The police stand and wade through the room to the door, displacing two bodies’ worth of air as they go. Giles shuts the door behind them, keeping his hand on the latch and staring at the doormat.
Ruth goes to him, touches his arm, her fingers barely making contact with his skin, afraid he might pop and disappear. ‘Please, Giles,’ she says. ‘I was telling the truth.’
‘It might have been your truth, but it’s nobody else’s.’ He breathes hard through his nose. ‘You know, when you get your teeth into something, you really go full tilt. Whether it’s your illness or not, you create your own laws about all this nonsense, and nothing anyone says can convince you otherwise.’ He brushes past her and up the stairs. Overhead, the floorboards give and the bedsprings wheeze as he flops down.
Ruth watches from the kitchen window as the officers call on her neighbour across the alley. Liam’s mum is already back home, and from where Ruth stands, she has a clear sightline onto the woman’s door as she opens it to the police.
‘Tell them what you saw,’ Ruth whispers at the window. ‘Come on, back me up.’ There’s a brief exchange where Miss Cailleach shakes her head, and seconds later the officers leave. ‘No,’ Ruth says, leaning closer to the window. ‘That’s not right. She told me, I know she did.’
Ruth’s neighbour stares ahead at Ruth as Ruth’s teeth press together, fists at her sides, desperate to march over and demand what the old woman’s playing at. But Giles is upstairs. If she leaves the house, he’ll see from the window. He’ll charge down to tell her to stop pursuing this fantasy and put an end to the continual embarrassment that lets them all down.
With every ounce of restraint she can muster, Ruth holds herself steady. ‘You fucking bitch,’ she mouths across the alley.
Opposite, Miss Cailleach closes the door of her house.
Ruth can’t think where to sit and she flits around the lounge, unable to settle on any one thing. At the sink, she loads dishes into hot suds, leaving them unwashed to make food. Then she decides to clear a cupboard and restack all the plates and cups. The clanking wakes Bess in her pushchair. Upstairs, there’s no movement from Giles, so Ruth sits with her daughter on the sofa. She should give her a bottle but can’t think where to start, the order of the powder and the heating of the water jumbling in her mind. Her arm tightens round her little girl as she rocks, fear banging a rhythm in Ruth’s ears: Please don’t let me be ill again.
7
‘Who is this?’ Ruth says into her phone. ‘What do you want?’
A breather on the other end of the line, another of the No Caller ID numbers Ruth’s had in the last few days. A rasping noise as the caller’s lips brush the mouthpiece.
Ruth says, ‘I want you to leave me alone.’
Then, a voice so quiet it could be static, the faintest whisper in return: ‘It’s Tam,’ before the line goes dead.
Ruth hurls her phone on the bed, steps away from the handset expecting it to combust.
‘Ruth,’ Giles calls up the stairs. She startles. ‘We’re going to be late.’
She looks around, trying to remember what she needs to do. Her hands shake as she finishes getting dressed, putting on odd socks and a T-shirt without a bra underneath.
It’s Tam – she misheard, the voice can’t have been real.
She should mention the call to Giles – he’ll reassure her it was her imagination – but each step downstairs takes a little more of her courage until she arrives at the bottom in the certainty that her mind simply retuned the phone crackle into another sound entirely. Nothing more, nothing less than that. Plus, she absolutely cannot make any more fuss.
‘I’ll come into the appointment with you today,’ Giles says, steering his arms through his coat sleeves and shrugging the bulky hood up his back, all while expertly avoiding his wife. Since yesterday’s confrontation with the police, he’s barely met her eyes, and the couple have only come close enough to pass each other Bess’s food or nappies.
Ruth takes her own coat from the hook. ‘Oh, OK . . . right.’ It’s been a while since Giles has sat in with her at the psychiatrist’s, but yesterday’s calamity bulges between them and he’s fast-tracked her monthly session to today. She heats up under her coat – with embarrassment or anger, she can’t tell any more. ‘I don’t mind if you’ve got work calls to catch up with after you’ve taken me there, or if you want to grab a coffee or something.’ Her foot fiddles with the brake on the pushchair. She knows what Giles’s answer will be, but even a facade of autonomy is better than none.
