Chris Curran - Mindsight

Nicola’s flat was a messier mirror image of mine. She gestured to me to sit on the red sofa covered in crumpled cushions and called from the kitchen. ‘White wine OK for you?’

‘Thanks.’

She handed me a large glass filled to the top. The first sip made me feel calmer and I leaned back, while Nicola perched on the edge of the matching armchair. ‘This is nice,’ she said. ‘I don’t sleep well anyway, what with sharing the bedroom with Molly and worrying he might turn up in the middle of the night.’ She must have seen something in my expression because she flushed and took a deep drink. ‘Don’t get me wrong, Clare, he really isn’t violent, just a fucking nuisance – pardon my language.’

‘Is he Molly’s dad?’

‘Yeah, and she loves him so much. Kids need their dads, don’t they? So I can’t cut him out of our lives altogether. It’s just when he’s had a skinful or been on the skunk or something stronger.’

I smiled and concentrated on my wine. I’d noticed the smell of hash when I came in, so wondered if he’d been here earlier, and come back after she’d thrown him out. Or had she been smoking too. It was none of my business of course, but I didn’t want to be anywhere near people who might interest the police or cause my probation officer to have doubts.

Nicola was talking on about Molly, and the nursery, and about her own job at the council offices. ‘Dead boring, but if they make me redundant I won’t be able to stay here for long. What about you? You said you’re at work in the morning.’

There was no way out of it. ‘I’m part time at the florist’s up the road.’

‘That’s nice. And I’ve met your sister, what about other family?’

I needed to shut this down and I was amazed to see I’d finished my wine. I faked a yawn. ‘Sorry, Nicola. I’m really tired so I’d better try to get a few hours’ sleep. Thanks for the drink.’

She followed me to the door. ‘No, thank you, babe. Let’s get together again soon, eh?’ As I reached my door she stayed watching me then leaned out, pointing to a small table by the main door. ‘Hey, I’ve just thought. Are you Clare Glazier?’

I swallowed, oh God she’d guessed , but before I could speak she’d picked up an envelope from the table. ‘Mrs C Glazier,’ she read. ‘Sorry I put it there yesterday. It’s where we leave the mail. Didn’t realise that was your surname.’ My smile must have made my feelings obvious. ‘Good news?’ Nic said.

‘Yes, it’s from an old friend.’ I knew the distinctive hand at once and my heart lifted. Lorna – my godmother. Of course, I knew she’d be in touch.

I thanked Nicola and went back into the flat, ripping the envelope apart before I was even through the door. As always, the paper smelled of Lorna’s perfume, mingled, it seemed to me, with a waft of fresh air from her garden. She was the only one, apart from Alice, I’d let visit me in prison. She was a real old-fashioned letter writer and I’d treasured every one of her notes and cards, as well as the long letters she sent when she knew I was in need of something more.

This was quite short, although set out as perfectly as ever and I smiled, remembering how she always insisted personal letters must be handwritten, never word processed, and there was no excuse for slapdash presentation even in a casual note.

Dearest Clare,

I’m so happy to know you’re back in the land of the living with us and I can’t wait to see you.

It’s going to be difficult for you, I know that, but don’t forget I’m here whenever you want to see me. I’m not too decrepit to travel, so I can come to you, if that’s what you would prefer. Call me to arrange something soon, and remember there are lots of people out here who are on your side.

With fondest love from,

Your fairy godmother, Lorna.

My parents were atheists so I didn’t have a real godmother, but at eight years old, at a C. of E. school with a High Church ethos, I got religion. I never went so far as to demand to be baptised, but when I heard about godparents I nominated Lorna. It was her idea to call herself my fairy godmother.

Lorna worked with Dad. He called her his secretary, but she was much more than that. Mum was often ill, so Lorna organised much of our home life too. Next to my dad, she was the person I loved most in the world, and after the accident I knew, in spite of everything, she would stand by me.

When I ran away from home and was living rough I sometimes went to Lorna. She would let me have a bath while she washed and dried my clothes. Then she’d feed me and sometimes persuade me to stay the night.

As always her words came at just the right time, and she’d added her mobile number too, so I texted her straight away.

So good to hear from you. I’m fine. I’d love to see you soon. Working this morning, but will give you a ring asap. XXXX

I switched on the TV, curled up on the sofa, and dozed till it was time to shower and dress for work.

I was swallowing some toast and coffee when the phone rang. I let the machine answer, expecting it to be Nicola for some reason.

‘Clare, my love, I just got your text…’

I grabbed up the handset. ‘Lorna, oh thank you for calling.’ I explained I was working that morning and couldn’t talk for long and, as usual she read my thoughts. ‘But you’d like to see me. Well how about this afternoon? I’m free as a bird and I’d love a jaunt down to the seaside. I’ll come on the train. Not sure about times, but I’ll try to get there for about 1.30. Meet me at the station and I’ll buy you lunch.’

Somehow, just the thought of seeing Lorna meant that, despite everything, I didn’t find the morning too difficult. Stella and Harriet left me in charge of the shop, as they made up bouquets and Stella drove back and forth with deliveries. The open back door allowed splashes of sunlight to fall on the counter, and the warm breeze carried the scent of flowers and the murmur of their voices into the shop.

There were plenty of customers, but they all seemed so absorbed in their own business that they hardly seemed to notice me. I was very glad about that, and I had no time, either, to worry about making mistakes. The morning passed quickly and Stella seemed happy enough too, laughing that, if I could cope with a summer Saturday morning, then I could cope with anything.

Outside, as the sun shone down on me, I almost felt ordinary again: someone with a job, a home, and a friend to meet. Even the calling seagulls seemed tuneful, and I stood for a moment breathing deeply, my knees a little wobbly with something close to happiness.

Down at the seafront the water shone like crinkled foil. The clear air showed me Bexhill a few miles down the coast and, further away still, the white cliffs of Beachy Head near Eastbourne. I felt I could easily have walked there.

Lorna was standing outside the station. I hadn’t seen her for a few months because she was having trouble with her knee and needed an operation. Knowing I’d soon be out, we’d agreed she wouldn’t keep doing the journey to the prison, and I was shocked to see how much she had aged. She was as neat and elegant as ever, but although her eyebrows were still dark, her hair, twined into a gleaming knot, was streaked with grey. She patted it as she caught me looking. ‘You have to stop dyeing it at some point, you know.’

‘It suits you.’

She smiled; her face a spider’s web of tiny lines. Though she was still slender, I noticed she breathed heavily as we wandered down to the Old Town. It was obviously not easy for her to walk, but she insisted she was fine. At the little tapas bar we chose for lunch she exclaimed, ‘My goodness, Clare, it’s so cheap! I hardly ever eat out in London anymore. All the places I used to love are out of my league now.’