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15th July 2002
Kilburn and Paddington
“There’s - there’s been an accident, someone’s just been hit. They were on a bicycle, they just turned - they’re not conscious - let me give you the street, sorry -”
“Hello, this is St Mary’s Hospital, we’re calling because you’re listed as Emma Mayhew’s emergency contact. I’m afraid that there was a road collision incident, and she’s badly injured. We’re working to ensure that she is stabilised, and we’ll transfer her to the MTC.”
Dexter liked to think about potential futures, just like any other person; consider what might happen if he quit his job, or picked up running, or grew out a moustache. But there were some scenarios that were No Gos, yellow caution tape, locking the door and feeding the key to a spacebound dog.
This was one of those scenarios.
It was the call you never wanted to receive. Even the way the phone had sounded when he had put it to his ear; a weird crackling, like it was warning him what was on the other end. He had been waiting for his wife on the doorstep of a prospective house, wrinkling his nose at the rain, and in five seconds his entire world had changed.
In the moment itself, he found himself unable to think at all. He responded as if on autopilot; “Yes. Right. Thank you.”
This isn’t happening, this isn’t happening, this isn’t happening.
It was only after he had put his phone back in his pocket that he truly processed the situation. And his first thought was, shamefully, what do I do about the house viewing?
He thought of the voicemail she’d left only half an hour earlier: Bye my love. Bye.
A cold shiver, like an icicle down his spine. It may have been because of the rain, but Dexter knew it wasn’t. It was that familiar feeling: dread.
That couldn’t be the end. It just couldn’t. He ran down the street, ignoring the weather - but taking extra care at every road crossing. He was hardly focused on what was happening around him, the faces that passed, the street names, even. All that ran through his head was, she has to be alright. She has to.
The hospital stood tall in the street, a shining beacon of hope. It had never looked like that before - it had just been another building. But now, it seemed a divine presence in an otherwise ordinary world. Which made sense, really, given the number of prayers uttered within its walls daily.
He tried not to sprint as he arrived at the entrance, knowing that it would be packed. He just hoped he wouldn’t have to wait; He wanted, no, needed, to see Emma, needed to see her now. He needed to touch her, to hold her, to see her face.
Sure enough, there were plenty of people inside in various states of injury, illness and disarray. He recognised his own fear mirrored on others’ faces, and they recognised his, too. One woman, Afro-Caribbean and likely a mere decade his senior, gave him a small, sad smile. He felt his racing pulse ease, even if only a little.
Dexter spoke to the receptionist, and was redirected to the eighth floor - the major trauma centre. He could hardly stand still in the lift; it felt like he wasn’t doing anything, wasn’t going anywhere, could this thing move a little faster?
Once it arrived at the correct floor, he practically leapt out, repeating Emma’s name to what felt like the millionth person in a row (even though it was only the second), Emma Mayhew, my wife, damn it -
The room was cold and clinical; white walls, white bed, and a couple of dark blue chairs. But it was what - or rather, who - was in the bed, that mattered most.
Emma looked awful; her skin pale, battered and bruised; her hair stringy and wild; her eyes either swollen closed or she was unconscious. If Dexter didn’t know better, he would’ve thought that she was dead.
He sat beside her and held her hand. Despite her pallor, it was warm. There was blood, rich and red and hot, flowing beneath her skin. Her heart was still beating. She was alive.
Dexter finally allowed himself to cry.
Two broken ribs, a broken leg and major head trauma. She was lucky to be alive, the doctors said. Dexter knew that he was the lucky one, really. Because if she had died, he truly, truly, didn’t know what he would have done without her. What would have been the point, without her.
He didn’t leave her side the entire night, even as she remained asleep. He spoke to her softly, kissed her hand, kissed her head, stroked her hair back. He called her parents, reassured them, told them not to rush; it was a long way from Leeds, and he was there for now. He called his father, and Sylvie, too, because while Emma was not awake, there was no-one else. They tried their best to comfort him, but it was futile. The only person who could make him feel better was the one lying in the hospital bed.
