Time in a Bottle

Transcript - Chapter 1

'Come on, Mum,' Charlie shouts, tearing up the path ahead of me, red lights flashing on the soles of his runners. He makes it to the door. Jumps to reach the bell. Misses. Tries again. And again. I lift him up to it. Bingo.

'Charlie, enough, you'll deafen them,' I say, landing him back.

'Where is she?' he whines. 'She's taking aaages. Ring again, Mum.' He starts to hop.I'm tempted to buzz a second time or at least peer through the stained glass panel surrounding the door. I control myself.

At last, it opens.

Everything stops. Even noise. I hold my breath, fists, step, everything. Inside, organs hammer around, colliding into each other. It’s him. It has been five years. But it is him. What’s he doing here? Have I the wrong house? No, I checked the gate. Right house. And he looks at home. Debbie Grace. My God, his daughter!

'Hello?' he says.

That voice.

He has no idea who I am. Something at least.

‘Hello,’I say, matching his I-don’t-know-you-but-I’m-being-polite tone. ‘I’m calling for Debbie? I’m Jenny. And this is Charlie…’

His eyes relax. He smiles, small creases forming on his face. 'Oh, hello, yes, yes, of course, I'm sorry.' He scratches behind his ear. 'I'd forgotten about the babysitting. I hope you weren’t waiting there too long, I thought you must have been one of Debra's friends. The door's usually for her.' He holds out his hand. And I have to do it, shake it, touch him.

I survive and die at the same time.

'I'm Simon Grace. Simon. Come in, come in.'

Charlie bursts past him. The smell of steak wafts through the warm September air.

'Actually, no, I can see you're eating. I’m sorry for getting you up. We'll wait in the car. Come on, Charlie. Charlie!'

'I wouldn't dream of having you wait in the car. Come in. Please. I was just finishing up.'

'Honestly, we're fine, thank you all the same.' I hear myself match his formality and almost laugh. 'It would be handy to have the car turned, ready to go. Honestly.'

He looks as if he’s trying to work out whether I’m being polite or honest. In the end, he seems to give up. 'Just hold on a minute then,' and he is gone, pounding up the stairs calling 'Debra! Jenny and Charlie are here. Come on.' He disappears.

Charlie heads for the stairs.

‘Charlie, come here,’ I half whisper, ‘you can’t just barge into other people’s houses, especially if you don’t know them.’

He stops, turns, still holding the bottom rung of the banisters. ‘I know Debbie,’ he says simply.

‘Yes, but this is her father’s house. And you don’t know him.’

‘I do. His name is Simon.’

I sigh, check that no one’s coming, march over, pick him up and head back to the porch. ‘We will wait here,’ I say firmly. He knows I mean business.

We wait in silence. And I think about how little he has changed. Simon Grace. Still that preoccupied look, as if you’re disturbing him but he’d hate you to know it. He is taller, leaner than I remember. A bit neglected? Although, stubble at this time of day is probably standard in one so dark. I remember his face with a tenderness that is alarming and I tell myself to cop on. So what if his eyes are sad? So what if he looks strong and vulnerable at the same time?

There is a lighter thunder on the stairs. Debbie.

'I’m really sorry, Jenny,' she rushes. 'I was just drying my hair. I didn't hear the door. Hi, Charlie,' she says, her voice higher when talking to him.

‘Hia, Deb,’ he wriggles out of my arms and runs to her. ‘Is it OK if I go in your house?’

She smiles. ‘Of course.’

He turns to me. ‘Told ya,’ he says.

I laugh as if to say kids. I’ll kill him.

Debbie scoops him up and swings him round. Charlie squeals in delight.She laughs, her sleek black hair lifting from her shoulders and moving through the air as though in slow motion. She has inherited his colouring, dark hair, pale skin. Her eyes are blue though. Debbie is the type of girl you’d see coming through the gates of a private girl’s school on Dublin’s south side, with a group of friends, all sporting hockey sticks. Her look says confident, healthy, well adjusted. Everything you’d want in a babysitter. She settles Charlie on her hip, kisses his cheek and heads for the door. Reaching it, she turns, for the first time, to acknowledge her father, who is hovering politely, waiting for us to leave.

