‘You all right?’ Barbara said. Concern in her expression threatened to unravel me. ‘It’s just you seem—’
‘I’m fine,’ I managed.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘No.’ I swallowed, rubbed harder at my arm and felt the lump harden under the skin. I lifted my arm to examine the red blotch. ‘Bite,’ I said, moving away.
Driving home we kept meeting coaches and, where the road narrowed, had to pull in and let them pass. With the season well under way, parties were arriving from near and far, Japanese and Italian, American and Polish tourists on excursions with their guides as well as the domestic visitors. The inns, B-and-Bs and holiday parks were filling up.
‘Great jumping,’ I told Chloë. ‘Barbara reckons you could enter competitions if you wanted.’
‘Show jumping?’
‘Yes.’
I didn’t say anything else but my instinct was that she’d rather compete against herself than get involved in having to deal with unfamiliar places, crowds and all the attention.
I talked to her about Barbara’s plans for the holidays.
‘So there’ll be loads of kids around?’
‘Yes, and families, teenagers, all sorts.’
‘When does it start?’
‘The third week of July. I’ll check. You have a think what you’d like to do. Yeah? Chloë?’
‘OK,’ she said irritably.
By bedtime my arm, fat already, had ballooned as a result of the horsefly bite. The itch was maddening, the desire to scratch impossible to resist. A scab formed, weeping yellow pus.
I woke in the early hours, swimming up from a nightmare. Watching Chloë ride, the horse a white stallion, far too large for her and out of control, foaming at the mouth, wild-eyed. I was running, trying to catch them, reach the reins. Chloë like a rag-doll, her hair flying out in a fan of white, as the horse hurtled towards the high brick wall ahead. Clods of earth flew from its hoofs, hitting me in the face and eyes. The horse leaped into the air, flanks steaming, and Chloë was flung from the saddle, hurtled through the air, falling to land hard on the ground.
Limp.
Still.
I ran to her but a crowd formed tight about her, their backs to me, blocking my way. ‘It’s my daughter,’ I shouted. ‘Let me through! That’s my daughter. Please! Chloë?’ The crowd roared with laughter, kept their backs to me, unmoved, as I clawed at their shoulders, tried to force a way through.
The residue of the dream, the fear, clung to me like grime. Mac slept on.
I got up, put on my dressing-gown and went to the kitchen.
The night was still and clear, stars visible, the crescent moon an arc of light high in the sky.
I ate a slice of coffee and walnut cake, then another.
I caught sight of my reflection in the glass doors. Pitied the woman sitting there, careworn, alone, stuffing her face in the middle of the night. I thought about texting Bel, arranging to Skype soon, but it felt like too much of an effort. What had I to say after all but more of the same old same old? While Freya was taking English and maths GCSEs two years early and Bel’s business was going from strength to strength, we were flailing.
I ate the last piece of cake. And dabbed at the crumbs with my fingers. My arm throbbed and I scraped it against the table’s edge.
I knew I ought to try to sleep, I had to drive Chloë to see Gregory the following morning, but I was still too tense.
Everything changes – that was one of the truths I clung to. It’s a universal truth, in science, in all of life: nothing stays the same. It’s supposed to give us hope.
I felt as if we were frozen now, locked into an existence fraught with conflict and frustration, with disappointment. My love, for Mac, for Chloë, was deep as ever. Loving her wasn’t a choice. It was what I did, what I felt. The same as I did with Mac. She was in my heart. Love for her ran in my blood. And somehow I was able to see that, however bad her behaviour, it was a response to the pain she was in. To the trauma that was resurfacing as she became a young woman in a world where she was constantly anxious and angry and frightened.
But my love was beset on every side by exhaustion and dread. I could feel the dullness and darkness of depression creeping through me. I thought of seeing the GP. Put it off.
Everything changes. Yes, things would change inexorably.
But what if the change was for the worse?
Chapter Thirty-nine
In August we got a letter through from the NHS Health Trust. Chloë’s CAMHS appointment had come through, for a Monday in October, almost a year since the GP had made the referral.