It was about eleven o’clock when she stirred; her hand twitching in his. She seemed too weary to speak, but her eyes - her beautiful eyes, large and brown and witty - blinked open, as if they were opening for the first time.
Dexter began to cry again, and thanked whatever stars and heavens and deities that may exist, and he whispered, over and over again, I love you, I love you, like a prayer.
15th July 2003
North Yorkshire
“Are you getting out of bed?”
“Mrmph,” Emma grunted.
“The sun is shining, the birds are singing -”
“Let them sing, and let me sleep.”
“Ok, I lied, the sun isn’t really shining. It’s foggy. But there’s sun behind the fog!”
Emma rolled over, and looked at her husband, who was standing in front of the window, his legs shoulder width apart, surveying the view as if he were about to rugby-tackle it. He was in his boxers, his stomach slightly protruding, as if he were presenting it to the world. Bemusedly, she realised that her father often did the exact same thing - though if she were to mention this to Dexter, he would undoubtedly start sulking about his approaching middle age.
He looked back at her with a grin on his face - still so very handsome, even after all these years. “If I make Marianne a coffee, she might make us pancakes.”
“Why don’t you make the pancakes, for a change?”
“She won’t let me. She’s very controlling in the kitchen, you know.”
Emma laughed. Her younger sister Marianne had been something of a godsend in the past year. After all she had been through, what with the surgery, the brief period of hospitalisation, and then several months of physiotherapy, there had been a massive strain on both her and Dexter; physically, mentally and financially. Of course, they had friends, and their parents, but they had been determined to Do It On Their Own. What became abundantly clear almost immediately, was that this was impossible. So Marianne, like some angel sent from above, had taken over partial care of Emma, so that Dexter could go back to the café a few times a week. They would probably be indebted to her for the rest of their lives, but it was ok.
Tentatively, Emma climbed out of bed. She was much stronger these days, particularly in the past few months. It was more of a confidence issue than anything else.
She stood next to Dexter, looking out over the moor. Through the fog, purple and green and brown patches were visible. Birds darted in and out, often unseen but never unheard, their morning song echoing across the landscape. There really was nowhere else like it. Maybe Emma was partially blinded by nostalgia, but nevertheless, the dales offered excellent company. Even the fog seemed inviting, ready to wrap around her like a thick, friendly blanket.
“You need to shave,” she said.
“Still not into the stubble?”
“It’s fine, it’s just a bit… Scruffy.”
Dexter sniffed. “I thought it was roguish.”
“It is. But it’s also scruffy.”
The two of them changed clothes and headed downstairs, where Marianne was already cooking pancakes. Her two sons ran around the living room, blurs of Maradona shirts and Nikes. Almost instinctively, Dexter joined them; three little boys running and laughing and playing. The boys adored their Uncle Dexter; they drew pictures for him, chatted about football, asked him endless questions that he couldn’t even begin to answer. Somewhere along the way, Marianne had become secretly fond of him, too. Though she never admitted it, Emma suspected that the past year had shown her just how much Dexter cared about his wife, and that had swayed her opinion.
“Who’s up for a hike?” Marianne said.
The boys (all three) groaned. They were extremely averse to long walks, Dexter in particular. He had held that trait since Emma first met him, and time had not amended this, but instead provided him with the perfect menu of excuses (usually his back, though sometimes his knees and ankles would be similarly scapegoated).
“You can’t rent a cottage in the dales and not enjoy them,” Marianne said disapprovingly.
“We are enjoying them! We’re enjoying the view of them from our window,” Dexter said.
“Lazy bugger.”
“Marianne! In front of the children?”
“They’ve heard worse.”
Dexter turned to his nephews for their confirmation - they nodded, sagely.
“What do you think, Em?” Marianne asked, her voice softening. “How’re you feeling?”
Emma bounced her knees experimentally. “Not too bad today, but not great. Maybe a short walk would be better.”
“We’re playing football,” the children insisted.
“Alright then,” Marianne said, “How about I send just the two of you off on a walk? I have to make sure they don’t break something.”
