by Jill Childs
I quickened my step, shouting every few steps: ‘Gracie!’ Reached the end of the path where it gave way to a mud trail towards the swings. My heart was loud in my ears, my breath short.
Beyond the final bushes, the grass opened out and gave a clearer view ahead. I narrowed my eyes, concentrated, searched the walkers, the dogs, the youths, the children, for your small figure in cream. The park looked empty. What if this was it? What if I never found you? My legs trembled and a cold sickness rose through my stomach into my chest.
‘Gracie!’
I tried to tamp down the panic. You weren’t a baby. You were nearly four. I was panicking. In a short time, any minute, I’d see you, I’d run to you, it would all be over and seem absurd, a story to tell people. It was only a matter of minutes, I’d say, but it seemed like forever. I could almost hear your voice in my head, saying: ‘Silly Mummy!’
‘Gracie!’
I turned, walked back to the section of rail opposite the bench where I’d last seen you. If you came running back to find me, it would be here. I climbed up on the bench and tried to see through the trees, the foliage. A middle-aged couple came past, Labradors at their heels, and gave me an odd look.
‘My little girl,’ I said. ‘Have you seen her?’
The woman frowned.
‘She’s in a cream coat.’
The man shook his head and they walked on.
I climbed down and sat heavily on the bench. The strength drained from my legs. I looked down the path one way, then the other. Just vacancy, stretching on forever. I felt utterly lost. I must be sensible, keep calm, but for a moment, I lost all sense of what to do. Should I set off round the park, walking briskly, searching? It was a large park. How much did I cover? How far should I go?
Or should I sit here, half-hidden from the lawns by the bushes, and try to stay calm, trust you to find your way back to me?
My breathing was so shallow that my chest ached. I pulled out my phone. A mechanical voice told me that Matt’s mobile was switched off.
I left a message: ‘It’s me. Sorry to bother you but could you call me back? Please.’
I already imagined myself feeling a fool when he called, later, and we were already together, crisis over. I’d laugh about it, about how flustered I’d been, honestly, what a hopeless mother.
I got to my feet again, paced back to the end of the path and this time headed out down the dry mud trail towards the swings. Of course. You’d be back on the roundabout, on the seesaw. I almost ran to the gate and into the playground. It was clouding over and the swings were quieter now. I scanned the equipment. Ran round the grassy mound to check the baby swings, to look inside the play train. Nothing.
I sank to the grass. It was cool and damp through my jeans. How long had it been now? Ten minutes? Twenty? I didn’t know. I pulled my diary out of my bag and looked for the number of the hospital, then dialled it. My hands shook.
Switchboard. The woman who answered sounded mechanical. A foreign accent. East European.
‘Doctor Matthew Aster, please.’
‘Who?’
I stiffened. ‘Matthew Aster. Paediatrics.’
A pause, then the call clicked onto music. I got to my feet, restless, and started walking round the edge of the playground, scanning the park.
The woman finally clicked back onto the line. ‘No doctor with that name.’
‘A-S-T-E-R.’ I spelled it out with exaggerated care, trying not to lose my patience. ‘Paediatrics. You know, children?’
‘I know that.’ She sounded shirty. Tap, tap as she checked. ‘I can’t help you.’
‘Can you at least put me through to the department?’
‘Are you a relative?’
‘A relative?’
‘Of the patient?’
I wanted to reach into the phone and shake her. ‘I’m not trying to reach a patient! I’m trying to contact a doctor. Doctor Matthew Aster.’
‘I’m sorry, there’s no—’
I ended the call, pushed the phone back in my pocket. Stupid woman. Anyway, Matt might have picked up the mobile message by now, might be trying to call me back.
I left the playground, rushed back towards the riverside path. I was almost at the bench when I saw you, a daub of cream, crouched down low right at the far end of the path, close to the entrance to the park. You were bending forwards, your forehead pressed against the bottom bar of the railings, peering at the river below.
I broke into a run. As I got close, you must have heard my thundering feet, my panting. You glanced round, unconcerned, saw me, then looked down again.
‘Gracie!’ I put my arms around you, tried to pull you to me in a hug. ‘Where were you?’
You fought me off, annoyed at being interrupted. ‘Look.’
You pointed down at the river. The fast-flowing water was brown with churned mud. A stick swirled past, followed by a piece of clear plastic, swollen, rising and falling in the current like a jellyfish.
‘What?’
‘Wait.’ You stared down, transfixed. ‘I saw her.’
I sucked in my breath, trying to be patient.
‘Who?’ I knew the answer before you spoke.
‘Catherine. She waved to me.’
You seemed so separate from me. So calm.
‘Don’t be silly, Gracie. There’s no one in the water.’
You weren’t listening. Your mind was elsewhere. My heart thumped. The panic, the running and now this, your strange stillness.