Bess waggles her favourite toy in the air. It’s round, multicoloured with a bell inside, and is one of the only things apart from milk that keeps her quiet. She loses her grip and the ball drops, bouncing off the buggy’s wheels. Bacteria will be colonizing the toy. It will need to be washed and disinfected. Ruth’s already late so she’ll have to leave it behind. If Bess gets upset, Ruth will have fewer tools to soothe her and the doctor will mark it as an incompetence. When Ruth worked at the office, she’d dealt with complex, strategic problems, but this new world perspective that’s been forced on her has shrunk her outlook to these four walls, as if the dark mouth of this house has swallowed her whole. And without a pay packet at the end of the month, Ruth struggles to attach real worth to what she does for Bess; no one’s ever taught her to think differently, and certainly no one treats the constant, often menial tasks as having any value, so how can she? She holds tight to the earthing point of the buggy’s handles and waits for the rage to pass.
‘Righty-ho then,’ Giles says, searching for his keys.
‘There might be a wait at outpatients.’ Ruth delivers her final attempt to keep Giles out of the appointment with the voice of a mouse. ‘I’d sort of prefer going in on my own anyway.’
He places his hands on his wife’s shoulders. She shrinks under the weight of his disappointment and the constancy of her failure. ‘I’m here for you,’ he says. ‘I want to look after my girls.’ He tries to make his hokey words palatable by giving her a slack hug, and when he lets go they both exhale as if the embrace was tighter than it was.
The perinatal outpatient unit is based at the hospital where parking is limited and expensive, so there’s no point taking the car. But the walk to the bus stop entails passing the garage at the end of the road. In the distance, an asthma cloud of fumes from the queuing cars hangs over the forecourt. Pitted and rubbly tarmac, dusty manhole covers. Innocuous, grubby, humdrum. Nothing else, nothing to fear, only humiliation. Giles’s hands are braced so tightly on the pushchair that Ruth imagines he could swing it above his head. Yesterday, he wrestled a man at the petrol station and his mad wife was laid bare for the whole street to see. Curtains twitch at the windows of a couple of neighbours’ houses and Ruth ducks her head to plough on, remembering only now that, in her confusion this morning, she missed today’s prescription. She’ll take it as soon as she gets home. No need to worry Giles or turn back.
Ahead, at the end of the row of terraces, is Sandra and Liam’s house. Their gate opens and Sandra backs out with her sleeping baby tucked inside his pushchair. Ruth stiffens. Sandra’s wearing another new outfit, high-end high street, black and tailored. She’s the only mum Ruth knows who wants to look like a woman instead of a girl. Sandra crouches to put something in the storage net under the seat. She’s not seen Ruth yet, but in a few seconds their paths will cross with ‘Hi’s and kisses and questions. Fogging the space between them all is the possibility that Sandra witnessed yesterday’s calamity or, worse still, that Liam’s given her his version of events.
Giles veers sharply towards the cut-through, the longer walk to the bus stop by far, but this way they’ll avoid Sandra, who’s turned in the opposite direction now without seeing them. Ruth reaches out to link arms with Giles, to give back some of the support she receives, but he flinches, his body now electrified with tension, and her hand falls to her side.
The afternoon is sunny but chilly. Ruth is wrapped up well and Giles pushes the buggy fast.
For once Bess isn’t crying. With nothing to hold on to, Ruth chews the cuticles of her idle fingers, catching a strand of skin in her teeth and pulling a satisfying length. Now they’re out of sight of the street, Giles’s shoulders relax and he fills the airwaves with chatter about work, as he is able to do and she is not, the art of casual conversation lost to her months ago. A normality of sorts radiates from the front gardens they pass, the lawns mown and beds tidier the further they get from their house. The order makes Ruth feel safe, but there’s less variety, less character here, almost a sterility; perhaps everyone is impelled to conform or outdo each other. Children shriek in the playground of the local school. Later on their parents will pick them up and take them back to warm, happy homes. The sun touches Ruth’s face and with it comes a nod to better times, like the promise of a holiday at the end of a gruelling shift. The night before last, Ruth watched a line of people climb out of the ground, then her neighbour stirred up Ruth by talking about people in petrol tanks, but the only explanation can be that Ruth misheard her over the noise of the chainsaw. In this present moment, Ruth is secure enough to marvel at the creativity of her own imagination.