'Why didn't you call me?' she whispers. It’s an accusation.

'I did, Debra.'

'Not loud enough, obviously.Anyway, I'm off.' She turns to go.

'What time will you be back?' he calls after her.

She doesn't answer, so I say, 'About eleven. I hope that's not too late?'

No. That would be fine, thank you,' he says. Then adds uncertainly 'Seeing as it's a weekend night.'

‘We won't be late.'

'Good, good,' he says. 'Do you have your key Debra?'

Yes.' The tone is the-things-I-have-to-put-up-with. She marches out without looking back.

'Goodnight then. Enjoy yourself,' he tries.

No answer.

I smile goodnight, without meeting his eyes, then turn to go. Must be tough living with a teenager. If she's anything like I was, his life is hell. Mind you, her mother probably gets the brunt. Mine certainly did. You can tell he cares, though. More than my ‘mother’, who thought I just got in the way.

I hear the door close gently and suspect that Dr Simon Grace, paediatric oncologist, is relieved to be left in peace. I am glad he didn’t recognise me, but also taken aback, and, OK, miffed. But then, it was five years. And I was different. Jennifer Dempsey, Little Miss Newshound, vunderjournalist, on her way up and nothing to stop her. Contact lenses, cropped and highlighted hair, fitted trouser suits, heels, always heels. Uptight. Aggressive. Soulless. Not at all like Jenny Dempsey, single mum who does a bit of freelancing to pay the bills and keep her hand in. Jenny Dempsey, whose neglected-since-becoming-a-parent hair has grown to her shoulders and regained it’s waves and colour (auburn). She’d like to have time for contacts but doesn’t. So it’s small, rim-free rectangular lenses. Her clothes are casual and often fun. Though five years older, she dresses five years younger. Hipsters, polos, tatty runners. Relaxed clothes for a person who has calmed, who has nothing to prove, not any more.

'Sorry about that,' Debbie says.

'About what?'

'My dad.'

'What about him?'

'Dunno.' She shrugs. 'He's a bit stiff?'

'I don't know. He seems nice enough,' I say in his defence.

She looks at me as if my judgement is seriously impaired. I laugh,

then open the back door of my clapped-out mini, which I love dearly. Charlie climbs into his car seat and I set about strapping him in.

'Sit here, Deb. Sit here,' he shouts in my ear.

'Sure, Charlie,' she says, giving me an isn’t-he-cute-smile, and sliding in beside him. 'Who's this?' she asks, picking up a purple soft toy with green tummy.

'Barney,' he says proudly. 'He's fromourimagination.'

'Oh, I know Barney. I love you, you love me…' she starts to sing. If only her father could see her…

I hop in the front. We're off.

I slot the key into the door of our apartment. On the other side, I hear the dog snuffling and barking, his nails tapping on the wooden floor, then door. I imagine the scratch marks he’s leaving and try to hurry. He rushes out and springs up on Charlie.

'Down, Sausage, down,' he says, with authority.

'Go on in, Debbie, the dog'll move out of the way,' I say.

We all go in. I turn off the alarm.

'He's lovely,' she says, a little unsure, bending down to pat his head. You can tell she’s not used to dogs – too gentle. Sausage isn’t fussy, though, he’ll take all the attention he can get. He jumps to lick her face. She laughs but stands, wiping her cheek with the back of her hand. 'He's very friendly. What is he, some kind of beagle?'

'He's a mongrel', announces Charlie proudly.

Debbie throws me another ah-God-isn’t-he-adorable look.

I give her one back. Try living with him.

‘Do you want to show Debbie around, Charlie?'

‘Yeah, good idea, Mum,’ he says, grabbing her hand and tugging her into the sitting room. ‘Come on, Deb. We’ve a great telly.’