‘Gracie.’ I crouched low, took hold of your arm. ‘Don’t ever run away like that again. You hear me?’
You ignored me, focused on the flowing water.
I reached more firmly for your shoulders and pulled you round to face me.
‘Gracie, listen to me. Mummy was very worried. We’ve talked about getting lost, haven’t we? It’s dangerous. Very dangerous.’
You stared back, cross. ‘I wasn’t lost, Mummy. I was here.’
I put my arms round you and pulled you to me again, relishing the soft warmth of your body against mine in the few seconds before you struggled free.
* * *
About half an hour later, as we walked back home, hand in hand, my phone rang.
‘Everything OK?’ Matt.
‘Fine.’ I was exhausted. All I wanted just then was a cup of tea, a chance to sit down in the knowledge that you were there, safe, at home. ‘Long story but we’re fine now.’
‘You’re sure?’ He sounded concerned. ‘I’m sorry. I only just got your message. I was worried.’
‘Me too.’ I swung your hand in mine as we walked. ‘I lost Gracie. That’s all. But I found her again.’
He went very quiet. ‘And you’re OK?’
‘I’m fine. I’ll call you tonight.’
When I hung up, you said: ‘I wasn’t lost!’
‘I couldn’t find you, Gracie.’ You seemed to have no sense of the fact you’d run off and how frightened I’d been. ‘I was worried.’
‘But I wasn’t lost,’ you said again, indignant now. ‘I was right there.’
Thirty-Eight
That night, I came downstairs after reading you a story to see a dark shadow against the glass of the front door.
I went into the sitting room and peered out through the side window. Matt stood on the doorstep, with flowers in one hand and a bag of groceries in the other.
When I opened the door, he said: ‘Hello, gorgeous. Surprise.’ He handed me the flowers. The neck of a bottle of wine poked out of the shopping. ‘I come bearing gifts.’
‘You shouldn’t have.’ I moved out of the way to let him in. We stood close together in the hall and kissed. I thought of the TV dinner in the fridge. Much, much better to have Matt here.
‘Missed you.’ He pulled back and looked into my eyes. ‘I was worried. You didn’t sound yourself this afternoon.’
I nodded. ‘It was a bit of a shock.’
In the kitchen, I sat on a chair and sipped wine and felt my shoulders relax
. He tied my apron round his waist, pulled groceries from his shopping bags and set to work, washing and chopping mushrooms, yellow and red peppers.
I liked watching him work. It was the same pleasure as watching any devoted craftsman. He was so intent, so absorbed in his tasks, so quick with his hands. It was sexy as hell but in a soothingly lazy way, all the passion still to come, and it was comforting to be there with him in the light, in the warmth, watching those same capable hands which healed sick children.
It reminded me too of being a child, hanging around in the kitchen at home. My mother made terrific pies, with crunchy crusts and fluted edges and – from about your age, about three – she used to give me pastry off-cuts to roll out and cut. The bottoms for jam tarts and pastry people with currants for eyes and waistcoat buttons.
‘Earth to Jen.’ He paused to look at me, his knife poised. ‘You’re miles away.’
‘Sorry.’ I nodded, smiled. ‘How was your day?’
He shrugged. ‘Intense.’
I’d guessed that from the vehemence of his chopping. Some days his cooking seemed a kind of frantic therapy. Those days, we had a lot of diced vegetables.
‘Tough case?’
He shifted his floppy fringe from his eyes with the top of his arm. ‘A three-year-old boy. Pneumonia. I think we caught it in time but only just.’ He sighed, set his knife on the board and pushed the pile of chopped mushrooms off, into a bowl. ‘He was critically deoxygenated on admission.’
I nodded, tried to look wise. ‘What did you do?’
‘Gave him oxygen, basically. He’s a strong chap though. Responded well.’ He looked round, suddenly self-conscious. ‘Sorry.’
I shrugged, sipped my wine. ‘Don’t be.’
He sliced open a pepper, started to de-seed.
I swallowed, watching his hands. ‘When I called the switchboard, they couldn’t find you.’
‘Really?’ He was bent over the chopping board. ‘Did they page me?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t think she got that far.’ My memory was obscured by a fog of cold panic. ‘She wouldn’t put me through to paediatrics. I remember that.’
‘Natasha, probably.’ He looked round. ‘Did she sound Bulgarian?’
I considered. ‘Something like that.’
‘And a bit chippy?’
‘Definitely.’
‘That’s Natasha.’ He laughed. ‘People are always complaining but they won’t get rid of her. She’s ruthlessly efficient, well, most of the time.’ He fell to dicing peppers at speed. ‘She seems to think it’s her job to stop people bothering us. Not ideal. Especially if people are upset to start with.’
I wandered over to the worktop. ‘What’s the recipe tonight?’
‘Ratatouille and pork casserole, a la Matt.’
‘Ah.’ I bent low and kissed the backs of his hands. ‘My favourite kind.’
