The Sun on my Skin Ch. 03

"For Grandad dying?" she asks, furrows of confusion and concern appearing between her eyes.

"Not exactly, not for him dying. It's hard to explain, but we both thought that the other could have done more to help him."

"I think I sort of remember him," she says, thoughtfully. This certainly isn't the way I had expected this conversation to go.

"You might: you'd have been about four years old when he died." I take a deep breath. "Listen, Alice, I know your Mum and I weren't close, not for years, but I'm truly sad she's gone and I wish I'd made much more effort to patch things up between us. What she said made me realize that I could have done more for Dad, and for her too, but now it's too late to..."

"What do you mean, 'What she said'? When did you talk to her?" Oh shit. Whatever else, it's obvious Alice isn't stupid — she is clearly very astute. What should I say? Can I pretend that it was a mistake, a slip of the tongue? No: I don't know what relationship if any, this girl — this intelligent young woman — and I might have in the future, but I cannot start it with lies. I'm going to have to be honest.

"She left a note — a letter, really — for me."

"A... a... like, a... suicide note? To you?" I can see sadness on her face, naturally, but there's a note of betrayal in her voice too.

"Yes, but I want you to read it — if you want to, that is," I tell her, reaching into my bag.

"Have they read it?" she asks, her eyes flicking towards the door.

"I think so. The police certainly have — this is a copy because they told me that they need the original as evidence, for now, anyway." I'm suddenly apprehensive about showing it to her. I've read it several times and I try to recall exactly what Pippa said. How will Alice react if she finds out I'm gay? I don't think the letter explicitly calls me a lesbian, but after Mum and Dad and Pippa, I'm not expecting her to be very accepting. Crap. Oh well, too late now. Thinking about it, perhaps I should be less concerned about myself and more about what she might think of Pippa after reading her words. "Um, Alice," I say slowly, not letting go of the folded paper for a moment, "I just wanted to say that Pippa, I mean your Mum, was obviously very depressed when she wrote this, so she was being unduly hard on herself, you understand?"

I'm not sure she does understand, but she gives an impatient nod and I let the letter go. Oh well, she has a right to see it. I glance at the door, half expecting Bernie or the other woman to come bursting in to intervene, but the door remains shut.

I look back to Alice, watching her read. She gives a little sniff and rubs her eyes with the heel of her hand, leaving the skin around them glistening with the dampness of her smeared tears. I feel my own eyes prickling as I recall Pippa's despairing words; at the same time, I have the sudden, unexpected urge to put my arms around this poor, sad girl to comfort her. I hesitate: should I?

She makes another noise: a sob this time, not a sniff. Beyond the simple empathy of knowing what reading Pippa's letter had been like for me, there is the fact that Pippa asks me to become not just Alice's stepmother, but to be the good mother that she felt she'd failed to be. It suddenly hits me that if I can't or won't comfort her here and now, well, I might as well walk out the door and tell Bernie to call the children's home.

Apprehensively but carefully, I reach my arm around Alice's shoulders. I feel her tense at my touch but she doesn't pull away, and a moment later she relaxes as she continues reading.

She lowers the paper, and I feel her press into me, sobbing. I hold her, not knowing what to say. Perhaps there are never words for a moment like this.

Finally, she begins to calm, her crying gradually easing. I notice she has lifted the letter again, re-reading it as I did. I experience a brief moment of satisfaction that she is still okay with me holding her before she moves, leaning away with a slight shrug of her shoulders to free herself. I let my arm drop.

"Are you okay?" I ask. "No, stupid question: of course you're not okay. Nothing about this is okay, um..."

"Mum wants you to adopt me," she says in a way that may or may not be a question.

"Seemingly."

"So, is that's what's going to happen?"

"Well, I, er, I could say no, and Bernie and the people from Social Services can say no — mostly if they don't like me, I think — but above all, from what Bernie told me, it's your decision... although," I add hastily, remembering what Shalu had said, "I don't think you get to do whatever you want."

"Yeah, that's what that bitch said when I said I wanted to stay with Nessa and her Mum," she complains bitterly.

"Perhaps she just meant that couldn't happen immediately," I reply, trying to be sympathetic, but she shoots me a hard, angry stare.

"So you don't want me then?"

