The Winter's Child
Page 29
“Please, Susannah, I’m so scared. Just tell me what you want. You want me to talk to you about what you’ve seen? Describe it to you? So you know you’re not imagining it all?”
I nod.
“All right. You’ve seen—” he swallows. “You’ve seen what I’ve seen. Water. Mud. Drowning. Strong hands. Your husband, full of rage because of his son. You’ve heard Joel’s voice calling out for you. Begging you to help. But you didn’t hear him. You were far away…”
“Yes. Yes. All of that. What does it mean?”
“You know what it means. You’ve always known. You just don’t want to see. Please, can we stop this now? Can’t you let me go?”
“How did he do it? How did my husband kill our son? How? Tell me! Tell me!”
“Please. I’m so scared. Please make this stop. You can make it stop, Susannah, you’re in control. It’s your choice. Please let me go.”
“I need you to help me. Tell me where I can find the proof of what he did.”
“There isn’t any proof.” His eyes close and his head rolls a little, as if I’ve shaken him hard by the shoulders. “There isn’t any proof. It was all lost. It drowned with him. It all drowned in the mud.”
“Don’t say that. I don’t want it to be lost, maybe I did once but I don’t any more. I’m ready to find out. I want to know the truth. I want to help Joel. I couldn’t help him before but I can do this for him, I can prove what happened to him and make sure John pays for what he did. Just tell me what I can do! There must be a way to prove it, there must, there’s always something left behind, always.”
“Please. I’ve done all I can. Please be kind now and let me go. There’s so much kindness in you, Susannah. So many terrible things have happened, but you can make it stop. Let the kindness win. Let me go.”
“You keep saying that! How am I stopping you?”
He doesn’t speak. He tries very hard to hold my gaze. But he can’t prevent the brief flick of his eyes as he glances down at my right hand that rests on my lap beneath the table. In the cold pitiless light of the bulb in its paper-moon shade, I see that there’s a knife there.
“What? That’s not mine.” But it is mine. It’s the carving knife from the butcher’s block in my kitchen. “It’s not dangerous, I promise I’m not dangerous.” But I’m clutching the knife so tightly my knuckles are white, and the point is towards his belly. “I wouldn’t hurt you.” But there’s a smear of blood on the blade and his face is white and sweaty with pain. “I don’t even remember bringing that in with me.” But now I remember a brief scuffle at the doorway, a moment when he wanted to keep me out and I wanted to be let in, and somewhere in that scuffle I might have… just to make my point… just to make sure he really understood… just for a moment.
“Please.” James’s voice, the velvet turned harsh and raggedy now. Pleading for his life. “I know you’re a good person. Terrible things have happened to you, you’ve lived through so much darkness, but you can choose to do the right thing. I won’t say anything to the police, I promise, I swear. Not ever. This will all be between us, our secret, always. Just let me go and this can all be over.”
“This won’t ever be over.” I push my chair back and stand up. My hand aches from gripping the knife so tightly for so long. I want to leave it behind, but I don’t dare. I’m in enough trouble, James already has enough to take a decent shot at ruining me, but if I leave the knife behind, I’ll surely be finished. “This is my life now. And it won’t ever stop until I’ve made John pay for what he did to Joel.”
When I get out of my car and stand in the pinky-orange glow of the street lamp outside my house, I find the north wind has blown down from the Arctic and hung every barren branch with a garland of frost. The moonlight blazes bright from the cloudless sky and catches the ice crystals as they dance in the air. The sight is so beautiful it hurts my heart.
I go upstairs. I undress. I put on a thin silky nightgown. Then I walk down to the apple tree. If I stand here long enough perhaps I will become a frost creature, dusted with the same fragile perfection that has turned all the dead things in my garden so beautiful. I would like to die like this, to become a woman of cold air and frozen water, and when someone reaches out a curious hand to touch me, I would like to melt away into nothingness beneath the warmth of their fingers. A woman made of air and water can have no past and no future, no will and no memories. A woman made of air and water could not hold a knife to a man’s belly and compel him into prophecy. I want very much to become a woman of air and water. Perhaps if I stand here for long enough I will find a way to do it. In the breathless quiet that comes with profound cold and deep night, I hear the squeal of my front gate opening, and then a slow faint shuffle as someone creeps down the side of the house.
