Free Blink of an Eye (2013) by Cath Staincliffe Page B

bathroom. Eating Weetabix with hot milk. Painting my eyes with rings of black and peacock blue. There was no dress code in that first job. My outlandish style was a useful talking point with some of the older kids. And I ignored the taunts and abuse I got from complete strangers. What else could I do?
    The job was two bus rides away, but I’d got a Walkman for my graduation present and Phil made me mixed tapes, so I listened to those or read to pass the journey.
    My dad was wary when he first met Phil that autumn at the start of the eighties, though Mum took to him straight away. Because he was a talker too, not shy or tongue-tied like some young men are.
    My dad and Phil never really found much in common. The only exception was space travel. Anything about the space shuttle missions to the moon or exploring the stars and they went at it hammer and tongs. But if nothing much was happening in space there’d be chat about how the business was going, the latest changes to the rates or VAT and problems with distribution, and then things would peter out.
    With my mum it was different. Phil and she would natter on about everything and nothing, which made it all the harder when she began to lose her faculties, when having a conversation became difficult and then impossible.

CHAPTER SEVEN
Carmel
    W e went round to Suzanne’s later that afternoon. We drove along Mottram Lane. The road was clear, but the mobile incident van remained, and the blackened trees and charred verge, the dark melted stains on the road were all there. The railings at the school were a gaudy riot of cellophane-wrapped flowers and soft toys.
    That poor child. And her parents. Mixed with my sorrow I felt the sting of shame. My head was full of the accident, the moments Alex had recounted.
    Jonty’s car was gone, and when Suzanne let us in I asked her where he was.
    ‘Belfast,’ she said. ‘They start filming tomorrow.’
    I’d forgotten. ‘If you want us to stay, with Ollie and everything . . . You’ll need help. Or come to us?’
    ‘I’m fine,’ she said briskly. ‘Meals in the freezer and I’ve a laundry service booked.’ She looked amazing, given how tired she must be. Her blonde hair gleamed; it looked as though she’d got highlights, but it was natural.
    ‘Moral support, then.’
    How had she turned out so strong, so resolutely independent? As a new parent of a three-week-old baby I’d felt completely at sea, even with the help of Phil and both our mothers on standby. The simplest task took hours; I was achy and leaky and weepy as well as experiencing bursts of profound happiness. Everything had felt so precious, so challenging.
    ‘Stop fussing,’ she said. ‘Tea?’
    We accepted, and Phil went and lifted the kettle.
    ‘Let me, Dad,’ she said. ‘You sit down.’
    The house was quiet, the patio doors open and the sun streaming in.
    ‘Is Ollie asleep?’ I’d hoped to have another cuddle, to soothe myself with the simple innocence of holding a newborn. She told us he’d just gone down.
    ‘What did the police say?’ I asked her.
    ‘They wanted to know everything about Naomi and Alex. When they arrived, when they left, what they said, what they did. Who they spoke to. They want to talk to Jonty, too. I’m to give a statement. I might be called as a witness.’
    Oh no!
    ‘Why was she going so fast?’ I said suddenly.
One moment’s thoughtlessness and the railings plastered with toys.
    ‘Because she was drunk.’
    ‘She wasn’t!’
    Suzanne glared at me.
    ‘We’ve spoken to Alex. She was the designated driver. She had some champagne, yes, but she was fine by the time they left.’
    ‘She wasn’t,’ Suzanne said, shaking her head. ‘She might have promised to drive, but that didn’t stop her drinking. She’s a selfish idiot.’
    ‘Suzanne!’
    ‘It’s true, Mum. The only person she cares about is herself.’
    ‘No,’ I protested. I turned to Phil, seeking his support.
    ‘What about the fire?’ Suzanne pressed on.