The boys pleaded and pulled on the hem of their mother’s shirt and climbed up Dexter’s legs to try and get them to stay and play too, but both Dexter and Emma agreed to the walk; they always avoided playing football with their nephews unless it was imperative (like most lads their age, there was a lot of kicking, tugging, yelling and sprinting at a pace impossible to keep up with, especially for anyone over the age of thirty).
After enjoying a hearty breakfast, Dexter and Emma braved the outdoors, finding the air to be chilly, yes, but pleasantly still. Dexter was typically unnerved by the countryside, places he deemed to be The Middle Of Nowhere. He hated the thought that you could be stuck in the middle of a series of fields hours away from the nearest toilet (and no, a tree did not count as a suitable alternative). He had to admit, though, that Yorkshire was beautiful. And not only beautiful for its scenery, but for the reason that it had produced the best person he knew. Returned to a place of childhood and belonging, she found comfort in the rolling hills, the singing birds, the peaceful solitude. So he did, too.
Despite all Dexter’s complaints that they were entirely cut off from civilization, it wasn’t a long walk to the nearest village. They walked along a winding path, reaching local farmland where sheep grazed in the fields (those types with the shaggy wool and strong horns that could run you straight through). One approached them curiously, and Dexter jumped back.
“Don’t be scared, it’s just a sheep,” Emma said, amused.
“I’m not scared. I was caught off guard.”
“I doubt that. There’s a whole field of ‘em.”
“But they normally mind their own business!”
“We’re the ones in their business!”
He considered this for a moment, but had no real defence. “Touché.”
Emma looked exceedingly proud of herself, in that way she did when she had ‘won’ a dispute - which was many times, over the years. He pretended to find it annoying, but he couldn’t, not now, anyway. Maybe when he was younger, it had bothered him, but all genuine irritation he could ever feel for Emma had melted away years ago. All that was left was an affectionate kind of exasperation.
They entered the village - and if someone had said that it was entirely abandoned, they would’ve believed it. It felt like walking onto a movie set, or even a memory from the past, simultaneously fake and so very real. A group of ducks waddled around nonchalantly, seemingly aware of the authority they held over these strange tourists on their land. Dexter wasn’t afraid of ducks, but these ones weren’t the kind you found in a local pond.
“I think there’s one of those village shows today,” Emma said.
“How do you know?”
She pointed: a middle-aged farmer was guiding a pig through the village, both as happy as anything. The pig’s large ears flopped over its eyes, its curly tail bouncing almost as if it were wagging.
“Maybe she likes to take the pig for a walk,” Dexter said.
“Walking a pig? Not a dog?”
“You know these country types.”
She smacked his arm, and he smiled mischievously. “I’m going to buy that pig just to teach you a lesson.”
“Would they let you?” he said, suddenly worried.
Her eyebrows pumped daringly. “Let’s find out.”
As she marched in the direction of the (now diminishing) farmer, Dexter called out “I’m not raising a pig with you!”
“It’ll be taking your surname!”
Emma wasn’t the kind of person to impulsively buy a pig, but she was the kind of person to tease her husband about impulsively buying a pig, to the point of near madness. Was it really love if you weren’t constantly making fun of each other? (Wait, don’t answer that, because she would be embarrassed at how long she hadn’t realised what love was actually supposed to feel like.)
There were all sorts of animals being shown off; sheep, pigs, cows, goats - even a donkey. As Emma passed each section, she ooh-ed and ah-ed and asked the seller how old each animal was and what breed was she and how much was he asking for her?
“Em,” Dexter said, “If this is your solution to us not having a human baby, it is rather an impractical one.”
“I think she’d look sweet in a babygro,” she said, lifting a piglet towards his face, where its inquisitive nose twitched as it inspected him. It was (annoyingly) one of the cutest things he’d ever seen.
“She would,” he agreed. “But she’d also get a hell of a lot bigger and start taking shits on the carpet.”
“Nappy?”
“We are not putting a nappy on a pig!”
