Chapter 18
“Mummy, why are there other letters in my name?” Nicky scrawled his name on the top of the plan for the slingshot.
“Sorry, darling. What do you mean?”
Nicky sat back in his seat as though contemplating the mysteries of life. Rohan smirked and watched him out of the corner of his eye, pushing his dinner plate away and loosening his tie. Emma avoided his studious gaze, last night’s awkwardness hanging over her like a curtain of barbed wire. “Well, you call me Nicky which is my short name and it has a curly ker in it and a yer, but there isn’t any of them in my proper name. So how did they get in there?” He studied Emma with a seriousness beyond his years.
His mother shrugged and looked down at the shorts she darned. She really didn’t want to have this conversation in front of Rohan. “It’s just your calling name. I called you it when you were a baby and when I had to write it down, I wrote it how it sounded.
Nicky watched her with his eyes narrowed. Then he tapped his pencil on the name he had scrawled on the top of his homework in large, uneven letters. “But the letters aren’t the same,” he persisted. “My new friend is called Mohammed and his short name is M-o, so he can fit his names together.” His brow wrinkled in concentration. “Mine don’t fit.”
“I don’t know, Nicky,” Emma let the held breath out slowly, keeping her eyes down. “Get rid of them if you don’t want them there.”
Her son placed a skinny finger over the offending two letters of his name and pulled a face. “No! It looks funny.”
“It’s because you’re used to seeing it that way,” Emma soothed. “It really doesn’t matter.”
Rohan pulled his laptop towards him, watching the exchange with obvious interest. Emma cringed, trying to think of ways to head her son off without making a big scene.
“Write my other name then. Do it on my spellings,” Nicky said and pushed his paper and pencil across to Emma. She eyed the paper nervously and shook her head.
“I’ll do it later, but not on your homework. Mrs Clarke won’t know who did it.”
“Yes she will! It’s got my other name on the register. She keeps reading it out by mistake and all the other children laugh at me. I’ve got four names and they’ve only got three. And why’s my last name different on the register too? What if the school burns down and the fireman don’t know to shout for Nicky Harrington and shout for...”
“Nicky!” Emma snapped. “Stop prevaricating. It’s nearly bedtime so get on with your spellings, please.”
Nicky postured. “But I want you to write it. Fine! Will you do it if I get some other paper then?” he pleaded, with a whine in his voice. He slipped off the chair and pattered into the hallway. Emma heard the Velcro on his library bag make its distinctive ripping noise as Nicky pulled it open. “Here you go.” The paper fluttered from his hand onto the table in front of Emma and he leaned across her to retrieve the pencil.
“Nicky! I said later. I have to sew your name label back into your shorts seeing as you managed to rip it off already.”
The small boy pouted. “Sorry Mummy. You’re a fast writer. Do it really quickly.”
Emma steeled herself, placing the shorts on the table to block Rohan’s view of the paper. She rapidly scribbled Nicky’s full name onto the rumpled sheet and pushed it into the boy’s chest. “Here. Now go and get ready for bed.”
Nicky peered at the paper and formed the letters silently with his rosebud lips. Emma glanced at Rohan and saw him remove his reading glasses and lay them on the table. He rubbed his eyes and fixed his gaze on the child. He looked intrigued and Emma controlled her breathing, knowing she was the problem. Nicky’s antics were vaguely entertaining, but Emma’s reaction caused Rohan’s antenna for trouble to perk up with curiosity. “Bed, Nicky!”
“Ok. But can I do my homework upstairs when I’m in my pyjamas? I’ll get told off by the teacher if I haven’t done it. She said she’ll sell us down the market.” Nicky rolled his blue eyes and postured, drawing a sigh from Emma.
“Fine. Hurry up.”
The boy gathered his pencil crayons and books together, hefting them under his arm with a grunt. “Oh, I got that book you like out of the library, Mummy. I know you love reading it.”
“Cool, thanks. What’s one more time on top of four hundred and fifty?” Emma lifted herself from the chair, feeling her legs wobble underneath her. “Hop upstairs and I’ll come now.” She gathered her sewing and walked towards the door without looking back at Rohan. As Nicky skipped from the room in his underpants, the paper slithered from his arms and he stopped so quickly, Emma nearly ran up the back of him.
“Oops!”
“Leave it, Nicky. I’ll get it. Please stop fluffing around and delaying. I’ll end up cross and there’ll be no story time.”
“Fine!” He humphed, comical with his pale skinny legs sticking out of his tiny pants and his arms full. “It doesn’t matter. You can put it in the rubbish. I like Nicky best anyway. Sid says it’s a cool name.”