"What?" I say, surprised at the sudden, unfair accusation. "I didn't say that! What I meant was... Look, let's be honest: neither of us knows the other, but," I hold up my hand to forestall any claims of this as further evidence of my not wanting her, "I wish that were different, really I do. As I said, I wish I'd made up with your Mum. Maybe I might have made a difference to what happened, maybe not — we'll never know — but I would know something more about you, and perhaps choosing between me and a children's home wouldn't be so difficult." I look at her and sense the anger has eased a little bit. "And maybe I'd feel more confident about being able to do what your Mum has asked."

"Do you want to do it?" she asks quietly and I nod. "Why? Is it just 'cos you feel guilty about Mum?"

I'm not at all sure I know the answer to that, not the whole answer. Try to be honest with her, I remind myself — as honest as you can, anyway. I take a breath. "Yes, I feel guilty — about your Mum and falling out, and about Dad — but... but that's not all. I understand a bit of what you feel: Pippa wasn't my Mum but she was my big sister and I do know what losing a parent feels like. I want to do this — or at least try — for her sake, because I owe it to her and to you too, because maybe..." a sudden idea appears that's weirdly reassuring and disconcerting at the same time. "...maybe this is where I discover that what I thought about myself was wrong. Maybe my job isn't as important as I thought it was, maybe..." I almost say that maybe family matters more than I thought it did, but I don't know if that's true, and even if it is, it's certainly not something she wants to hear right now. "...maybe my being here for you is a chance to do something genuinely valuable with my life." Did I really just say that? Do I actually believe that?

Silence settles between us as I try to work out whether, in the spirit of honesty, I need to take back or qualify what I just said. It's not that I think that what I do has no value, it's just that raising a child, raising Pippa's child — okay, her young person — seems more important than managing Jan, Malcolm and Tanwen, and certainly more significant than December's payroll.

"Look, I wouldn't..." / "There's something..." We both speak at once and then immediately reflexively apologise to each other.

"Go on," I encourage.

"No, you first," she insists and I can see she means it.

"Okay, well all I was going to say was that if you were, you know, if you were to stay with me then I wouldn't stop working — I mean, I still need to earn money, right? — but I would make sure that I was there for you, yes?. And... well... whatever you choose today, you can still change your mind later."

"So could you," she points out.

"True," I concede. "This has to be something that works for both of us, and I know it won't all be plain sailing, but I'm not going to give up the first time we fall out or have a disagreement, I promise. I hope you'll do the same." She nods. "So, what were you going to say?"

"Nah, it doesn't matter..." She looks down for a moment. "Um, would I be staying with you tonight, if I said yes?"

"I guess the Social Services twins would have to agree that... do you want to ask them?"

"Um... maybe, er, yes, I guess..." she replies awkwardly.

We're both uncomfortable as we talk to Bernie and Shalu, who then insist on speaking to us individually. I suspect they want to be sure that neither of us is being pressurised or guilt-tripped into a decision. I'm reminded, several times, that this isn't necessarily permanent, and that either of us can change our mind if this doesn't work out. It is supposed to be reassuring, and perhaps for Alice, it is, but it makes me feel that I'm going to be assessed and judged constantly. How guilty will I feel if, in the end, she ends up in a children's home and I can't fulfil Pippa's request?

Eventually, it is agreed, and then there are forms for me to sign in which I accept my new responsibilities and places the two of us under the supervision and monitoring of Social Services.

"I hope it all goes well, for both of you," Bernie tells me as she gathers the papers into a pale green folder labelled ROBERTS, Alice - 06/08/1999. So her birthday is on the sixth of August — I must remember that.

There are final handshakes, good luck wishes and brief farewells and suddenly we're done; it is just Alice and me left in the room along with two suitcases — all of Alice's worldly possessions. They wouldn't fill the boot of a car.

"They said I should take everything that I was sure I wanted," Alice says, "coz someone might rob the place." I reach out and give her shoulder a little squeeze.

"There are some shitty people in this world," I concede. "Okay, let me call a taxi and we can go home."

Alice has had the tour of the flat and her bed is made up in the spare room — a bed rarely ever used, even though I bought it when I moved in six years ago. I've left her there unpacking her clothes and things. I have promised we can redecorate and get some more furniture if she'd like.