The seller, who had evidently overheard, rumbled in agreement. “A pig i’nt a baby. Cute, but at t’end of day, your blood is your blood.”
They stared at him, saw his solemn and genuine face, and both said “Yeah, you’re right, of course,” then promptly left before they could burst out laughing.
“Did he think we were actually going to put a nappy on a pig?” Emma whispered.
“I think he might have.”
“So… Maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea.”
“Oh, fuck off.”
Emma was starting to get tired, anyway - that happened a lot quicker than it used to - so they headed back towards the holiday cottage, stopping to pick up some sandwiches for lunch on the way. They arrived to Marianne reading on the sofa, and the boys (presumably worn out after their football match) drinking squash and squabbling over toys.
“Good walk?”
“Emma nearly bought a pig.”
“What?”
Emma grinned. “I nearly bought a pig. But the farmer said it wasn’t the same as a baby.”
“Too right,” Marianne said. “I’m sure it’s a hell of a lot cleaner. And cuter, too.”
15th July 2004
Archway and Paddington
It was nearing four o’clock and Dexter was watching the time like a child awaiting the bell on the last day of school. He rhythmically tapped a pen against the counter, earning a confused frown from the customer in front of him.
“Sorry, big day,” he said, as if that meant anything. He couldn’t exactly launch into the whole story (even though he wanted to), because that would mean starting from the very beginning, and this random woman probably didn’t want to hear about that. Sometimes he had to remind himself of that fact, because he was overflowing with it; he would be making Emma a cup of tea, or walking with her, or just in the shops on his own, and struck with sudden clarity, pulled out of his body and his life to look at it and say ‘... Did all this really happen? Like that?’
He had felt like that at his wedding, but that was to be expected. What was not expected, nor welcomed (by other people, that is), was sentimental rambling about the Great Love Story that was his life on any other day. Even Emma would be bored by it, and they preferred to live in the present moment - they knew that the past had shaped them, they didn’t need to constantly recount it to acknowledge that fact. That was what diaries were for, Dexter supposed, but he didn’t think mere paper was enough to contain it all; the story, the love, the life.
Four o’clock finally arrived. He waved goodbye to Maddy, hung up his apron, and rushed out of the door. He was perfectly on time, but he found himself running anyway. Out of nerves? Excitement? Both?
Decidedly both.
He hopped onto the train, scowling and tutting at the tourists (a required trait for a Londoner). Despite living in the city for years, Dexter still examined the tube line closely as he sat there, as if the stations might have rearranged since the day before. Finding them unchanged, he switched to the Bakerloo line and stayed there until Paddington.
And there it was, just by the station: St Mary’s Hospital. Once a place of darker memories, though he was hoping for them to be overwritten very soon. It still retained some sense of holiness, of calm, of reassurance.
Emma was waiting in the foyer; she looked beautiful, as she always did, but there was an extra something in the air. Her cheeks were tinged pink, her mouth split into a huge smile, and Dexter swore, just for a second, that they were both 22 again, twinkling at each other in an Edinburgh bedroom.
“You ready?” he said.
“Absolutely,” she replied, looping her arm in his. “You?”
“You know it.”
They found the radiology department, and soon enough, they were being called in for their appointment.
Emma lay back on the couch, her top pulled up, and suddenly felt a bit silly. It was irrational, she knew - this was a completely normal situation, but she found herself feeling self-conscious about her choice of clothes, her hair, her stretch marks. And it was a little ridiculous, lying there with her stomach exposed to the air.
Dexter took her hand, smiling, and her insecurity faded. His eyes were teary, and nothing had even happened yet.
The sonographer was a dark-haired woman with a long nose and rectangular glasses named Dr Whiter. She looked like the type to play tennis on her weekends off. Emma liked her very much, mainly because of her voice; it was soothing, and not condescending in the slightest (a surprisingly rare thing for doctors). It also helped that she appeared to know who Emma was - apparently her daughter was a big fan of the Nisha Halliday books.