“Ok. Now go!” Emma balanced the needle and thread in her left hand, bundling the shorts under her arm. She sighed as Nicky cascaded coloured pencils from his open wallet, oblivious as he skipped into the hallway and up the stairs. She bent, retrieving a blue crayon and a green one before lurching for an orange one near the skirting board. Emma heard the scrape of Rohan’s chair legs on the floor and dropped all three crayons in her attempt to snatch up the fallen paper before he got to it. In the fracas, Emma banged the dining room door shut with her bottom. “Leave it!” she snapped and the shorts tumbled to the floorboards, joining the crayons.
Rohan grabbed the paper and lifted it above his head, his tall body and long arms easily defeating Emma. She jumped up and down on the spot with her arm outstretched, banging her breasts into his chest. As Rohan brought the paper lower to read Emma’s writing, she fought with dirty tactics and unable to reach, covered his eyes with her hands. “Stop being an idiot!” she complained. “Just give it here. I need to get upstairs before Nicky floods the bathroom.”
Rohan laughed and jabbed Emma in the ribs on the ticklish spot he knew so well. She squeaked and covered her mouth with her hand, freeing up one eye for Rohan. “What’s the big deal?” he chuckled, sensing the anxiety coming off her in waves.
“Please Ro, just give it to me,” she begged, her voice growing hoarse.
“Ok.” He lowered the paper and handed it to Emma, who withdrew her remaining hand from his face.
“Thanks.” She snatched it from him and balled it up tightly in her fist. Her neck bore a red flush that was more from nerves than exertion and she looked wrong footed. “I’ll go and sort Nicky out,” she said, bending to pick up the dropped items and scurrying from the room with haste. At the dog-leg on the stairs where the wooden balustrade curved up to the left, Emma looked down and saw Rohan standing where she left him. His head was bowed, his blonde hair flipped forward into his eyes and his hands were stuffed deep into his pockets. She felt a wave of sadness at her own cruelty and intercepted her naked son at his bedroom door. “How come you’re not dressed yet?” she asked in annoyance and he gave her a coy grin.
“Just doin’ a surprise,” he beamed.
“Yeah? That’s nice. Now get that bare bum in the bathroom or I might just surprise it with a slap,” Emma joked, using the shared joviality to ground herself.
While Nicky splashed around in the bathroom sink in a pretence at washing for bed, Emma tore the paper into small pieces and flushed it down the ensuite toilet. “Coming here was a big mistake,” she whispered to herself as the torn pieces swirled away. “Thank goodness our time’s nearly up.” She bit her lip and knew she didn’t mean it.
Nicky looked cute in the huge bed as Emma tucked him in. “How did you get wet hair?” she asked him, tucking the buoyant curls behind his ear and smoothing them back from his damp forehead.
“It’s annoying me now. I don’t wanna be surf bum anymore. I want Uncle Ro to take me to the barber shop and
get it snipped.”
“I’ll cut it,” Emma volunteered but the child shook his head.
“No. I want boy-time with Uncle Ro.”
Emma snorted. “Boy-time? Have you been reading women’s magazines or something?”
“No!” Nicky pouted. “Sid has boy-time wiv his dad every Friday and the girls do nails and stuff. Can you ask him for me, please?”
“Look Nicky,” Emma rested her chin on the pillow next to his. “We’re just staying here for a little while to help Uncle Ro out with Farrell. It’s probably best you don’t get your hopes up. We won’t be here long enough.”
“But I luff ‘im.” The small boy’s vibrant blue eyes lost their mischief and filled with the sheen of tears.
“That’s awesome, mate. But it’s not for keeps, ok? We have our own life and he has his. We can’t push into his too much or he’ll get fed up of us.”
“Ok, Mummy. Please will you help me wiv my spellings and then read the story?”
Emma smiled and kissed her son, settling down into the bed with him. They made songs out of the spellings so Nicky could remember them for his test the next day and they sniggered and giggled at the ridiculousness of the sentences they made up to include the random root words. Then Emma read the story picture book, doing all the voices for the familiar characters, including a Scots pirate and a Russian teddy bear. When she closed the book finally, Nicky’s eyelids drooped and his lips gripped his tiny thumb between them. In his hand he clutched an old blue teddy and Emma hunted surreptitiously for his favourite Action Man. Unable to find it, she hoped the boy didn’t wake up crying for it and left the room, leaving the door slightly ajar.
Outside in the light of a small lamp, she almost fell over Rohan’s legs. “Bloody hell!” she hissed. “What are you doing?”
