rusted metal, brushed it down and motioned for me to sit. There was a rich Persian rung laid across the concrete floor, and candles that had guttered leaving stunted stalagmites of wax. Underneath the shelves of engine oil, spanners and metal tins of this and that, stood a wooden trestle table with TV, a closed laptop and at least two cups of greying tea.
‘Who lives here?’ I said.
‘No one! This is my shed and my island. It’s where I come to get some peace and quiet when Rachel has her friends round. Another rule for dealing with cystic fibrosis and children: always have somewhere you can escape to for a moment. You are that rarest of things: a guest here.’
His eyes were shy but his smile sparked – so bright and wide and inviting, it drew my gaze to his lips. I looked into his eyes then and away again, towards the glow of the lamp. Confused and delighted by how he made me feel as if he were reading something in me that I didn’t know how to.
‘The pharmacies are all closed,’ I said, too abruptly, wanting to move on from that moment with him and yet wanting to stay. ‘The hospital pharmacy is closed. I didn’t know where else to go. I need to give her antibiotics before tomorrow morning. She shouldn’t miss a dose. She’s got a cold, she’ll have got it from Dave or me. It’s not a cough, yet, but—’
‘It’s OK. Really it is. I’m always talking to the pharmacy for Rachel’s meds and I’ve built a stockpile big enough to get us through the most violent of atomic wars.’ He smiled and I smiled. ‘Seriously,’ he said. ‘I can give you anything you want. How much do you need?’ His voice was gentle and his gaze steady and I didn’t look away.
‘One bottle. I, you see …’
He was the one to look away then, leaving without further remark and returning only a few minutes later with a blue plastic bag.
I took it tentatively, hooking it with one finger. His brow rumpled in confusion at my hesitation.
‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘It’s only that I’ve read so much about cross infection, perhaps too much, but anyway, you know, like the woman at the parents’ meeting said. I don’t want our children to pass anything between them.’ I looked at the silver-grey concrete beneath me – striated with veins of deep purple, like a steak on the turn – and the dark vermillion, Persian rug with its soft, deep pile. I should go, I thought. ‘We wouldn’t want to be unknowing vehicles. Isn’t that what she said?’
‘That’s unlikely. It’s not like we’re touching each other right now.’
I looked down before I said, ‘No.’
‘You’re safe,’ he said. ‘These antibiotics come from my store cupboard and Rachel is far more interested in boys than her medication stores. These will be a different concentration to the one you’re using for Mia. Do you know how to check dosage equivalents?’
‘I think so.’
‘Good. This stuff’s still in date. Small miracle really. Almost everything else she takes is a tablet now.’
‘Thank you, I do appreciate your help.’ There was a beat. ‘And how is Rachel at the moment?’
‘She’s great!’ His smile was so wide and his eyes shone. There was so much … I couldn’t put my finger on it … life in him. ‘Great, actually. We’re in a calm waters phase. She’s got the usual, but—’
‘What’s the usual?’ I said. ‘I’m sorry to ask, and I’m just checking, is all, because I’ve read that some bugs are more persistent on surfaces than others.’ I felt for the packet of antiseptic wipes in my jeans pocket because despite what he said I would use them to clean the boxes when I was back in the car. ‘I’m sorry, I hope what I’m saying isn’t offending you. It’s the bugs, not the people I worry about.’
‘I understand.’ His words were slow, like he was thinking too much between them. I hadn’t offended him but I’d done something else, I wasn’t sure what. ‘You’ll be all right, Cath. I promise it will get easier. At the start it’s impossible to see the wood for the trees. Everything is a threat to your child’s life. Every wood, every tree, as it were.’
‘Yes,’ I smiled.
‘Anyway, that lot should see Mia through,’ he said. ‘And this is for you.’
He put a foil-wrapped chocolate star in my palm, and smiled.
I laid the bag of medicines on the floor, where I could not see it and it could not see me. ‘Thank you,’ I said, unwrapping the chocolate and putting it in my mouth.
‘What happened to your hand?’ he said, and I held it up so we could both examine the trail of dry blood that disappeared under my sleeve. I looked on the floor, expecting to see the kitchen towel Dave had given me to soak up the blood where broken glass had cut the skin. But it was gone – discarded somewhere between here and home.
Richard didn’t wait for a reply and took my hand in his, holding tight where there were other cuts I hadn’t yet noticed. I flinched, because it stung and because …
It had been so easy to hold hands when Dave and I only had each other. We held hands all the time when we’d first met because we wanted to touch each other all the time, intoxicated by the newness of it all. Then, when the miscarriages happened and the IVF started and the miscarriages continued, we held hands all the time because we’d been scared we might lose each other if we ever let go. But I couldn’t remember a time, not since diagnosis, when we’d really wanted to hold each other’s hands again. Perhaps because we’d had to let go when our burden got harder and heavier, our grips taken up with what we held on our shoulders – wrist tendons stretching with its awkward shape, back aching with its terrific weight.
Perhaps it hadn’t been practical to hold hands as we once did.
Richard let go and leaned against the wall, like he was resting.
‘Sorry, I’m keeping you from your family dinner,’ I said. ‘You should get back.’
‘Please, it’s fine. Honestly? Rachel’s in a bit of a sulk. I’d booked tickets for us to see Tiger Love at the O2. Most teenagers wouldn’t be seen dead with their dads at a rock concert …’
He looked out into the distance somewhere far beyond my eyeline, like what he’d said had triggered a vision or a memory in him.
‘Then what happened?’ I said, bringing him back into the room.
He smiled brightly. ‘I was asked to drinks with some MPs and it’s a rare opportunity to collar them on the subject of those new medications I was telling you about. The Americans have found ways of fixing CF at the source instead of treating symptoms but the catch is that the treatments cost hundreds of thousands of dollars per patient, per year. This drinks is about communicating the human story to MPs so when it comes to lobbying our government they really understand the difference these drugs could make to people’s lives. If Rachel gets this new medication it will change her life … But try telling that to a teenager whose greatest love is rock music. You know?’
I nodded. ‘It sounds like you do so much to help. Rachel must be very proud.’
He smiled. ‘She’s proud most of the time. Between the moods and the worrying about boys and parties.’ He adjusted the carpet at the door with his foot. ‘I know her. I know why she’s upset. It’s for the same reason I’m upset. Those concerts are when we get to spend our best time together. To gossip without her mum being there. She had a crap winter and the spring was, well … Fun times together are important.’
‘Hard for everyone, trying to meet all those needs.’
‘It’s OK, her band will be back in town soon. Meantime I’ll try and get her excited about learning to ski with me this winter.’
‘Sounds fun.’ I brushed hair away from my eyes. ‘I thought the newborn years were hard.’
‘They are. It’s all hard!