Gregory was on holiday for the month but I wanted to check with him if it was all right to have the two therapies going on simultaneously, assuming CAMHS offered Chloë counselling after her assessment. Cognitive behavioural therapy seemed to be the most common treatment. From what I’d read online it was debatable how appropriate it was for children with problems of attachment and trauma. I’d be guided by what Gregory said.
Mac had gone over to Wicklow, visiting his dad Brendan, who was recovering from a heart bypass operation. I was on the patio, resting after a busy day, and had been scrolling through the local estate-agent sites, looking for any new listings of rental properties.
It was a sweltering day, the horizon beyond and the crops in the fields rippling in the heat haze. The air was thick with insects, flies and bees. A dragonfly, even, though we had no pond. Skylarks fluted high above. From the outside it must have looked idyllic.
My email pinged, a message from Bel headed Postcard from Corsica with a selfie of her and Freya on their balcony. I made a Skype call straight away, hoping she was still online, and told her about CAMHS. ‘I’ll have to see what her therapist says,’ I told her. ‘If he says it won’t be helpful, we’ll decline it.’
‘Even though it’s free.’
‘I know. Gregory’s costing us a small fortune.’
‘Is it working? Her seeing this guy?’
‘Yes. No. I don’t know. I lose perspective. There’s not been any clear improvement yet, but he said it’s a long process. He’s away all month and she’s not going riding – it got too busy and she was overwhelmed. She’s withdrawing, just shuts herself in her room. Barely communicating.’
I didn’t know which was worse: the rages or the silence.
‘Sounds like a normal teenager,’ Bel said. Which really didn’t help.
‘So how is Corsica?’ I said.
‘Très jolie,’ she said. ‘Apart from the prices, which are incroyable. Fucking outrageous. Freya’s got her face on because the veggie options come down to omelette or tomato salad.’
‘Yummy. Well, while you’ve been swanning around the Riviera—’
‘Not strictly Riviera.’
‘OK. I’ve been hacking through the wilderness.’
‘What?’
‘Clearing brambles. We’re hiring a rotavator to dig up the big patch of ground at the back and put turf down. I’m scratched to pieces.’
The area where I’d cut back the tangle of blackberries, nettles and thistles now looked even worse, the ground bristling with broken stumps and clumps of couch grass. My arms were laced with scratches, beads of blood dried along them. I thought of Chloë’s arms, the tracery of scars. Would there ever come a time when she didn’t need to cut herself to deal with the pain she felt? Would those scars fade?
Down the phone I heard Freya calling, ‘Mom.’
‘We’re off for a swim,’ Bel said to me.
I groaned with envy.
‘You could go there,’ Bel said. ‘Or is it pissing it down?’
‘No, it’s beautiful. Maybe I will.’ I said goodbye.
It was nearly teatime so a lot of the visitors would be leaving the beach, off for fish suppers or burgers, the coach parties convening to travel back to their hotels or onward to their dinner reservations. I put away my laptop, cleared up, and locked the patio doors.
‘Chloë?’ I knocked on
her door. ‘I’m going for a swim, down the beach. Do you want to come? Get an ice cream on the way back?’
No sound.
I knocked again. Then opened the door.
The room smelt sour, slightly sickly, overlaid with the reek of cigarettes that clung to her hair and clothes.
She was sprawled on the bed, earphones in, tablet on her stomach. She looked up sharply, touched her screen, took one earphone out. ‘What?’
‘Come for a swim. We can get out for a bit.’
She shook her head.
‘You can wear a long-sleeved T-shirt, and some leggings,’ I said, in case she was worried about exposing her arms and thighs. ‘We won’t be long. And it’s so hot, a swim will be lovely.’
‘You go.’
I was disappointed even though I hadn’t really expected her to say yes. ‘Bring you back some ice cream?’
She shook her head. ‘It’s all right.’
I couldn’t reach her.
‘You know we love you,’ I said. ‘If you want to talk about anything or . . .’ I faltered.
She glanced at me, her grey eyes flat, blank, not even spiked with irritation. ‘I don’t. Just go.’