“Just listening to you being a great mother,” he said, keeping his voice low. He held his hands out, asking without words for her to pull him up and Emma bridled but did it anyway, almost overbalancing when he was upright. Rohan caught her, his hands in the small of her back, his eyes looking hard into hers. “I need to talk to you,” he said, seriousness in his voice and Emma shoved at his firm chest until he let go of her.
“Can we do this tomorrow?” she asked, cringing. “I’ve still got four name tags to sew into Nick’s clothes and two that fell off. I’m knackered.”
“Get them. I’ll help you,” Rohan offered and Emma snorted.
“You’re actually going to sew name tags into my son’s sports kit?” she scoffed and he cocked an eyebrow at her.
“I can sew really good, thanks. I learned in the army, so there!”
“Ok.” Emma smirked. “I’m not going to turn down good help. But I’m really not interested in talking so please don’t start.” She flounced off to fetch the abandoned clothing and the packet of labels, determined to shut any awkward conversations down instantly. Back in the hallway, Emma grew anxious as Rohan jerked his head towards the huge master bedroom. She followed him reluctantly in.
The room was very masculine, a blank canvas of grey, white and black, but it was very much Rohan’s imprint on the decoration. The heavy furniture was stylish, black in colour but striking. Rohan indicated the bed and opened his hand to tell Emma to sit down. She eyed an armchair in the corner covetously but Rohan plumped the pillows up on one side of the bed and pushed her gently into a seated position.
“We can sit together and share the cotton and the labels,” he said, lying next to her on the bed with his legs out straight in front of him. “Here, give me the stuff.” He held his hand out.
Emma watched Rohan thread the needle, fascinated with the concentration on his chiselled face. He sucked the very end of the cotton and poked it at the eye of the sharp needle, smiling with satisfaction as it slipped easily through. He seized a pair of sports shorts and a label, marrying the two on the elasticated waistband. “No, not there,” Emma said quickly, placing a restraining hand over Rohan’s. She felt him shiver at her touch. “It’s too stretchy on the waistband. The first time he puts them on, all the stitching will go. That’s what happened before. Put it on the seam or the bottom of the leg. Then I’ll write his name on it in pen.”
Rohan turned the shorts the other way and started stitching. He was quick and neat and Emma raised an eyebrow in surprise. “How come you’re stitching socks?” he asked, jerking his head towards her deftly moving fingers.
“He lost a sock already and the tags popped out of his shorts. His uniform back home was second hand so I guess the elastic wasn’t so enthusiastic.” Emma smiled a tight little movement of the lips, dreading the thought of returning to the dilapidated house on the dreadful little estate, especially without a job. She bit her lip against the unwanted tide of emotion and changed the subject. “What did you do at work today?”
“Nothing important. I wanted to talk to you about this.” Rohan stopped sewing and reached sideways, producing a scrappy piece of paper from his bedside cupboard. He handed it to Emma. She read it and put her hand over her mouth as a wave of sickness pushed up her throat and took her breath away. The bed shuddered as she swung her legs over the side and thudded her feet to the floor, flinging the garments to one side.
“Whoa!” Rohan retrieved the fleeing needle, stabbing it into the uppermost sock, still managing to grab Emma one handed around the waist before she gathered herself enough to run.
“Let go of me!” she hissed, desperation leaking from her core.
“No!” Rohan dragged her backwards onto the bed, hauling her until she lay with her head on his thighs, both of them panting with the exertion. “You stay and talk about this! Stop running from me, Em. Do you hate me that much? What did you think I’d do?”
Emma felt like a fool laid on her back looking up at Rohan. His cheeks were flushed, blue eyes glittering in the unnatural light from the overhead bulb. His arm felt strong around her waist, pushing her breasts upwards like a freaky boob job and his biceps bulged as they strained against his work shirt. She covered her face with her hands to give her time and Rohan relaxed, his stomach muscles less firm against the side of Emma’s head as he lay back against the pillows. She knew he watched her with intensity. She could feel it.
“Why do you always have to run?” Rohan’s voice was soft, soothing and full of sadness. Emma couldn’t bring herself to answer. “I don’t think he means anything by it,” he said, referring to the letter.
Emma groaned heavily from behind her hands. “Yes he does! He’s saying I’m not enough for him.”
Rohan released his arm from around her waist and Emma felt the coolness of its lack. To her surprise, he put both hands under her armpits and lifted her like a child, cradling her in his chest and stroking her face. “You can’t think like that, devotchka. You’re an amazing mother; I’ve seen you with him. Listening to you tonight reading that story was humbling.”
