There was a photo of Tom Fitzwilliam on page eight of the local paper. He was standing at the entrance to the Academy, his arms folded across his stomach, a thin blue tie blown slightly askew by the wind, looking at the camera sternly with a half-buried smile. The headline said ‘SUPERHEAD TACKLES GANGS’.
Joey did not read the accompanying article. She was too intent on absorbing every last detail of the photograph: the lanyard around his neck on a yellow strap. The dull gleam of the narrow gold band on his ring finger. The way his waistband sat, no belt, slightly slack, just above his hip bones. The jut of his chin. The wide slope of his shoulders. The slight disarray of his hair in the same breeze that had disordered his tie. And the way he stood in full and complete possession of his surroundings.
My school. My kids. My responsibility.
Tom Fitzwilliam.
SUPERHEAD.
She touched the outline of his stomach with one outstretched fingertip, caressing the image thoughtfully as she remembered the potent look they’d exchanged a week ago as she’d left the bar at the Melville. And then she jumped at the suggestion of a hand against her waist and a sudden bloom of warm breath on the side of her neck. It was Alfie, smelling of daytime sleep and stale T-shirt.
‘Fuck, Alf, you made me jump!’
‘Sorry, angel.’
His arm snaked around her body from behind and he buried his face in her shoulder and planted his mouth firmly against her skin. ‘Mm,’ he said, breathing her in. ‘You smell fucking gorgeous.’
‘I do not smell gorgeous. I smell of chips and boys’ farts.’
‘No,’ he said, sliding his hand down the front of her terrible elasticated trousers and into the top of her knickers – the feel of his fingers against her so soon after her reverie staring at Tom’s photograph almost winded her, ‘you smell of your hormones.’
She covered his hand with hers and pushed it harder against herself. ‘And what do my hormones smell like?’
‘They smell like honey.’ He encased her fully with his big dry hand and rocked with her from side to side, his words falling into the hot space between his lips and her skin. ‘And summer rain. And birthday parties. And kittens’ paws. And hot sand. And …’ He paused and brought his other arm around her body, pulled her so close to him that they were virtually one being. ‘You,’ he finished. ‘Just you.’
She turned then, spun inside his arms and kissed him hard. Then she dragged him up the two flights of stairs between the kitchen and their room, fast, desperate, the newspaper left open on the kitchen table below, Tom Fitzwilliam’s eyes staring upwards at the ceiling.
‘You know something?’ Alfie said after, Joey’s head tucked under his arm, their hands entwined together.
‘No,’ said Joey. ‘Tell me.’
‘You’re probably going to think this is mad.’
She ran a fingertip down the tendrils of the climbing rose that covered his torso, following them to their tightly curled tips. ‘Try me.’
He paused then and fell quiet for a very long time.
She saw a slight flush spread across his face and she turned to face him fully. ‘What is it, Alf?’
‘I know we’ve only been married a few months, and I know we’ve only known each other a short time, and I know we’re both still quite young, but what do you think about the idea of starting to try for a baby?’
She felt a bubble of unhinged laughter rise from the pit of her stomach and she swallowed it down. ‘Alf,’ she said, taking his hand in her. ‘God. I mean. Yes. Maybe one day. But we need to get ourselves sorted out. Get proper jobs. Find somewhere to live. I really don’t think now’s the time.’
Alfie looked perplexed. ‘But, you said, remember, that night when we went down to Cala d’Hort with that really nice weed from that French guy, remember? And we were talking about the future? Yeah? And you said something like I’d really like to be a young mum.’
Joey blinked and shook her head. ‘I wouldn’t have said that.’
‘But you did say that. I remember it, like so clearly because it was the last thing I’d thought you’d say because you’re so, well, you were, you know, so …’ He flailed around for a word for a moment. ‘Unmaternal.’
Joey flinched and Alfie stopped for a moment, licked his lips. ‘No. No, not that. You’re not that. But you’re just, I don’t know, you’re just not like all the girls I knew from home, all those girls who grew up waiting for the first chance to get pregnant. You always seemed like you had more important things to do.’
‘Ha!’ The repressed laughter escaped like a clap of thunder. ‘Me! Important things!’
He looked at her, his blue eyes clouded with confusion, and suddenly she felt horribly sorry for him. She brought her hand down on to his cheek and cupped the side of his face. ‘No,’ she said, ‘no. I’m not really an important things kind of person. I’m still trying to work out what the important things even are.’
‘Babies!’ said Alfie triumphantly. ‘Babies are important. And I am one hundred per cent ready to do this.’ He wrapped her hand inside both of his. ‘One hundred and ten per cent. Just totally bring it on. And you’d be an amazing mum. You really would.’
‘And you say that based on …?’
‘On the … on you. Just based on you.’
‘Alfie,’ she said, ‘I sometimes think … I worry that you think I’m something I’m not. I’m clueless, Alfie. Totally clueless. I’m not sure I could cope with the responsibility of raising an actual real-life person. Truly.’ She looked at Alfie, reaching into his blue eyes, expecting to see disenchantment coming down like shop shutters. But his gaze was still bright, still hopeful.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘I believe in you, Joey Mullen. I totally believe in you and I think you and I could make the most beautiful baby you’ve ever seen and give it everything a child needs. Will you at least think about it?’
She cocked her head and regarded him. Beautiful Alfie, the love of her life.
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I’ll think about it.’
