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Replay by Mary Wilson
May stared down at the floppy female condom, and cringed. Why was she here with all
these people? She should be clearing out Frank’s clothes, sorting out his paperwork, trying
to move on, quitting this useless grieving... If only she could abandon her nursery job and
escape from Glasgow’s relentless rain. But Polly needed all the comforts a parent could
give: especially the same home, school and friends. Yet what was the good of trying when
Polly was hardly speaking to her? Or was that just teenage angst?
She mingled with the other parents in the classroom, studying the displays. Most of
the remaining contraceptives were familiar to her, but wasn’t the size of the condom
demonstrator a little ambitious? So - this was modern-day Sex and Personal Relationship
Education. Very different from her days: just a few words about the love life of worms, and
how to insert a tampon.
Now the teacher was herding them into the chairs for some spiel about project work.
‘...pupils will compile an oral history on various facets of love: first love, parental
love, obsessive love, married love. Do support them. They may ask to interview you about
your own experience.’
Poncy words, May thought. Still - not a bad idea.
‘Please take your time,’ said Polly the next evening, balancing a clipboard of questions on
her lap. ‘Just be yourself!’
May wondered if Polly’d been trained up in interview techniques.
‘So - Mrs Shaw,’ she began, a wry smile lighting her face, ‘how old were you when
you first fell in love?’
She is in role, May thought. ‘About your age, I suppose, Miss Shaw. His name was
Stuart Murphy.’
Polly sat up. ‘So what was it like in your day, then, being in love at fourteen?’
Not easy, May thought. She told her about how Stuart had been brought up a
Catholic, she a Protestant, how her mother claimed he wasn’t her type, how her father said
he kept her away from school work. But she didn’t mention the furtive fumbling, how she
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felt rejected when he kept holding back, how she was the one with the passion. He said it
was because he loved her; wanted to protect her. That it was about his religion, or how
some condoms had holes in them. She knew they were underage, but that hadn’t stopped
some of her friends. Did he just want to boast to his mates about having a girlfriend?
Polly smiled cheekily. ‘So what did girls know about birth control then?’
May laughed. ‘Plenty! We learnt stuff in the playground. Like how you couldn’t get
pregnant standing up! No hopes of the school nurse unrolling a condom down a carrot in
my day...’
She thought about how the guys wanted to learn how to turn the girls on, the lassies
how to slow the guys down - the opposite of her and Stuart. But here was her daughter
asking questions about her life. They were talking together. She began to relax.
Polly drew out more details. That they shared the same birthday. How they’d climb
into the family farmstead’s pigeon loft with its lining of droppings, seed-husks and down;
whispering about anything and everything, sometimes snoozing, or cradling a baby bird.
How first love’s explosive, sharpening every nerve, blinding you to any flaw. As May spoke,
she recalled the feathery feel of his breath on her neck, the soothing tones of his voice, his
expressive gestures. Polly scribbled away, probing politely and kindly, far removed from the
surly tight-lipped daughter May had been worrying about since Frank died.
Polly fingered a strand of coppery hair before flicking it behind an ear. ‘How long did
you two go out together?’
‘Until I was 16.’
Polly’s eyes narrowed. ‘What happened?’
May hesitated, beginning to feel uncomfortable. ‘He changed – it seemed almost
overnight - expressing some strange ideas, and causing trouble. Like climbing onto the
school roof, yelling his head off. Pushing his way into the headmaster’s office, breaking into
the trophy cupboard. So they expelled him...’
‘Oh, no!’ Polly softened her voice. ‘So what did you do?’
‘Mum and Dad forced me to write a letter and finish with him.’ She paused and
sniffed. ‘I felt terrible.’
‘I’m not surprised! ’
May held her breath. Her forehead was pulsing, like at the start of a migraine.
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Polly frowned and sniffed as she added more notes to her pad. ‘It’s a tragic story.
Romantic, but scary too.’ She brushed away a tear from her cheek. ‘But listen, Mum. You
can tell me all this about Stuart. So how come you never talk about Dad?’
May’s chest was tightening, her breathing felt laboured. ‘I know, I’m sorry, Polly. I
just can’t, it’s too difficult.’ She worried it might make her panic, start hyperventilating. Like
the other night, fretting about her finances, having to breathe in and out of a paper bag,
scared that Polly might see and discover her weakness.
‘You know something Mum? You make it feel like he never existed.’
Over the next few days, May strived to reach out to Polly. But Polly sulked, spending most of
her spare time on homework, or at the home of a close friend, Ruth. May sent her texts and
left messages, suggesting the cinema and other trips out. She mentioned Frank a number of
times, but still Polly ignored her. She fretted over why she hadn’t read Polly’s behaviour
properly. Just like she hadn’t read Stuart’s - even when she heard he’d been taken into
hospital. The guilty stains of these failings leaked into each other, doubly paining her.
Once Polly came round to the house with Ruth, things improved. Ruth spoke up for
Polly, explaining the way she’d struggled, trying to cope with losing her father. The three of
them managed to talk cautiously together. After that Ruth came round often. The two
friends seemed to be conspiring, poring over Polly’s laptop, whispering on the couch,
casting nervous glances at her.
As Polly wrote up her First Love project, she went on to ask more questions. She
talked about Stuart a lot, as if she was mildly obsessed. But she and May resumed eating
together, recounting jokes like they did with Frank, reminding each other of some of his
anecdotes, noting the everyday things he would have found funny.