At the clinic, Ruth and Giles are ushered into the appointment without a wait. Dr Fraser and Giles exchange pleasantries – ‘Good to see you,’ ‘Yes, great to see you too.’ Giles puts out his hand for a handshake. The psychiatrist accepts. Giles is clearly relieved to see this professional, with all the assistance she’ll be able to offer for his mad wife, but the enthusiastic pump of his handshake is a bit much. The doctor pulls away. Giles tries to cover his misstep by scratching his face, the gesture exaggerated, as if he’s got a really bad itch and it had been his plan all along to scratch. It’s not hard to see how he got it wrong, though; the familiarity of the people in the room has been brokered these last few months over a shared desire for Ruth’s recovery. If it wasn’t for the fact that Ruth continues to be the focus, along with all the shame and failure that her condition represents to her, she’d feel more sorry for Giles, who’s now playing the don’t-care card by sitting as far from Dr Fraser as possible. Maggie, Ruth’s health visitor, turns up after a few minutes, along with Richard, the community psychiatric nurse.
‘I hope you don’t mind us popping in,’ Maggie says, nodding towards Richard. ‘We just wanted to see how things are going.’
Ruth fidgets inside her unease, a body memory of always being in the wrong. It’s standard for Richard, her CPN, to be at these kind of appointments, but not her health visitor as well – she must have been specially invited – and even though Ruth appreciates the politeness of making out they were just passing by, it’s annoying that her fragility requires the pretence. She lifts Bess from the buggy, taking the still-warm bottle from her bag. The little girl’s not due a feed until later, but this way Ruth can occupy Bess before the baby even thinks about crying.
‘How’s it going with the solids?’ the health visitor asks. ‘Have you found the weaning diary I gave you useful?’
Ruth’s face settles in a weak smile, refusing to let Maggie witness her true feelings. This woman is a master at leading Ruth into cul-de-sacs of emotional revelations, her highly tuned female intuition scanning Ruth’s face for clues to failing health. Ruth used to glory in the fluidity of milk that streamed straight from her body into her baby, breastfeeding being one of the only things she actually did well, but she’d had to give it up when she started the medication. The dollops of processed powder she now has to mix with water to feed her daughter, to Ruth, symbolize defeat. And now there’s this weaning sheet to factor in too, the basic kiddie fare of parboiled carrot sticks and banana porridge that Bess turns her nose up at, so Ruth can’t even get that right. She opens her mouth to speak as Giles cuts across.
‘Ruth’s been doing her best, but Bess seems to know when she’s around, and then she only wants a bottle.’
‘Have you thought about Daddy doing some or perhaps all of the dinners for a while?’ Maggie asks.
Ruth tucks Bess closer to her body. ‘She’s fine, she’s just a really milky baby.’
‘Well, we’re a little worried about her size again,’ the health visitor says. ‘She’s dropped down the weight percentile. Another pair of hands could help her get used to the new regime, give you the chance for a break, to get away for a bit.’
Ruth’s voice raises a fraction. ‘Where am I going?’
‘Nowhere. I just meant that Daddy could feed her while you’re in the other room perhaps.’
‘But Giles needs to work. He hasn’t got time to do everything. And I’m managing.’
Managing. Coping. How Ruth hates these mantras. And none of them are true. One day in the lifetime of her child was all Ruth was geared up for, a day of endurance with a prize at the end of a freshly minted, wholly dependent human. Ruth doesn’t get invited to the NCT socials any more, the drinks and nibbles that rotate round the other group members’ houses. Their husbands still play football together, and Giles was on the team before it became less embarrassing to leave them both out than admit that no one could cope with Ruth’s condition. At first her seclusion felt like quarantine, but Ruth’s come to understand it’s not meant as unkindness. They’re all rushing around trying to find time for their own vast and teetering to-do lists and simply don’t have space in their lives to take on the responsibility of needy Ruth. How much can one person fix another anyway?