My neighbour, like me, is unsuitably dressed for the weather; his thin grey pyjamas inadequately shrouded beneath a heavy blue towelling dressing gown, his feet creeping along the path like snails in the thin shells of his slippers. He’s holding a bottle of milk. I think perhaps he must be the last person I know who has their milk delivered. Where is he going? Has he finally slipped over the edge from eccentricity to frank dementia, and become one of the lost wandering souls who roam restlessly in search of long-vanished places and phantoms who slip from their grasp? Should I try to guide him back into his house?
He’s coming towards me. Perhaps he’s come seeking companionship. Perhaps the milk bottle is a way of starting a conversation, in which he might propose the sharing of a midnight cup of tea. Perhaps this will be the moment when he finally crosses my threshold.
His hand is brown and speckled, the veins thick and ropey. His voice is rusty from disuse.
“Too cold,” he whispers to me, shaking his head. “Too cold. You’ll freeze.”
“I’m fine,” I whisper back. What I mean is, I don’t mind dying.
“No,” he says. “Not yet. There’s something you need to do.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Sunday 21st December 1997
“Come and sit down.” John’s hands press on my shoulders, firm and kindly. “You’re going to wear yourself out before we even start.”
I sit down obediently beside him, then stand up again. John laughs and shakes his head.
“I just want to check my lipstick, that’s all. Do I look all right?”
“Susannah. Love. You look beautiful. You always look beautiful. But nobody will care about your lipstick.”
“Do you think I’m overdressed? Do I look too dressed up? I don’t want them to think—”
“Stop worrying! They won’t think anything, they won’t be interested in what you’re wearing, I promise.” He stands behind me and puts his arms around my waist. “Apart from me. But I’m always interested. Hey, don’t cry. What’s the matter?”
“I’m so sorry we have to do this. I’m so sorry I couldn’t have our baby for us.”
“What are you talking about? Joel’s going to be our baby, you know that.”
“And you’re sure you don’t mind that I couldn’t—?”
“First of all,” John says firmly, “it wasn’t you that couldn’t, it was us. We’re unexplained, remember? So it’s just as likely to be me that couldn’t.”
“But—”
“And,” John continues, “I am not disappointed. This is not second best. Okay? This isn’t us being unlucky, this is us being lucky. We’re going to meet our son in an hour, and that makes it the best day there’ll ever be for either of us.” He looks at me through the mirror. “Unless you’re having doubts.”
“No! God no, no doubts at all. Just seeing the photos was… oh my God, we’re going to meet him, aren’t we? This is really going to happen. We’re really going to be parents.”
“And it’s Midwinter Day,” says John. “He’s our Midwinter gift. The Winter’s child.”
“Our child. Our Winter’s child.” I can hardly believe it’s true. “Oh, John—”
He takes my hand and kisses it.
Joel’s foster carer greets us at the door. She’s older than me, dowdier, softer, her greying hair pulled carelessly back in a scrunchie, dressed in ancient jeans and a stripey top that would only look flattering on a taller, skinnier woman. Her face is tired. Her smile is bright. She looks like a mother. As far as this little boy-child knows, she is his mother, and I’m a raw idiot recruit, standing in my stupid clothes and my ludicrous shoes and pretending I can take the place of this magnificent battle-scarred warrior. I feel sick.
“Susannah? I’m Lynne.” Her smile’s warm and real. She is on my side. She’s going to make me a mother. I can still hardly believe it. To my shame, I burst into tears. Lynne laughs and pats my arm.
“It’s all right, it’s an emotional day. Come on in and meet him. He’s unsettled at the moment.”
“Will we be able to hold him?” John’s question startles me. I’d almost forgotten he was there.
“Of course you will. Come on in and meet him.”
As soon as we get into the house, I hear it: the high piercing shriek that stabs at your ears, more intense than any I’ve heard before. We were warned to expect it, we’ve been shown videos, but nothing could prepare you. It sounds as if something’s being killed. Lynne bundles into the living room ahead of us, reaches into the trembling Moses basket and scoops out a small shrieking scrap like a piglet in a onesie.