It was a struggle to get my swimsuit on: the straps dug into my shoulders, the top of the legs bit into my thighs and rolls of fat spilled over. I almost bottled out. Chiding myself for being such a wimp, I slathered on sunscreen, pulled a dress over my swimsuit, then collected a towel and my sandals.
Town was humming with tourists, music blaring out from the amusement arcades. The whelk and cockle stands, the candy-floss and toffee-apple stalls were ringed by queues.
The tide was halfway in. People promenaded along the piers and there were others sitting fishing on the lower gangway; a group of children dangled crab lines into the water.
A pleasure boat headed back into port, pennants flying.
I went down the access ramp, took off my sandals and walked along the beach. I could smell the bladderwrack on the rocks by the cliff, a salty vegetable pong, and now and again I caught a whiff of coconut or melon from someone’s sun lotion.
The beach was emptying, families gathering up buckets and spades, lilos and cool boxes.
Reaching a clear stretch, I lay on my towel and closed my eyes for a few minutes. The sand was hard under my hips and I wriggled to get a little more comfortable, listening to the suck and sigh of the waves, to the rhythm of their approach. Horns sounded from one of the boats. And somewhere a bell was clanging. The light through my eyelids was the colour of blood oranges. The cuts on my arms tickled in the heat.
No matter how much I tried to empty my mind, to concentrate on my breath, to relax and let go, the thoughts scurrying around my head were like vermin scratching and gnawing for entry. I sat up and took off my dress. Feeling self-conscious, I walked down to the water’s edge. I stepped in, ankle deep, and felt the cold drill into my bones.
The hardest part was always getting in. Wading out, I sucked in my breath as the water rose and when I was up to my waist took a gulp of air and launched myself in, stifling a shriek. My skin contracted and tingled with cold. My scratches stung. I swam breaststroke hard against the incoming tide, breaching the dips and troughs of the waves.
I swam until my arms and lungs burned and cramp chewed at my calves. Then I turned to look back at the beach. The pull of the tide had prevented me going as far as I’d thought. I lay back and let myself float, the cold sea cradling the back of my head. Tasting salt on my lips.
Above me the sky was a deep summer blue, criss-crossed by gulls, their silhouettes, the arc of their wings and their long bills dark against the sky.
Rocked by the water, gazing up into the blue, finally I was peaceful. Empty. When I got goosebumps I swam again, parallel to the shoreline west towards Sandsend at the far side of the bay. Level with the village, I turned and swam back as fast as I could.
Coming out of the water my legs were unsteady, my lungs felt scoured, my skin sticky from the brine, which had raised puffy white welts along the bramble cuts on my arms. A pinch of sunburn stung my neck.
I must do this again, I promised myself, as I walked back along the tide line through the foam, with its cargo of torn seaweed and shingle.
I will.
Every sunny day.
Chapter Forty
Chloë came into town with me – I wanted to do a supermarket shop. Getting out of the car I was surprised, and pleased, when she said she’d look round the shops, waving a hand towards the maze of streets.
How long would I be? We agreed on forty-five minutes.
She had a little money and I gave her a twenty-pound note in case she saw anything she’d like to buy.
I’d finished loading the bags into the car and there was no sign of her. The car park was close to the harbour and I wandered down there. It was a hot day, more like August than September. Halyards were clinking in the breeze and people were busy about their boats, one man mending nets on the harbourside, another hosing down plastic fish trays. A yacht was leaving the marina, flying an Irish flag. In the water a mob of seagulls were fighting over something floating there, diving, screaming and mewling.
The sun made the skin on my shoulders tingle. I hadn’t any sunscreen on.
I was wondering if I should ring Chloë, when I saw her crossing the bridge. The sight of her always made my heart swell. I watched as she wove among the people strolling past. She was nimble, slight, her hair glowing in the sunshine.
I met her back at the car.
As soon as she got close I could smell it on her, the bitter, burning-rubber smell of skunk.
Shit! Was that what my twenty pounds had gone on?
‘Buy anything?’ I said.
‘No,’ she said, narrowing her eyes against the light. I waited a moment but she didn’t offer me my money back.
