Songs For Your Mother Gordon MacMillan (good books for 7th graders .txt) 📖

Susan doesn’t like Rachel, and the feeling is mutual. The whole women’s magazine world that Susan inhabits is entirely antithetical to Rachel. She says it’s anti-feminist, and is disdainful of it. On the two occasions they have met, they were cool with each other and traded acerbic remarks like most people trade hellos. Vampire girl is what Susan calls Rachel, which isn’t fair, as Rachel doesn’t have even the slightest gothic slash EMO thing going on. She’s almost entirely makeup free. All the darkness is in her work, and I suppose her personality. She’s like the girl in the Bob Dylan song ‘She Belongs to Me’.

‘I try my best but, moving quickly on, I need your help,’ I say.

‘Already? Johnny what have you done?’ Susan says, her interest piqued.

‘You know those plane tickets that TSP bought me that I never used?’

‘You mean, to see the girl you met? That was five years ago, wasn’t it?’

‘Yeah, more like six.’

‘Six? Wow, time flies, you realise it’s late in the day, right? That ship has well and truly sailed,’ Susan says.

‘I know, but the thing is there was a knock at the door this morning.’

‘Okay…’

‘And there was this small boy standing there,’ and I look sideways at Luke as I say this. He doesn’t pay any attention. ‘He said his name was Luke.’

‘Don’t tell me you made some weak Star Wars joke? I know you did,’ Susan says and, yes, she knows me far too well.

‘Yeah, of course I did. Have you met me? How could I resist? Anyway, there was a woman with him,’ I say.

‘OMG. You don’t mean that girl you never went back for tracked you down and…? Oh, I don’t know what happens next exactly, I think my head might explode. It does, however, sound very exciting for a Saturday morning,’ Susan says.

‘No, it wasn’t her, at least not exactly, and exciting is not the word I would use. It was her best friend. She was with the boy, and she had a letter that explains everything and you’re not going to believe it,’ I say.

‘Is the child yours? It has to be that, and yet at the same time, it can’t be that. As that would be so mind-blowingly ridiculous that I worry if I start laughing now I might not ever be able to stop,’ Susan says.

‘Again, thanks so much for your unwavering support, it means a lot. You’re right, though, it can’t possibly be that. I mean it can’t be, and yet that’s exactly what it is. Apparently, I have a son.’

I smile down at Luke. I give his small hand a squeeze. He holds his toy out in front of him as we walk. The Transformer has taken to the air and is weaving through the clouds on a fantastic journey.

‘So, are they there now, the woman and the boy?’ Susan asks.

‘Not entirely, she left almost immediately. She got in a taxi and left. Susan, she left me with… Luke,’ I say.

‘That’s a seriously unexpected turn of events,’ Susan says.

‘Great work there on continuing your role as the UN ambassador for massive understatement. Seriously, what am I going to do?’ I say.

‘You know what this means, don’t you?’

‘I’m going to go with “no” here. I mean, do I sound like I know? I really don’t want to give you an erroneous impression,’ I say.

‘You have to go back. You have to find that girl,’ Susan says.

When she says this, all I can think about is what Josie told me and that, even if I ignore her warning, it might already be too late. I don’t say this. Instead, I tell Susan we are on our way to the Shakespeare Café and that we’ll see her there shortly. We make a left turn at the bottom of the street and walk past the north bank of the old Arsenal football stadium, which has long since been redeveloped into apartment blocks, including one where Susan lives. We hit a row of shops, and walk past the mini market, the Italian restaurant, a kebab shop and head into the Shakespeare Café.

I love this place, with its eclectic jumble of odd-sized wood tables and mismatched chairs. It’s the perfect mix of a café and a small bookshop. Its walls are lined with bookshelves, mostly second-hand and a selection of the latest novels. The main area of the café narrows in the middle and then opens out to a broad space. This is where the café splits and houses a small soft-play space out back for parents and their children. That is an area where, of course, I have never ventured. It is a part of the café viewed by everyone without offspring as a mild annoyance, as we sit huddled over our MacBooks. It is an area of noise from which shrieks emanate, and small children try to escape from, and women with buggies weave through the tables to reach.

The Shakespeare Café is run with business-like efficiency by Julie, a pretty brunette French woman with a disarming smile. Julie takes a tough line on those of us, including me, who like to sit at the tables for hours and only buy one coffee. I think she makes a mental note of customer purchases before appearing at your table with and suggesting you might need more coffee.

Inside the main area this morning there are several couples seated and a couple of scruffy twenty-something guys making their way through large plates of traditional morning-after-the-night-before English breakfasts. The back of the café is also busy with parents and children, mostly of the toddler variety. I feel a pang, and I am hit by the knowledge that I missed out on all of this. I didn’t even know that I wanted it. Only now that it is gone, and is not coming back, I realise I want it, although I have no idea why. This isn’t anything I have ever thought about before, and the feelings of loss I am experiencing I