“It’s just going to feel a little cold,” Dr Whiter said, spreading the gel on Emma’s lower stomach, then touching the ultrasound probe to the area.
Emma let out a small giggle, tickled, and Dexter squeezed her hand. She glanced at him, watching his face change, and she knew that the picture had appeared on the screen.
Cautiously, she turned to look.
There wasn’t much to say, really. Emma wouldn’t have known how to say it. It was more like something had been pulled from her, right from the centre of her chest, filling the air around her in a beautiful halo. She basked in it, like a warm pool of water, pure emotion that stretched and searched and floated around whilst she stayed rigid, staring at the screen.
She remembered looking at other people’s sonograms, and seeing little more than a white and grey blob in a black abyss; a Rorschach test specifically designed to boast and confuse.
But this? This was different.
This was more than a blob, this was a baby, her baby. She could see them, moving around, their round head and curled up body, and she could hear them, hear their heart beating like a steady drum. If she could record that sound and play it at all times, she would.
Dexter was crying, fully crying, now. He had cried in this very hospital before, and had prayed that he never would again, but it was a prayer that he was glad hadn’t been answered. These were tears he shed freely.
A small part of them both had thought they’d never get here. But somehow, after everything, they had.
Dr Whiter congratulated them and told them the estimated date of delivery - the 21st January, 2005. She said lots of things - all of them reassuring, but Emma was overwhelmed, completely and utterly transfixed by the image on the screen. January felt too close, and too far. Could she wait that long? Was she even ready?
After the appointment, Emma stared at the sonogram in her hands, still processing. She understood why her friends had flaunted them, now, but in truth, she never wanted to let hers go. It seemed an awfully private thing to show anyone else. She gently traced the shape of the baby’s body with the pad of her finger.
Dexter wrapped an arm around her. His cheeks were still wet.
“Are you happy?” he whispered.
“Yes,” she said. “Very.”
15th July 2007
Edinburgh
Dexter and Emma were rudely awakened by the weight of a child heavily thrown between them. Fingers prodded at their faces, prying open Dexter’s eyelids as if trying to raise window blinds.
“Wake up, wake up, wake up!” Jasmine said gleefully, her elbows and knees finding the exact right spots to cause the most pain as she wriggled in the bed.
“Did we miss an alarm?” Emma said sleepily, blinking the tiredness out of her eyes.
“No, she just wakes up whenever the lord wills it,” Dexter said. He attempted to roll over, but his daughter’s arms hooked over his shoulders, pulling him back with a surprising amount of strength. He groaned. “Don’t you have morning cartoons to watch? There’s a TV in your room, you know.”
“Well, that would’ve still woken you up.”
“How thoughtful.” He opened one eye and saw Emma getting out of bed. “Don’t submit to her will!”
“She won’t let you fall back asleep, Dex, you might as well.”
He turned to Jasmine. “Will you let me fall back asleep?”
She shook her head, a malevolent grin on her face.
Emma walked through the door to the adjoining room, where the children had been tucked away in order to give her and Dexter at least the illusion of privacy. Jasmine’s bed was a mess, the duvet thrown onto the floor, with pillows, toys and cushions built up to create some sort of emergency crash landing pad. Knowing Jasmine, she had probably been jumping off the bed - she had recently become preoccupied with her own physical prowess; how high she could jump, how fast she could run, et cetera. In the centre of the room, undisturbed by chaos, was Alice.
Alice Mayhew was now two-and-a-half years old, and very unlike her sister. She was delightfully chubby, with huge, round cheeks, and curious brown eyes constantly searching for answers to the world around her. She had wanted to walk before she could stand, and seemed determined to do so - so determined, in fact, that Emma found herself surprised when she couldn’t.
“Morning, Alice. How did you sleep?”
“Good,” she said. Her dark and unruly hair told as much, sticking straight up like the bassist of a punk rock band.
“Daddy and I are going to take you on a walk today. How does that sound?”
“Long walk?”
Before Emma could reply, Dexter appeared in the doorway, carrying Jasmine under his arm like a rugby ball. “God, not too long, I hope.”