I follow them in.

Debbie looks around, then turns to me. 'It’s great. Must be cool owning your own apartment.'

'Yes, I suppose it is. My gran left it to me. Otherwise I wouldn't be able to afford it.'

We live on the first floor of a three-story Georgian red brick on a wide, sleepy, tree-lined road. Its Glenageary location is upmarket. Or so I’m reminded daily by my editor who personally holds it against me – or at least pretends to. But whatever Jack might say, I'm not complaining. It's a great place to bring up a child. Safe, leafy and near the sea.

The light is wonderful on the first floor, filtering in through ceiling-to-floor bay windows. A crystal hangs in each one, breaking the sun's rays into little rainbows here and there on the walls and furniture. The floors are wooden, hidden in places by brightly coloured rugs. There are so many plants and grasses, it's like having our very own Botanical Gardens.

I've lived here since I became pregnant. My gran insisted I move in with her. 'You need a home, Jen. Not just somewhere to stay,' she said, following it up with a sigh and a faraway look. 'Imagine, Jen., me, a great-grandmother.’ And I felt a little less lonely, a little more wanted, maybe even useful, to a degree. I knew she'd make a great great-grandmother. So that’s what I started to call her, ‘Great’. She didn’t object.

No, objections are the speciality of my mother. When she heard I was pregnant, there was no talk of homes. There was no talk at all. Not as in a conversation, at least. Just a monologue. As if I didn’t already know that a) I was single b) the ‘child’ was fatherless and c) my career would ‘suffer’. She didn't say it but I knew that her biggest 'concern' was how all of this would affect her image, she being a politician. And Ireland being a small country. How many times have I heard those five words strung together like that? How many times in twenty-seven years? Enough to make me hate them, especially when coming from her tight lips.

But moving in with Great was great. She may have been my mother’s mother but they were as far apart as A and Z. I’ve often wondered (understatement) how Great managed to create such a cold, power-hungry…enough of the adjectives…cow. I never asked if she regretted not being close to her daughter - as soon as I became a mum, I knew.

My mother’s view of Great was one-dimensional. She was a potential source of embarrassment, a political time bomb. Great said what she wanted, when she wanted. If people didn’t like it, especially politicians, ‘tough’. Which made her very popular with me. I loved her honesty, bluntness. Not trying to ingratiate herself to strangers, wangle a vote out of them. She was also fun. And warm. Interested in and enthusiastic about everything. She was my mother's mother. In all but birth, she was mine. She should have lived forever.

When I moved in, she humoured my nesting instinct. Not once objecting to having her wallpaper stripped or her walls painted white, her carpets ripped up or her floors sanded and varnished. She loved the transformation, whipped out her sewing machine and made bright covers for the sofas. Together, we went out and bought our equivalent of an indoor rainforest. Our new life was beginning. But all this industriousness was a ploy on my part, a distraction from the fact that I was going through pregnancy on my own. If I kept busy, I wouldn’t miss having a male hand rest on my stomach, sharing the movement. I wouldn’t long for someone to say ‘that’s not a man’s name’. I wouldn’t wish to hear ‘yes, love, the will is sorted, the pension’s organised’ when I suddenly decided that everything needed to be safe, fastened down as though a storm was coming. I wouldn’t look longingly at pregnant couples, holding hands, heads together, planning. It was hormones that had me thinking like that, I know, (I’m normally a very independent person) but something had to be done to stop it – and that was work.

I tried resenting my son when they landed him gently on my stomach that ice-cold January day. But it was no use. I caved in almost immediately. How could I close my heart to this little man with the glassy blue eyes that bore into mine as though searching for something? This kind of love was something entirely new. It hit me with force, knocked me over and changed my life absolutely.

Maybe if he had behaved badly, been ‘a little tyrant’, I could have learnt to hate him. But. Crying just wasn’t his thing. He never screamed, was perfectly happy to loll around in a pooy nappy. He smiled early. Slept through the night from eight weeks. It was like he was trying to get me to love him.

