I only stop when I might puke. I’m dizzy, which is kind of nice; I’m back in my body, heavy and exhausted, shins sore. No sign of Lady Madcap now. I walk, slightly limping, heart thumping. Try to gather the disparate parts of me. I draw on everything I’ve learned in here. Feel the ground beneath my feet, look around me, try to see, to really see, what is really here: the shedding trees, the leaves underfoot, the murky sky above. I breathe slowly, attempt to access my Higher Power: a kind parent, or that part of me that wants what’s good for me. A nurturing cheerleader, not that high-kicking fiend who’s only out to cause chaos. One foot in front of the other, one breath after another, and I find I am a little bit calmer.
And I’m starving.
In the cafe I scan the room and see Jimmy, centre stage. He catches my eye, grins like a schoolboy, throws his hands in the air in an expansive gesture. I shouldn’t be this happy that he’s back. I weave my way through the room to his table, noting how the men around him freeze at my arrival. I’m probably still palpitating, and no doubt my hair is plastered to my head with cold sweat.
‘How’ya, Jimmy?’
‘Cheers.’ He raises his water glass. ‘Nice job with the kittens. Seem to be thriving.’
‘Ah, they missed you, though. Even though you were only gone, like, what? Ten days? Didn’t think they took boozy bods back into the fold so soon.’
His grin expands to consume the whole lower part of his face so that he looks like a scrunched-up hand puppet, the ones made of foam that I used to love to manipulate when I was little. ‘I’m not just any old boozy bod,’ he says, tucking into a tough old piece of steak with relish.
If there were baby calves in the shed, would he treat them with the same tenderness he does the kittens? So strange, that disconnect. It’s not his fault.
‘You want to join us?’
The others shift uncomfortably. I try on a smile. A whiskey-weathered farmer, the one who bellows at night like a bull, so the rumours go, scrapes his chair back from the table, agitation in his eyes. ‘Well, I’m off.’ Probably the smile that did it, that smile that used to put Lara into paroxysms of rage. ‘Don’t you dare… like that.’ Like what? ‘Wipe that snarky smile off your face, or else.’ Or else—？
Now the others are all leaving, a scene reminiscent of the classroom, with the bitches all freezing me out.
‘Something I said?’
Jimmy laughs, waves his fork in the air, points it at me.
‘You going to get some grub inside you? Can’t have you keeling over like that last time.’
He’s right, I could plummet, so I go to the counter and ask for anything vegetarian.
‘Still on that crazy diet?’ the tiny woman with the hairnet says. She dollops three scoops of lumpy mashed potato and a watery mush of turnip and parsnips on to my plate. ‘Bon appeteet.’
‘Aw fuck, you really gonna eat that?’ Jimmy says.
I nod, hold my nose and fork a mouthful in, and down the hatch.
Vrrrrrrrooooom, Yaya!
‘Good girl. Only two more mouthfuls, and then it’s time for sweeties.’ He pushes a crusty-looking strawberry-jam roulade in front of me.
‘So, I heard you had a visitor. How’d it go?’
‘Complicated.’
‘He’s lucky to have you.’
I push the food away, suddenly nauseous.
‘Look, you’re here, you’re tackling this thing head-on. He’s young enough to bounce back from this.’
My eyes wander to the window above eye level. If I concentrate hard enough, above the din and clatter of the other tables, I can block his voice and hear the rustle of wind in the trees.
‘Even as a baby I was flooded with adrenalin, pissed on fear. I never experienced a calm moment before coming here.’
The leaves are shushing, whispering, accusing.
‘I can hardly remember my own being born. Don’t let your life slide by in a blur. For your boy.’
Heat rises and courses through me, followed by a bout of intense cold. My internal thermostat is haywire. I don’t want this unsolicited advice now, these reminders of my failings as a parent; I want to revel in that hug. I rub the spot on my stomach where he pressed his head.
Jimmy pushes his chair back, goes to the canteen and asks for three helpings of dessert.
‘Call me Sweet Tooth,’ he says, winking on his way out.
Do teeth really taste like sweeties, Yaya?
It’s an expression, Tommy, like when I call you Munchkin!
Do sweeties really make your teeth fall out?