They spent the morning walking around the city, recalling vague memories and arguing over contradicting details. It was strange to be there: the Old Stomping Ground. It wasn’t so much a reminder of youth as a reminder of their distance from it. Current university students rushed around, full of life and promise. Had they really been like that? Naïve; hopeful; anticipatory of a new world, a better world?
Eventually, they reached Holyrood Park, seeing the summit in the distance. Dexter glanced at Emma: should we?
Answering the question for them, Jasmine cried “There’s people up there!”
“Yes, that’s Arthur’s Seat,” Emma said. “You can climb it. Well - I don’t know if your dad can, what with his back and all -”
“Hey!”
Jasmine was already bouncing up and down. “Let’s go! I’ll pull you if you need help.”
Dexter wanted to scoff, but was glad he didn’t when his daughter climbed expertly up the path, her energy seemingly limitless. Emma walked alongside her, listening to her chatter away about the pony toy that she really wanted (but not for Christmas, just in general, her Christmas list would be better than that, she swore), and Dexter staggered behind, carrying Alice on his shoulders.
Hearing her father’s wheezing, Alice patted his head with a small hand, a knight praising her noble steed. “Keep going, dad,” she said in her small voice.
Jasmine and Emma stopped to look at him, both stifling laughter (well, Emma was - Jasmine was outright laughing). “Do you need some help back there?” Emma teased.
“It’s because I’ve got no grip on my shoes,” he protested, stubbornly continuing because Alice was on his shoulders, and she wouldn’t get to the top on her own, so he had to do it or else she’d never get to enjoy the view.
They made it, eventually, and started pointing out landmarks. Dexter let Emma talk, because Jasmine much preferred to listen to her (which he didn’t mind), and besides, it gave him a chance to catch his breath. He pulled Alice from his shoulders, holding her hand in case she had the mad idea to run off the top. But of course she just stood there sensibly, frowning at the view, and Dexter was struck with the image of a young Emma Morley, sitting in the library, frowning at her books. He reached down to ruffle his daughter’s hair, and the furrow in her brow relaxed.
They walked a little way from the summit and arrived at a natural hollow overlooking the city. He glanced at Emma: is this the one? And she glanced back: it’s the one.
All these years, and they’d never gone back. Back to where it all started.
They settled into the grass, the ground pokier than they remembered, the girls clambering over them. The wind blew gently, the sun shining brightly in the sky.
“It’s a beautiful day,” Emma said. “No sign of rain.” She cast Dexter a knowing smile, and he mirrored it.
“Absolutely. No sign of rain.”
And that was all they said; they lay back and attempted to sleep, before inevitably being poked awake by small fingers yet again.
Dexter felt like the last place his 22-year-old self would expect him to be was in the exact same spot on Arthur’s Seat, sitting next to the exact same girl after spending the previous night in the same bed. But at 41, it all made sense. This may not have been where he had expected to end up, or how his life would turn out (he cringed to think of his listlessness at that age, a stark contrast to Emma’s determination and clear vision of the future), but he was so very, very glad that it had happened this way.
Perhaps he had wanted certain things for himself, like fame, or riches. But he would much rather be happy.
Emma carried Alice on her shoulders on the way down, keeping pace with her husband as Jasmine ran ahead. “How’s the grip now?”
“Better on the way down,” he said.
“Good! Maybe we can do some more walking later. Calton Hill?”
He glared at her, and she cackled. Twenty years later and she still loved to tease him. But how brilliant that she could even tease the same person for twenty years. How beautiful .
She thought of young Emma, nervous and unsure, not quite believing that she was really sitting there with Dexter Mayhew, and after a drunken night together, too! If she could go back and tell herself that one day they’d be sharing a last name, a home, a life, and a child, she wouldn’t have believed it. And yet, that was how it was.
They reached the bottom, and turned up to look from where they came. It had been a difficult climb, yes, but it was worth it. It was more than worth it.
Dexter stuck out his hand, and Emma took it. “Drink? I really need one after all that.”
“Go on, then.”