Lifesaving for Beginners

change your mind, are you?’
    ‘No.’
    I go to the cloakroom and fetch her coat and her hat and gloves. It seems like she arrived a long time ago, but when I look at my watch I see that only twenty minutes have passed.
    She pauses at the door. ‘It’s easier to do the wrong thing, you know.’
    ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
    ‘Maybe I did the wrong thing.’ There is something vulnerable about her expression. Lost.
    I shake my head. ‘You did what you thought was best. At the time.’
    ‘Maybe I was wrong.’
    There is nothing to say to that so I say nothing.
    She pulls at the cuff of her glove so that the tips of her fingers strain against the leather.
    When she speaks again, she sounds like her usual self. ‘You should spend some time with Edward. He hasn’t been himself lately.’ My stomach rumbles when she says it. As if I’m starving and Ed is a portion of chicken tikka masala. Or an onion bhaji.
    ‘I will.’ And I mean it. I’ll ring him tomorrow. Maybe I’ll pick him up and bring him somewhere. The Christmas market at the docks, perhaps. If it’s open yet. He loves Christmas and I love mulled wine. It’ll suit both of us. Take our minds off things.
    ‘I’ll ring him tomorrow.’
    ‘Will we see you on Sunday?’
    ‘Yes. Of course.’
    For a moment, I think she’s going to add something but then she turns and walks down the hall. She passes the lift and opens the door that leads to the stairwell. She never takes lifts. Says they’re like people: unpredictable. From the back, she looks more like herself. Her back is straight and her head is high. There is a sureness in her step. Her heels rap sharply against each step as she descends. I stand at the door and wait until the sound fades away.

 
    Dad says, ‘Are you sure you’ll be able to manage?’
    Faith says, ‘Yes. I already told you. I’m fine. I’m fine now. It was very good of you to pick us up from Gatwick. You didn’t have to wait in Brighton for us to come back.’
    ‘I was anxious to hear how it all went.’
    ‘You should go. I expect Celia wants you home. In case the baby comes early.’
    ‘I can stay till tomorrow if you want to go out with Rob tonight?’
    ‘No. No thanks.’
    ‘OK then, I’ll get ready to hit the road.’
    Dad never says ‘leave’. He never says, ‘I’ll get ready to leave.’ He says ‘hit the road’ or ‘sling his hook’ or ‘make like a bee and buzz off’. Something stupid like that. That time, when he left to go to Scotland to do sex with Celia, he said, ‘I’m headin’, buddy.’ Mam was crying in the kitchen and I wanted to say, ‘I’m not your buddy,’ but I didn’t say that. I didn’t say anything in the end.
    He rings Celia so he can tell her that he’s leaving. He says, ‘I’m outta here after lunch. How are you, pet?’
    He never called Mam ‘pet’. He called her ‘Beth’. Sometimes, he called her ‘love’. Like that time in the hospital when he was getting something taken out. His appendix or his tonsils or something. Afterwards, he said, ‘Would you pour me a wee dram of that grape juice, love?’ in the kind of voice Damo puts on when he’s pretending to be sick so he misses art. He hates art. He says it’s for girls and gays. You won’t know you’re gay till you’re about sixteen, Damo says. I hope it doesn’t happen to me.
    Mam said, ‘Do I look like Florence bleeding Nightingale?’ but I think she was just messing because she poured him a glass anyway.
    Dad spreads butter and jam on a slice of white bread. It’s a good job Celia’s not here because she says he’s not supposed to have butter. Or white bread. And he’s not supposed to eat between meals. I don’t know if he’s allowed to have jam. He picks up the bread and takes an enormous bite out of it. Then he washes it down with a can of Coke that’s not Diet Coke like he’s supposed to drink. He looks at me and smiles. ‘I suppose you’re hoping for a wee brother.’
    I shrug. ‘I don’t mind.’ Actually, because I already have two brothers, I was kind of hoping for a sister, to even things out. I don’t say that to Dad. He thinks boys should like brothers and girls should like sisters.
    ‘Maybe we should have a talk, son. Before I go. About, you know, the birds and the bees and all that.’
    I know all about the birds and the bees. Although Damo didn’t call it that. He called it screwing.
    I say, ‘I already know. We did it in school.’
    That is kind of true. Damo