“So why’s he writing things like that to you?” she sniffed, fighting back tears of disappointment and guilt. “You’re just some random male to him. Is he doing this without my knowledge to every guy he meets? That’s dangerous as well as insulting!”
Emma pushed herself upright, kneeling on the bed with her legs touching the side of Rohan’s thigh. She reached for the letter, casting agonised eyes over it again. ‘Wil you b my daddy?’ She flapped the paper, channelling a heady mix of emotions through her dark eyes. Rohan wrenched the paper from her hand, leaving Emma holding a tiny corner of it.
“He’ll hear you!” he chastised, looking at the childish scrawl again and biting his lip. He looked at Emma with defiance and shrugged. “What’s so bad about this?”
She postured angrily and rolled her eyes, the teenage girl not far below the surface after all. “Well firstly, he doesn’t know you well enough to be asking things like that. It makes him vulnerable. Secondly, I don’t want him getting attached to you because it will make it harder for us to leave. And thirdly...” Emma rubbed her eyes feeling suddenly exhausted.
“Wha
t’s thirdly?” Rohan reached out and pulled her hand away from her face. He didn’t let go of her wrist. “Thirdly?”
Emma shrugged. “He spelled things wrong. Look, he’s only put one ‘L’ in will.” She lurched for the paper but Rohan kept it away from her, holding it out to the other side of him.
“No.” He shook his head. “Thirdly, he’s my son and he and I both know it. I feel it in my chest every time I look at him so he must too. It makes me feel so confused...” Rohan raised his eyes to the ceiling and then closed them. “I dread to think what it’s doing to his little heart.” He opened sparkling blue eyes and fixed them on Emma’s flaming cheeks. Rohan maintained his grip on her wrist and held the letter away from her, squinting slightly as he read it out loud.
‘Deer Ro. Pleez wil you b my daddy??? Can we do fings togevver? Can you tak me for hare snips like yors??? Love Nikolai xxx’
Emma refused to look at Rohan as he repeated Nicky’s full name. She kept her eyes closed and her jaw clenched hard to keep her silence. Her whole body felt stiff and unyielding and the silence in the room condemned her. “I think we should go,” she said woodenly and tried to move. Rohan’s grip on her wrist tightened.
“Nikolai? No wonder you didn’t want me to see that bloody birth certificate. For what it’s worth, Em, I worked it out the minute I saw him with you at Fred’s wedding. I didn’t need to see my family name handed down to my eldest son to realise it, Em. The drama at the school was a wobble but that’s all. Don’t you understand? It’s more than biology, Em. It’s like his spirit called out to me in this incredible connection. I just knew. Anton’s handed down name was Stepanovich. He would never use mine, not under any circumstances. It’s just not done. Now can we drop this whole pretence thing and work it out?”
Emma gulped. “No, I can’t do this.”
Rohan flexed his fingers on her wrist and it shook her arm. “I don’t care, Em. I don’t want to start talking about rights and lawyers. You might not love me like I love you but I want a relationship with my son. I’ve missed...so much, Em. I want to make it up to him.”
Emma shook her head again. “I’m going home. Please leave us alone?” Her eyes begged as she turned them on him, the fear so prevalent it took Rohan’s breath away.
“Em, what the hell’s wrong?”
“You know! You always knew!” Emma exploded. She tried to jerk away and Rohan clasped her round the waist again. “Please, Ro, just let us go?”
“What is it Emma? What?” Bemusement and frustration creased Rohan’s face as he grappled with Emma. She ended up underneath him. Her foot contacted Rohan’s right shin and feeling a sharp sensation and thinking it was his switchblade, she panicked.
Rohan roared as she brought her knee up and connected with his groin. Curling into a ball, he let go of her. He groaned and rolled around on the bed in pain and Emma felt a stab of guilt as she backed away, hearing him hiss every curse word she had ever heard in a bilingual mix of English and Russian. He wiped at his watering eyes and Emma heard him exhale slowly as she reached the door. “Please, Emma? If it’s not me, then who are you hiding him from?”
Emma turned the handle slowly and pulled the door towards her, ready to escape. Rohan sat up, one hand clamped firmly between his legs without shame. He wasn’t coming after her. Emma licked her lips and took a steadying breath. “Your mother; Alanya. She’s a murderer and you know that in your heart. After you went back to Afghanistan and I started throwing up, she took me to the doctor. She made me say I wanted an abortion but the doctor wouldn’t agree to it without me having counselling.”