How had she got hold of the cannabis? How had she found someone who was dealing?
We didn’t speak on the drive home. I was too busy trying to work out what to say. How to tackle her.
Once at the house I told her to give me a hand putting everything away. We carried the bags in and put them on the kitchen table. I didn’t wait any longer. ‘Chloë, I know you’ve been smoking weed.’
‘I haven’t.’
‘You reek of it. Don’t lie to me. That stuff messes with your head, especially someone as young as you. It’s not safe.’
She picked up a can of pineapple, turned away from me, and put it in the cupboard.
‘Never mind that it’s illegal. I don’t want you smoking it. People get psychotic. Your brain is still developing and that stuff is really strong. It can make you paranoid.’
‘No, it won’t,’ she retorted.
‘You don’t know what you’re doing,’ I said.
She picked up a jar of honey. ‘Stop going on at me. I’m not a kid.’
‘You are! That’s exactly what you are.’ I slammed my hands on the table. ‘Why won’t you listen to me?’
‘Fuck off,’ she shouted, and hurled the jar across the room. It smashed into the big mirror over the bookcase. My mum’s mirror, and her mum’s before it. The silver glass splintered, shards crashed onto the bookcase and the floor. The honey jar, cracked in places, rocked on the top of the bookcase.
‘Now look what you’ve done!’ I screamed. ‘You stupid idiot! Why can’t you just . . . That was Grandma’s, and now you’ve broken it. You’re so selfish, so bloody . . .’ I could feel my face hot, contorted, spit flying out of my mouth as I shouted. ‘I’m sick of it, all of it. You just don’t care about anybody else. Have you any idea of how hard it is?’
She stood rooted to the spot, her face blank, unblinking. Then she smiled, a grin getting ever wider, taunting me.
‘You treat me like shit,’ I said. ‘You’re driving me mad. You just . . . you . . . how . . . I can’t—’ I became inarticulate. Tears of rage burned my eyes. ‘Go to your room,’ I yelled at her. ‘Get out.’
I sat and wept, drowning in
the sorrow and fury, beating my fists on my head, banging at the table. Not caring if she heard. As my crying subsided, I felt shame rise in its wake.
Fuck. What had I done?
Numbly I went and washed my face, then made a cup of tea and put the rest of the shopping away. The frozen food packets were sweating, the contents softened.
I was so ashamed about losing my temper: there was no sense of catharsis or cleansing. Instead I felt soiled. Chloë had tested me yet again and this time I had failed spectacularly. I’d exploded and given her exactly what she felt she deserved: rejection, criticism, cruelty. I had sent her away.
I knocked on her door and went in.
She wasn’t there. The stench of skunk hung in the room, pungent and cloying. Tiny streaks of blood marked the duvet cover.
I looked around outside, then tried her phone, panic bubbling inside me.
Years of accommodating her, of staying calm, giving her space, acting consistently, and now I’d trashed it all. What did I expect?
Before I could decide whether to go off in the car looking for her, Mac arrived home. He’d been to pick up more logs for the stove.
‘That should last us—’ He broke off, saw the mirror, the spill. ‘What’s going on?’
I told the story. ‘And then I blew up,’ I said. ‘And now she’s missing.’
He stared up at the ceiling, hands on the small of his back. ‘There’s no end to it. It’s like a hole, digging and digging, and it gets wider and deeper . . . Ah, shit.’
‘She’s fourteen, she’s struggling. We knew the teenage years would be harder. All the stuff about identity, working out who she is.’
‘She breaks everything. She’s . . . And it’ll go on until she’s destroyed us. Don’t you see?’
‘Not if we don’t let it.’
‘How, Lydia? How in the hell? I’m not a saint. And I’m not made of stone either. I can’t do it. We can’t keep her safe any more. She needs to be with people who can.’
Back in care. ‘No, Mac, please—’
‘Whatever hell she went through, it’s part of her. It’s never going to go away. Nothing’s changed, Lydia. We agreed to try this but . . . She can’t change.’
Fear of Falling Page 21