“All right, little man,” she says, tucking him expertly underneath his chin. The change in his cry is immediate; it continues, but lessens. “All right. Come on now, Joel, we’ve got someone for you to meet. This is your mum and dad.”
“Oh God,” says John, reverently. “That’s our son. That’s our son.” His hands reach out. “Can I hold him?”
In John’s hands, Joel looks even tinier. His cries wind back up to their highest pitch. John lays Joel against his shoulder and pats his little back. To my eyes, he looks too rough. I want to snatch Joel from his arms and hold him myself. I would do it better, more gently. Lynne watches John with a crooked smile on her face. I see the glint of tears in her eyes.
“He’s not due his dose for two hours, but he doesn’t know that, poor love. He’s down to one a day now. He’ll be completely off the meds by the end of this week, so you won’t have to worry about it when he comes home.”
Joel’s shrieks of horror are unabated. His back is arched and rigid, as if he’s trying to throw himself out of John’s arms. I can see the panic in my husband’s face. He presses Joel hard against his shoulder, trying to force him to relax. I think he might break him.
“Can I please take him for a minute?” In my attempt to avoid any hint that I’m criticising John, I end up sounding like a child asking for a sweet. John surrenders our son with reluctance, hovering close to me so he can peer into the rageful little face. I fight the urge to turn my back.
I have a child. I’m holding our son in my arms. I’ve dreamed this moment so many times, and now it’s here.
In so many ways, this is nothing like my imaginings. Joel’s come to me not from the safe cocoon of my own body, but as the tragic fallout of a young woman’s hopeless and helpless addiction, itself borne out of the kind of misery we all wish we could close our eyes to. So many other paths could have led him elsewhere. To the arms of his mother, who was desperate to hold onto her baby and for a few weeks seemed to be doing so well, until she failed to turn up to treatment and was discovered lying, apparently asleep, on a bare mattress. To the homes of any of the other adopters. Even – my hands tighten around him as I think it – to his own death, gone before he ever drew breath. But instead he’s coming to me. To me. To me. He’s going to be all mine.
Joel’s shrieks hurt my ears and my heart, but I endure them gladly. I snuggle him under my chin the way Lynne did, feel a fractional relaxation in his steely little body. The shrieking continues, but at a slightly lesser intensity.
“Good work,” says Lynne. “I’ll make us a cuppa, shall I? How do you both like it? Milk? Sugar? Right, back in a few minutes.”
And for the first time, John and I are alone with our son.
We sit beside each other on the sofa, cheeks flushed, hearts banging. I’d imagined a reverent inspection of perfect little fingers and ears like seashells. Instead, we have a red-faced screamer who, apparently, hates us. I don’t care. I love him, instantly. He didn’t grow in my body, but he’s my son. John takes him back from me, jiggles him against his shoulder again, stands up and walks around the room.
Joel doesn’t like that, I think. He wants to be quiet and calm. To be held still. To feel safe. I have to force myself to stay sitting down, counting down the seconds until I can legitimately take Joel back and return him to his spot under my chin, thus inducing the slightly lesser degree of shrieking that is what seems to pass for contentment.
“Well, you’re a little shouter, aren’t you?” John says. “You were smiling in your picture, but you’re not going to smile for me today, are you? Quite right too. Who wants to smile at my ugly mug, hmm?” He kisses Joel’s forehead. I hope John’s bristles don’t prick his tender skin. Sometimes the withdrawal makes them extra sensitive to pain.
I watch the clock, willing myself to wait at least three more minutes before snatching Joel back. The cups of tea are taking for ever. Lynne must be giving us some time alone. Two minutes left. John swaps Joel to the other shoulder, jiggles Joel a bit harder. One minute. Stop jiggling him, I think. Be gentle. You need to be gentle.
“Here.” John sits down beside me and passes Joel over. “It’s all right, love, I don’t mind. You have him for a bit. I’ll have years and years to cuddle him.”