I don't know about Alice, but I feel wrung out by the day, whilst at the same time I'm too keyed up to settle. The awkward silences don't help, but I'm trying to resist the urge to fill them with inane chatter because Alice may want some quiet and space to think. I hear the spare room door — her bedroom door, I correct myself — open and close; a few moments later she enters, walking over and dropping onto the sofa. I could really do with a drink — a large, cold glass of white wine would be perfect — but I don't think that would be wise. Pippa had problems with drink and I don't want Alice thinking I do too. Besides, I don't want to say anything stupid.

I look at her: she's now playing with the TV, flicking through the plethora of cable channels. She doesn't look any more settled than I do. "Alice, do you want some food?" I ask as my empty stomach gives a rumbling complaint. "I could order pizza."

"Um, yeah, I mean, yes, please. But..." she looks at me, "could you call me Ali, not Alice?"

"Of course, if that's what you'd prefer."

"Yeah... It's just that Mum only calls... um, called me Alice when I was in trouble and you sort of sound kinda like her, so..."

"I understand. Ali suits you," I add, honestly. "So, what sort of pizza do you like? I think there are some takeaway menus..." I open the drawer of the desk in the corner, knowing full well that they're there but bashful about admitting how often I've resorted to them recently, too lazy or too tired to cook. In truth, I doubt there's enough in the kitchen at the moment to make much of a meal. I guess regular shopping and more home cooking is another change that's going to have to happen. "Um, Ali, I need to be honest here: I'm not much of a cook, not with just me here, so... you're not a master chef in the making, are you?" I ask, half hopefully.

She gives a small smile, "Nah... I mean I can cook some stuff; like we did some Food Tech at school, you know, some pasta and sauce, chopping stuff. We did bake bread once."

"Perhaps we can learn together, and share responsibility for burnt bolognese and, I don't know, undercooked potatoes... hmm?" My cooking isn't generally that bad but this seems to be an opportunity for us to work together.

"Yeah, maybe."

"But not tonight. Come on, what's your favourite pizza?"

"Um, I like Hawaiian, with the ham and pineapple... you don't though. We can get something else."

Damn, I couldn't hide my revulsion. "Sorry, but I think pineapple on pizza is the invention of Satan," I smile, "but that doesn't mean you can't have it. We can get two small pizzas or half-and-half on a bigger one."

"Cool," she nods.

I phone through an order — a medium pizza, Hawaiian on one side and a vegetarian with chillies on the other — and take a seat on the armchair facing her

"Ali, I do want this to work so we're both going to have to adapt as we get to know each other."

"Are you saying that the pizza is some kind of symbol?" she asks but I can't tell if she's serious or taking the piss.

"It could be: we can be honest with each other and both admit what we actually want, then maybe find out if we agree or can find a compromise. Is that... does that sound reasonable?"

"Yeah, I guess so." She looks unexpectedly nervous.

"Are you okay?" I ask.

"Um, Tina... I gotta kinda tell you something... about me..." Oh god, what is she going to say?

"Okay..." I reply, trying to sound reassuring.

"It's something I said to Mum: I told her she was a shit mother!" she wails and tears begin to fall. "It's all my fault!"

"No, Ali, it's not your fault." I move quickly to be beside her but sense that hugging her would be the wrong thing right now. "Pippa chose to do what she did but she knew you loved her and she loved you."

"She and me... we, like, we didn't really get on. I guess we used to fight a lot. She always seemed to either ignore me or call me a loser or, like, be totally on my case — do this, do that, get outta my way, you know? But a couple of weeks ago I told her that her boyfriends were creeps, always eyeing me up I didn't think she believed me, so I called her a shit mother!" she is crying. "But in her letter, she said she knew the guys were perving over me so it's my fault..."

I take a breath, trying to think of what to say. Her precis of her Mum's words may be colourful but it sums up what Pippa said: that she was afraid that she couldn't or wouldn't be able to protect Ali. "Ali, listen. What she said in the letter... I think she already knew what some of the men were like. Maybe what you said made her more concerned about what was happening — or what might happen — but none of that was your fault. Do you remember what I said when you read the letter? Your Mum was in a bad, dark place but she chose to do what she did. I don't think she was well, mentally, and It all just suddenly became too much for her."

I have a sudden recollection of a line from the letter and stand abruptly; I hurry to the desk and the folder with the copies of the paperwork Bernie gave me, into which I'd tucked Pippa's letter. I scan it hastily as I walk back to sit beside Ali again.

"Um... here, look: 'And last night. No, I cannot think about what might have happened to Alice if I hadn't woken up.' See, it wasn't anything you said: it was..."

