasion. He offered Tim a choice of whisky or tea and some quality chocolate biscuits, as well as providing him with the information he needed to organise the funeral. They agreed that the church service followed by the cremation would take place in five days time. Father Canon also managed to raise Tim’s spirits by recounting tales from his own quite varied and eventful life. At one period he had been a steeplejack and, as he pointed out, had finally landed safely in the right place. Tim was in too subdued a mood to pass on the thought that ‘it all depends on one’s point of view.’ Still, he was in better spirits as he left the presbytery than when he had arrived.

The church service celebrated Teresa’s life as well as mourned her death.

There was pretty much a full house despite Teresa outliving most of her contemporaries. Among the more sombre hymns and prayers, the congregation also belted out Teresa’s favourite, the tuneful and bittersweet Star of the Sea, ‘pray for the wanderer, pray for me.’
You and me, both
, he thought. In his homily Tim wove together the lives of his mother and father expressing his hope and his mother’s expectation that their relationship, cruelly terminated over forty years ago, could now be resumed. After the service an elderly couple approached Tim, keen to share a memory of his parents wedding at which they had been guests. They agreed that ‘two such lovely people, perfectly suited to each other, deserved to be together now.’
Amen to that
.

Amongst the wreaths for Teresa were two that Tim had not expected. One was simply signed ‘To Teresa Connor and her beloved husband, Dominic, together at last. From the Parish.’ The other, as Erica commented, was ‘a bit of a turn up.’ It was signed ‘Henry, Fred and Rachel’.

The day had begun cloudy and overcast but the congregation came out of the service to find that after a freshening shower the sun was now shining and a pleasantly cool wind was stirring. Gradually the family and friends invited to attend the cremation ceremony separated themselves from the rest of the congregation and gathered round the cars making up the funeral cortège.

The cortège was a short one. Teresa had outlived all her relatives other than two distant ones, and only one of her remaining friends was well enough to attend, a doughty old woman named Mary Atkinson who was determined to accompany Teresa to her final destination. ‘I’ll be next,’ she said, not seeming to mind in the least. Tim and Erica followed the hearse in a hired black Mercedes, Tim’s Volvo and Erica’s sports car failing the test of appropriateness on contrasting criteria. Mary Atkinson sat in the back, her posture as proud and erect as a Grenadier Guard’s. Gina
and Rupert followed in their family car with Maria, now nine years old, in the back. After some discussion between Tim and Gina, they had decided not to bring along their respective boys, Dominic and Alexander, to the funeral. At two years old they would remember nothing of the occasion and might just create minor mayhem. In the third car were the two relatives, a brother and sister, James and Florence Nixon. Although they were elderly pensioners they had done their best to help Teresa during her last years at home. It was only after bumping into them several times in Whitetown hospital that Tim realised how much concern they had shown for Teresa in her last years. The least he could do was to invite them to see her off.

The cremation was functional and business like – too much so for Tim’s liking. The small party entered the cremation area to the piped strains of
My Way
, a tune they were required to listen to several times as the cremation ahead of them ran behind time and they had to wait. The knock-on effect was that there was some pressure on them to hurry along when ‘their turn’ came. A leisurely last goodbye it was not. Tim hadn’t been expecting an assembly line set-up, the industrialisation of cremation. He resisted the attempt to push them along and suggested that everybody touch the coffin making their own, silent farewell to Teresa. He had half a mind to suggest a rendition of
Lassie from Lancashire
, a song his mother often used to sing, to counter the repeats of
My Way
, but respect prevailed.