John can’t bear to see me wanting something and not give it to me. I’m so lucky. I’ve always been lucky and now here I am, lucky again, receiving an almost-impossible gift. No known biological father who could assert his genetic primacy and steal Joel away. No birth mother to send yearly photographs and letters to. No living relatives to swoop in and snatch him from us. Our son will come home before he’s even three months old. Joel will be weaned off the Oramorph and we’ll get him through the shock of being taken, once again, from the woman he thought was his mother, and he’ll learn to love us.
Lynne reappears with a tray, liberally covered with three mugs of tea, a large plate of biscuits and a bottle of formula. Is that why Joel’s crying? Is he hungry? Why didn’t I think of that? I’ll have to do better in future. I reach for the bottle, then glance at Lynne for permission.
“You go ahead,” she says. “I’ve written down his feeding schedule for you. He’s on quite a lot of small feeds because he’s a bit of a titch still and he doesn’t always feed very well. I usually change him before his bottle, just so he’s not in a wet bum if he goes to sleep. All the stuff’s in that storage box over there.”
“Can I see the schedule? What milk is he on? And what size and brand of nappies?” John takes out the folded list of questions we worked on together. I’m so glad he’s here to ask them, working out the theory of looking after Joel so I can snatch this first precious opportunity to actually do something for my son. The poppers of the suit come open to reveal his belly, and I kiss its impossible perfect softness, not minding that he flails wildly at my head with furious feet and crumpled fists. His nappy is damp but not soiled. I take a wipe from the packet and clean him. Halfway through he pees, a startling clear arc that shoots up like a fountain and splashes onto his face and suit. I wipe him down, bundle him out of his wet onesie and take the spare one from Lynne as she laughs sympathetically.
“If you keep a muslin cloth handy, you can drop it on as soon as he starts peeing. Don’t worry! All baby boys do it. It’s the cold air.”
I already know this; I’ve spent enough time haunting parenting forum
s. I should have been prepared. Now my son has to wait even longer for his milk. I work as fast as I can, feeling spaghetti arms into sleeves, trying to pin his trembling legs into place. Then I snatch the bottle and retreat to the sofa and coax the teat into Joel’s wide, furious red mouth.
This is where he should fall into blissful, miraculous, greedy silence. I’ve seen this done so many times before, with bottles and breasts and even dummies. But Joel doesn’t drink. His mouth refuses to clamp shut, and the few drops of formula that land on his tongue only seem to enrage him more.
I nudge the teat gently against the roof of his mouth, trying to activate his suckle reflex. His mouth closes and he swallows a few gulps of milk. Then he chokes, gasps and starts screaming again. I refuse to give up. I nudge again at the roof of his mouth, marvelling at the strength of his gums as he gnashes at the bottle. Another few gulps, and then back to screaming; but in the moment before Joel’s mouth opens, his navy-blue eyes meet mine and we look at each other and I know he understands that from now on, we’re in this together.
From the corner of my eye I see John silently cleaning up the mess we left – bagging the nappy, mopping the pee, spraying and wiping down the change-mat, asking Lynne where to store the sodden onesie – but I can’t find time to be grateful. I sit Joel up a little and keep trying, watching with awe and delight as gradually, gradually, the volume in the bottle begins to fall. Joel’s still furious with the world, but at least now he’s not starving.
“Well done,” says Lynne. “He’s taken a good amount there. You’ve obviously got the knack.”
Her words make my heart glow. I sit Joel up in my arms and rub his back with a slow, circular motion to bring up his wind.
“Pass him here,” says John, holding out his arms.
I hope my reluctance isn’t visible. When I let Joel go, my arms feel ridiculously light and empty.
“Come on, fella.” John folds Joel forward over his forearm. “Let’s see what we can get out of you.” His big hand pats firmly at Joel’s back. Not too rough! I think. Joel lurches to one side; John catches him. Don’t let him fall! John’s so strong, but still so very gentle. It’s one of the things I love the most about him. John presses hard between Joel’s shoulder blades. Oh, that’s too hard! He’s so tiny. Don’t break him. Between two screams, Joel produces an almighty comic belch. We all laugh. John looks pleased.