"Lucas," she interrupts with a shudder. "He was a creepy fucking perv, but I think he used to get drugs for Mum. I bet he's already robbed the flat for any stuff he could sell."

I reach out and place my hand over her clenched fist. "After our Mum died we saw Dad just give up: he wouldn't go out, he missed meals, he just didn't seem to care about anything, not even about living, and nothing your Mum or I did seemed to make a difference. Perhaps your Mum felt the same after seeing Lucas."

"Yeah, but it was only because of what I said to her she saw him for what he was," Ali replies but there is less despair in her voice.

"You told her how you felt, you were honest with her, yes?" Ali nods. "You had the right to tell her, even if she couldn't cope with what she saw afterwards. Listen, Pippa was always jealous of me: I did better at school, I was in the swimming team whilst she struggled academically and with discipline. Should I feel guilty that maybe that was why she gave up trying and started drinking? Should I have not tried my best because she couldn't do as well as me?"

"No, I guess not..."

"That doesn't stop me feeling guilty though. What your Mum did was tragic and sad but we'll never know if what we did or didn't do would have made a difference. I can't go back and get a couple of grades lower or tried harder to get in contact with her last year or whenever, and even if I could, whether it would mean we weren't sat here now. All I can do is to do the best I can for you and for Pippa's memory. Maybe..." I stop short but she turns her head to me.

"Maybe that's what I should do too?" I can't tell if the idea upsets or comforts her, but I nod anyway. "Work hard, try my best at college, stay out of trouble, that sort of thing?" She looks down at the letter, back to where my finger still rests. "'That's why I want you to take her, to adopt her and become the mother to her that I should have been.'" She reads aloud the words of the next sentence. "Are you going to?" she asks.

"Your Mum did say she didn't want you making the same mistakes she had," I suggest gently. "Look, I have zero experience of parenthood. Jan, a colleague at work, was so desperate to be a mum that it wrecked her marriage; Tanwen has three kids that I know she'd do anything for, but I've never thought that I wanted a family but... now..."

"You suddenly want one?" she asks but I can't tell if she's hoping I do or expressing an understandable cynicism that I might have suddenly and miraculously changed my mind on the matter.

"No..." I admit, "it's just... I do want to help you, look after you... if I can."

"Because of your guilt about Mum."

"Partly, but also because I feel I owe it to her as my sister... and because, stupid as it sounds, I can't help caring about you and what happens to you now. Your Mum said that if she could go back and do things differently, do things better, she would. But she couldn't go back, so instead, she wants — wanted — me to look after you. Ali, I can't not feel responsible for you, and I certainly don't want to be another person who fails you. I'm sure this isn't going to be easy but I want to try because, well, you deserve whatever help I can give you." There's a knock at the door. "That'll be the pizza, hopefully," I say as I stand.

"Tina," Ali calls as I head for the door. "Um.... Thank you." I smile back, hoping I can live up to the promise I've just made.

Thursday 26 November

I hurry through the gates of the Sixth Form College, checking my phone: good, still four minutes to go.

When I'd phoned the College two days ago to explain the situation, I'd been put through to their Pastoral Director. Social Services had already contacted the College, and the Director — one Frances Seaward — had suggested that I come in to meet her ahead of the Consultation Evening. "You are coming to the Consultation Evening, aren't you? Has Ali told you about it?" she asked.

"No, she hasn't but, you know, yesterday was a hell of a day for her so I doubt it was much on her mind. Anyway, what is a 'Consultation Evening'? Is it like a Parents' Evening?"

"We prefer not to call them 'Parents' Evenings, partly because of situations like those that Ali is in, but mostly because it's really about the teachers discussing progress with the students, although we do encourage carers, guardians and parents to attend too."

That was the first of several incidents that have shown how things have changed since my days in education, and how much I have to learn. My current harried and breathless state as I hurry towards the College visitors' reception is another lesson, and I have a new respect for Tanwen and Jan as I begin to understand for the first time just how much pressure being responsible for a young person brings. I had been off work on Tuesday and Wednesday to be with Ali, to look after her, help her settle and buy a few clothes and some things for the flat. Two days of starting to get to know Ali a little, of tears and reassurances, of another meeting with Bernie from Social Services and of the depressing practicalities of dealing with a death. At least Bernie seemed entirely satisfied with Ali's situation and how I'm doing so far.