So I decided, 'that's it, I'm doing this right'. I listened to the experts. Breast fed, cuddled, snuggled, tickled, laughed and chatted with the new man in my life. When my maternity leave was up I couldn't go back. I met with my then editor, thankfully a fellow mother, explained my position and waited for her to come up with a solution. Or fire me. It took her two weeks and some negotiation but her offer was like Baby Bear’s por ridge. Just right. Move from health correspondent to contributor, writing a weekly health page, from home. I took a salary cut which turned out not to be too extreme when tax liabilities were worked out. I was lucky. The timing was perfect. The 'editorial execs' at the paper had been contemplating a health page - they couldn’t remain the last of the nationals, albeit a tabloid, without one. Tough market. She dived straight for their Achilles heel, then topped off their insecurities with an assurance that I’d ‘developed a name’ for myself in health. It worked. And I owe her.

I was excited. Moving from news to features suited the new me. It matched my shift in interest, from breaking news to breaking wind (my baby’s, not mine, or anyone else’s). In-depth interviews. Real people with real stories. What happened, how it affected them, how they got through it, meant a lot more to me than brief reports that focused on action rather than reaction, and changed every day, becoming history. With the change from news to features, came a change in editor. I wasn’t too thrilled about that at first because I liked working for a woman. I knew Jack well through my ex-fiancée, who used to write for the paper but I didn’t know what he’d be like to work for. He turned out to be great. Easygoing and encouraging. I was very polite and formal at first but in time we resumed our relaxed, comfortable relationship. He was even open to a little slagging, which is just as well because he gave enough.

Mostly, I worked in the evenings. It suited the people I had to interview because I wasn’t interrupting them at work. And it suited me, with Charlie in bed and Great engrossed in her crosswords, glancing up occasionally with a contented smile. Not exactly what you’d call an earth-shatteringly-exciting life but I'd had enough excitement.

People say that kids are tough work. I haven't found it. It may sound corny, but I don’t mind saying, Charlie has given my life meaning. I’d be quite happy to shout it. Often, I think my life only really started when Charlie entered it. Great died two years ago and I was gutted, devastated, so incredibly empty. But I had Charlie. And he kept me looking forward, focussed. I still had my boy. I had to be there for him.

'D'you want to see my room?' Charlie's bubbly enthusiasm breaks through my thoughts.

'Sure,' says Debbie.

'Come on,' he grabs her hand and drags her off. Sausage doesn't want to be left out and follows, barking and whacking his tail from side to side.

'Guys, I gotta go,' I call.

'OK, Mum. Bye.'

'No hug?'

He looks at Debbie than back at me ‘Busy, Mum.’

'OK, well, I’ll just have to give you one then, won’t I?’

‘K.’

‘Will you show Debbie where everything is?' I say, squeezing him tight.

'Yep.'

'Good boy, see you later.' I kiss him just above his forehead.

'Debbie, I've written down my mobile number and where I'll be, in case you've any problems.’ I tear out a page from my jotter and hand it to her. ‘Charlie can stay up for another half-hour. Then it's bedtime. OK, mister?'

'OK, Mum. You can go now.'

'See you later.' I laugh to hide my hurt.

I walk to the car, giggling my keys nervously, thinking about how fast he is growing up. He has just started school and already he’s changing. No longer my baby. Becoming his own man. It's good for him, I know. I should stop worrying. Everyone has to grow, build a life for themselves. Charlie needs friends. Independence is good for him. I am too attached. Need to loosen up. It’s good that I’m going out, even if I don’t feel like it. I haven’t met up with the guys from the paper in years. I’ve missed every Christmas party – I’ve wanted to. But I need to get on with my life now. Charlie’s getting on with his. But I’m uncomfortable in the dressy-up clothes and already regret the perfume – it’s conspicuous, not me and I suspect, with a sniff, that it has gone off.

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