‘Well, it would be good,’ Maggie says, ‘if we could perhaps try this routine for a couple of weeks. You know, every mealtime Daddy can take over. Just to get Baby into a routine. Is that possible, Mr Woodman?’
Giles fills his cheeks with air. He fought for his job at the charity against a hundred other applicants. His salary is the only thing keeping the family afloat. He’s good at his job but no one is irreplaceable. He sighs. ‘OK, I’ll square it with the office.’
‘Anyway, Ruth,’ Dr Fraser says, ‘I’m so glad you were able to come in today.’ She glances at the CPN, who nods back with the same yoga-warm expression everyone’s adopted since Ruth was first unwell. Earnest and sanctimonious. Steady, concerned eyebrows. ‘We wanted to check how things are with you in general. How the medication is suiting you?’
Here it comes, Ruth thinks; even though she’d been expecting the cross-examination, it was comforting for a while to have the distraction – all that weaning stuff was just a warm-up. ‘Fine,’ she says. ‘Absolutely fine.’ How much do they know? When did Giles fill them in? She imagines his busy fingers detailing her failures in an email, like Morse code signalling the location of an enemy sub.
‘You’re not having any, um, issues?’
‘Perhaps a couple. But it’s all sorted now.’ She squints at Giles, the lie atomized and floating between them. Ruth imagines she could sink her fist inside the untruth and pull out something yellow and stinking. Giles turns away.
‘Maybe so,’ Richard says. ‘But Giles has been concerned about a few changes he’s noticed recently. He mentioned you’ve seemed a little edgy, that you called your GP several times worrying about Bess.’
‘I’m fine and Bess is fine.’
‘Your daughter will only thrive if Mum’s thriving,’ the PCN says. ‘And there’s nothing to be ashamed of if you’re struggling again.’
‘She just doesn’t like solids,’ Ruth says. ‘That’s all. Lots of babies are the same.’
‘Yes, we know,’ Dr Fraser interjects, leaning forward and flicking a look at Giles, who’s now staring at the floor. ‘But we heard that there was an incident with the police, and we were concerned that you may be experiencing some confusion with what’s real and what’s not – that you might be seeing or hearing things again, things that perhaps other people can’t.’
Ruth bites her bottom lip, tasting the blood that’s millimetres from her tongue – of course they would know. Even if Giles hadn’t told them, the police said they’d been in touch with the mental health team. As she’d been getting ready to come here today, Dr Fraser, Richard and Magg
ie were probably having an emergency meeting, discussing between them how to proceed, how they’d like to dissect her amorphous mind into neat little chunks and set it in aspic.
‘If that is the case,’ Dr Fraser continues, ‘we need to give this some serious attention. You’ve been working with us long enough to understand that collectively we need to meet your changing needs, and those of your baby. It’s all part of your care plan, the one we discussed and put together with you.’
‘Perhaps it’s time to try some antidepressants as well,’ Giles says. ‘Weren’t you saying that was the next course of action for her, Doctor?’
Ruth swivels to Giles. ‘I am in the room, you know.’
‘Antidepressants have always been an option on the care plan, Ruth,’ Dr Fraser says. ‘If you or we decided they would help. And as the father of your child, it’s useful for Giles to let us know how you’re feeling sometimes. It’s nothing more sinister than that.’
‘Well, why don’t you just ask me then? Instead of discussing me between yourselves.’
The landline bursts into life. Dr Fraser mutes the call without even turning to the phone, the sudden absence of noise leaving a rising silence in its wake. Giles gently opens the space. ‘We have been asking you, but you won’t admit there’s a problem, so it’s up to me to tell everyone what’s going on.’
Ruth clenches Bess a little too hard and the baby jerks off the bottle.
‘Let me have her for a minute.’ Maggie stands and takes the little girl from Ruth, rocking her gently. The baby settles within seconds. ‘There’s no set formula in these situations, Ruth. All we’re doing is watching out for you and Bess. We want to work with you to find the best solution.’
Giles leans forward and rests his forearms on his thighs. ‘I just want you to get better.’ His hands are limp between his legs and he shakes his head as he mumbles. ‘Some of the things you’ve been talking about recently, that stuff about people under the ground.’
The Hidden Girls Page 10