The message that arrived a week later seemed to glow and tremble in May’s inbox, like
some chrysalis that was primed to burst. She daren’t open it. She gaped at it as her
breathing worsened, scrambling around for a paper bag, then breathing in and out of it, just
like she’d been shown. Once steadied, she forced herself to read it. She needed the bag
again after that, before clambering up to Polly’s room.
‘Polly! Why on earth did you do that to me?’
Polly’s eyes stared back in shock. ‘Do what?’
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‘Trace Stuart!’
‘Mum!’ Her voice took on a steely, pleading tone. ‘I thought it would give you a
chance to say sorry for sending that letter... and ...’
May had her hands on her hips. ‘And what?’
Polly hesitated, scowling and chewing her lip. ‘Never mind’.
‘You did this behind my back.’
‘Because I knew you’d say no. But Mum...’ Polly was pleading now, ‘he wants to
meet us. And he has a son. I’ve seen him on Facebook...’
Yet again, May nervously scanned the people in the coffee shop. She was early. Stuart had
sent a photograph – a smarter, self-assured, version of his youthful self. She thought back
to when he changed, becoming hotly outspoken in class. Engrossed in religion; claiming to
have powerful, mystical insights.
Polly was pleased she’d agreed to meet him. She seemed excited and restless.
The rustling of someone behind her chair startled her. A hand rested lightly on her
shoulder. She turned her head and felt his breath on her cheek.
‘May! You look so well!’
She stood up to offer and receive the obligatory kiss, her chair grating harshly as if
announcing something. The wool of his jacket smelled fusty with damp. As he removed it,
she noted the grace of his fingers. He fetched a latte for her and an espresso for himself,
opening up non-threatening small-talk in a way that helped her to relax. He spoke
caressively.
‘So you’re a music teacher, Stuart. I knew you’d end up doing something creative.’
‘You did? He smiled before raising his eyebrows. ‘Now we’ve caught up a bit, we
should talk about Polly.’
‘Okay. You were right to get in touch.’
‘I had to do something about her sending emails to a middle aged jerk like me, eh?
And, you see...’
May put her hands up. ‘First let me tell you why I came. It was to say sorry. About
that letter, but also...’
‘But May...’
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‘No, listen Stuart, let me finish. Please forgive me for not knowing. Because you
were ill, weren’t you? Some sort of breakdown.’
He nodded. ‘But you weren’t to know that. Bi-polar disorder; I was having my first
episode...’
‘I should have been there for you.’
He shrugged. ‘We were just kids. And it must have been frightening for you. It was
all about shame, hushed voices. But that’s past, May. I’m well now, and life’s fine. And I
want to talk about Polly, because she’s been talking to me about you and her Dad.’
‘I didn’t know...’
‘Well, she really misses him, doesn’t she?’
May nodded.
He studied her face. ‘And you know what’s going on with her, don’t you?’
‘Going on? How do you mean?’
‘She’s fantasising about us two getting together again.’
May’s face started to flush. A blend of concern and affection was softening Stuart’s
expression, tugging at a knot in her belly, radiating warmth and longing. She tried to stay
calm. ‘But Stuart, that’s ridiculous.’
‘Kids can be a bit ridiculous. You should listen to Zachery sometimes... ’ He stretched
over to place a hand on her sleeve: ‘Look, don’t get upset about this. It’s typical teenage
stuff.’ He frowned. ‘With her and Zack, it’s - well, you know...’
‘What?’
‘Didn’t she tell you?’
‘Go on, Stuart...’ She thought how a paper bag lay ready in her handbag. She
mustn’t panic.
‘They’re into each other – on line. They’ve exchanged loads of stuff. They want to
meet up.’
May stared at him, ashamed and embarrassed she’d never guessed this. She stirred
more sugar into her coffee.
But Stuart was grinning. ‘They’re the same age as we were!’
May frowned. ‘But what about Zack’s mother, Stuart. What does she think?’
He paused. ‘Zack’s mother died of a heroin overdose.’
May breathed in sharply. ‘She died? I’m so sorry.’
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‘No – he’s adopted. This was his birth mother.’
‘Oh – I see. Look, I hadn’t realised...’
‘I adopted him with Angus. Angus is my partner.’
May tensed. Something inside her began draining away.
‘That’s where my own apology for the past comes in. But May – you must have
guessed. Didn’t you see how I was struggling? Putting up a pretence?’
She drank the last of her coffee, telling herself she mustn’t cry. ‘It makes sense now,
Stuart. But it didn’t back then.’
I’m sorry if I hurt you.’ He leaned across and touched her cheek. ‘But look, if you
must disapprove of Polly and Zack as a twosome, don’t do it for all the wrong reasons,
please.’
‘Sorry?’
‘You know, May. Like before. We’ve both been there, haven’t we?’
She did know. Her grandparents going on about his religion. That time her father
said, shaking a fist, that it could only end in tears. Her mother standing over her, dictating
the words of the letter. How afterwards, when May stopped speaking to her, she’d just
ignored her: the way she herself had ignored her own daughter’s silence.
‘So what do you say? Can Polly come and visit? Or are you afraid of strange sex toys
and piles of erotica lying around?’
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