In her prime, Teresa had a way of putting other people’s happiness and interests ahead of her own. True to form she wanted the meal following her funeral to be an occasion for celebration rather than mourning. She had insisted on giving Tim a generous sum of money for that purpose, asking specifically that they go to the
Phoenix
for the meal. It was, she said, her ‘way of being there with the people I love.’ The death of a loved one can bring those left behind closer, putting conflicts and ill feeling into perspective. Life is short, why spend it taking chunks out of
each other? A wake especially provides an opportunity to consider whether long standing rifts and quarrels are worth continuing. Tim and Erica and Gina and Rupert enjoyed the meal together in a reflective and conciliatory spirit. They even began to discuss the possibility of visiting each other as families, something that had not so far happened. The sense of bonding was intensified by the awareness that although they were marking the passing of a life, both couples had quite recently brought a new life into the world. Erica pointed out that recently Aisha and Waquar had also had a child, a baby daughter much loved by her brother, Ali. Tim’s thoughts slipped back to how fragmented his life had felt when his marriage had broken down and he had moved to Wash. Now new bonds were being formed and he could again look forward to the future. Fully compos mentis Teresa would have taken pleasure in all this, although she might well have observed that ‘our Tim has a funny way of doing things’ very likely adding ‘but he’s a good lad really.’

As they ate and talked an idea came to Tim. He had already decided to remain in Whitetown for a short period to deal with matters relating to his mother’s death. It happened to be school half-term holidays. He looked across at his daughter Maria. Why should she not stay up with him for a few days? At nine years old, noticeably independent-minded and self-confident she would take it in her stride. He had never wavered in his determination that they should fully share in each other’s lives, but so far they had spent little time together in Whitetown and the region around it, the part of the country that he thought of as ‘where I come from.’ Apart from the two elderly relatives who along with Mary Atkinson had decided to spend the meal making a fuss of Maria, there was no family left to introduce her to, but the place itself was part of her history as well as his and his parents. He wanted to give her a feel for the area. Enthused with his plan he put it to Gina and Erica. As usual Gina was happy to encourage anything that promoted the father-daughter relationship. Erica was
in any case less affected, expecting to return to Wash on her own while Tim remained in Whitetown for a period. After a brief discussion she and Tim agreed that he would get back to Wash within a week and with that she was happy.

‘Great! That’s decided then,’ Tim concluded.

‘Aren’t you forgetting somebody, Dad?’ It was difficult to tell whether Maria was upset or just teasing.

‘Maria, I’m so sorry. I forgot to ask the main player what she wanted.’ Uncertain how serious his daughter was Tim’s tone was mock penitent.

‘So?’ said Maria, milking her centre-stage moment.

‘Maria, I would love you to stay up here with me for a few days so I can show you the beautiful North.’

There was a theatrical pause.

‘I’d love to stay too,’ Maria leapt off her chair and delivered a giant kiss on her father’s nose.

‘Good. No problem, then, Maria.’ Tim smiled ruefully, aware that she had been taking wicked delight in playing his feelings.

True to his intention Tim took Maria around the North West and even added a brief foray into Yorkshire to see the Dales and the tumbling, rock-scattered rivers that intersect them. They rowed on Windermere, climbed half-way up Helvellyn and exhausted themselves on a trek along the Ribble Valley. To avoid Maria becoming surfeited with the ‘green and pleasant’ Tim spliced in a few urban delights, including visits to the Cavern, the first venue of the Beatles, and the football ground where her grandfather used to play. It was all good stuff for Tim as well as Maria, keeping him in the present when he might have been pre-occupied by the past.

The last act of their stay was one of generational communion. Tim wanted to share with Maria the scattering of some of Teresa’s ashes on Dominic’s grave. They collected the urn together as they had done everything that week and drove to the cemetery. The sturdy granite Celtic cross of the tomb was visible almost as soon as they were through the
cemetery gate. As they parked the car and walked towards the grave, a single shaft of sunlight seemed to pick it out.

‘Your grandma’s saying hello to us,’ Tim said, ‘she’s arranged for the sun to shine on her husband and to welcome you and me.’

Maria, who had become quiet, smiled up at Tim.

‘And soon it will be shining on her.’

Once at the graveside it was Maria that suggested burying some of Teresa’s ashes in the soil around the grave as well as scattering them on it. Tim was glad to do both. It was as close as he could ever get to reuniting Teresa and Dominic.

They knelt in silence by the grave for a few moments before Tim spoke.

‘Your granddad, you know, Maria - he was a good man. And your grandma, she did her best, she was a good woman.’

As they got to their feet, a question occurred to Maria.

‘What about you Dad, are you a good man?’

They looked at each other for a moment, smiling.

‘Maria, that’s a very good question.’