Rohan’s jaw dropped and his eyes widened in horror. Emma bit her lip and got ready for his dismissal. It didn’t come. “Your mother knew someone who would abort my child without asking questions and she arranged to take me there. She locked me in my room to make sure I couldn’t get out and Anton came home from university unexpectedly with Glandular Fever. Alanya was at the bank getting the cash for the...operation and Anton drove me to a friend’s. He was so unwell he could hardly stay awake at the wheel and it was a five hour journey. I had nothing with me and I didn’t know where he was taking me.” The sob caught in Emma’s throat and she yanked the door open. She pointed an accusing finger at Rohan’s prone body. “Your mother tried to kill my baby! And now you know he’s your son, you won’t be able to stop yourself telling her. Anton knew what she was, but you always tried to see the best in her. You wouldn’t listen to Anton! First thing tomorrow, me and Nicky are leaving and you’re not stopping us.”
She backed out of the door and closed it behind her, slipping quickly into Nicky’s bedroom and closing the door behind her. She dragged Nicky’s suitcase back across and pushed it against the door
“Mummy, what was that noise?” Nicky sat up in bed, his eyes glinting in the light from the moon through his open curtains.
“You just had a bad dream,” Emma lied. “Lay back down and I’ll cuddle you.” She moved across the room and pulled the curtains closed, slipping her clothes off down to her tee shirt and underwear. Nicky’s body was warm and soft as he snuggled willingly into his mother’s chest, bringing his knees up and pushing his bare feet onto her thighs. Emma released the ragged breath she held and sniffed her child’s downy hair, letting the stray strands irritate her nose and force her back to reality. Vengeance made her want to tell her son the truth but maternalism squashed the urge as it had many times before, especially in these last few weeks.
Emma cried without making any sound as her tears soaked the pillow beneath her head. Growing too hot, Nicky turned away and slept deeply as his mother walked through dreadful memories. Anton drove the five hours to his dead father’s family, needing to be shaken awake as he dozed at the wheel in his fever. Emma remembered his reddened eyes and shivering body, slumped in the driver’s seat of the rickety old vehicle as he navigated the narrow, breakneck Welsh mountain roads. “I can never tell her I was there,” he said in terror, more than once, fearing the consequences of his mother finding out his part in Emma’s escape. “Does she know it’s Rohan’s?” Anton turned frantic eyes on Emma and she screamed as he veered across the road.
“No! No, she doesn’t!”
“Then Rohan can’t know either, Emma. You can’t tell him. He doesn’t understand about her. He doesn’t know what I know. She poisoned my father, Em and we know she did the same to yours. We just don’t know how yet. Stay away from her, promise me? Do you promise, Em? That means you have to stay away from him. Ok?”
Emma nodded in terror as a lorry honked its horn and Anton swerved out of its way on the inadequate road. A sign whipped past, declaring in the wavering headlights that it was twelve more miles to Aberystwyth. Those few miles felt like a hundred as Anton struggled with the exertion, pulling over to vomit in a layby in a tiny town called Machynlleth. Emma felt numb as she rubbed his stiff back, and stroked his blonde hair away from his soaked forehead. The numbness took root in her heart and stayed, shattering only with the angry wail of her newborn son.
“Here you are, cariad,” the gentle Welsh midwife whispered, using the soft word for love as she placed the wriggling boy on Emma’s chest. “What you callin’ ‘im?” she asked.
Emma looked across at her birth partner and felt a rush of affection slowly replacing the nothing. The wizened old lady sat with bowed head, pushing prayer beads through gnarled fingers. She looked up once with vibrant, sparkling blue eyes and smiled and nodded at Emma. “Nikolai,” Emma breathed as the midwife kept her pen poised above the tiny wristband.
“Aw, bach,” the portly midwife chuckled. “Youse gonna ‘ave to spell that for me.”
The old lady nodded and a single tear rolled down her crinkled cheek. “Nikolai Rohan Davidovich Andreyev,” she said with deeply accented English. She pursed her lips and searched the ceiling for other words that wouldn’t seem to come. Emma spelled out the familiar names and Rohan’s grandmother cried without shame, remembering the naming of her own newborn, years before. She reached
across and stroked Emma’s forehead in gratitude. “Da,” she said through her tears in broken English. “Da. Thank you child. Is old family name passed through eldest son. Nikolai my son. Rohan Nikolai Davidovich, mal'chika father.” With a bent, arthritic thumb, the elderly Russian made the sign of the cross on Nicky’s pink forehead, smiling at the crease of skin above blonde eyebrows. “One day,” she predicted. “One day, Rohan Nikolai Davidovich Andreyev will see what he cannot now.”