‘Anyway—’ he turned, kissed me quickly on the lips, not ready yet to be distracted from his cooking ‘—if you need me, mobile’s best.’
Thirty-Nine
When Friday the eighteenth came round, I dropped you off at nursery, as usual, went to the shops and then found myself heading across to St Michael’s. I wasn’t sure until I walked in that I’d really go. It was just something about Angela. I didn’t want to let her down.
I arrived early and sat for a while in the stillness of the church. The morning light streamed through the stained glass. Multi-coloured columns splashed onto the gravestones set amongst the flags that made up the floor. Saint Michael, locked in his eternal battle with the serpent, gazed down at me as I said my own quiet hello.
Just before eleven, I went back into the bright, living world of the café. Angela looked up as I appeared and smiled at me. She was dragging tables together to make a long central spine down the room and scraping the chairs as she arranged them round it.
A queue of elderly women stood at the counter, ordering cups of tea, scones and pieces of cake from the young woman there. I went to help Angela. By the time we’d finished, the elderly ladies were settling into their seats, ten or eleven of them altogether and one solitary man. No sign of any younger people.
Angela went up to the counter and gestured to me to join her at the table. When she returned, she set a cup of tea in front of me and a piece of coffee and walnut cake.
‘On the house.’ She looked flushed with pleasure. I wondered if she’d really expected me to come.
‘Now, everyone.’ She tapped her teacup with her spoon to call for silence.
The rows of lined, thickly powdered faces turned.
‘We have a newcomer today.’ She indicated me with her hand. ‘This is Jennifer. I hope you’ll make her welcome.’
The ladies exchanged whispers, looked at me with interest. One of those closest to me nodded and smiled.
They bowed their heads as Angela said a prayer.
‘Bless us, Lord, as we gather here in your name and feel your presence.’
I lowered my head, embarrassed. I couldn’t imagine what Matt would say if he knew I were here.
‘Help us to understand your purpose in taking home to your kingdom those we love and miss here on Earth.’
I stared down at my teacup, at the untouched cake, wondering how soon I could escape.
‘Help us to trust your promise of eternal life and to remember your triumph over death. O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory? Amen.’
When she finished, the women dissolved into chatter. My knuckles whitened as my hands gripped each other in my lap.
The lady beside me said, rather loudly: ‘It takes a bit of getting used to, doesn’t it?’
I hesitated, not sure what she meant.
‘Bernard and I were married for forty-one years. There isn’t an hour goes by that I don’t think of him. It’s been thirteen years now but, do you know, every night, I set two places at the table. One for him and one for me.’ She smiled, showing crooked teeth. ‘Silly, isn’t it? I know he’s gone. But it’s a comfort.’
‘I’m sorry.’ I didn’t know what else to say. I reached for my fork and took a mouthful of cake. It was sweet and light, home-made, and reminded me of my mother’s baking.
The lady watched me for a few moments as I ate. She leaned towards me, bringing with her the scent of talcum powder and a flowery perfume.
‘So what’s your story, dear?’
I blinked. My confusion must have shown in my face.
She prompted: ‘Have you lost someone?’
‘Well, my father.’ My hand shook and I set down the fork. ‘But that was a long time ago.’
‘Awful.’ She tutted sympathetically. ‘You poor thing.’
She reached out and patted my hand. Her knuckles were swollen with arthritis.
‘Well, you’re very welcome here, dear. We’ve all got a cross to bear, haven’t we? No one’s spared.’
I didn’t answer and, a moment later, she turned to reply to a question from someone on her other side. I sat quietly for some time, letting the sounds of conversation wash over me and focusing on my tea and cake.
After a while, Angela turned to speak to me.
‘All these ladies have lost loved ones. Husbands. Brothers and sisters. Even children. It does help to talk about it.’
I didn’t know what to say. I turned, looked out, beyond the end of the table, into the darkness of the church. I could almost see you there, a shifting shadow, a small, fragile figure, kneeling on a hassock and stretching forward, running your fingers over the stone flags, reading the engravings as if they were Braille.
‘I worry about Gracie.’ I thought of the women gathered here, burdened by their losses, their grief. ‘I keep thinking how close I came to losing her.’ I hesitated. ‘I don’t feel I can keep her safe any more.’
‘When you talk about Gracie, your whole face changes. Do you feel it?’ She gave me a thoughtful look. ‘I see God there.’
My cheeks felt hot. I shifted my weight on the chair.
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She considered me. ‘If I say love, is that an easier word?’
I swallowed. ‘My father adored my mother and when he was feeling sentimental, he’d say: I love that woman more than life itself. Tears in his eyes. I was only a child. I thought it was just a figure of speech. But now I understand.’
Something inside me loosened and words started to come.
‘You know that myth about the goddess whose daughter was abducted and taken down to Hell and she grieved so hard that she brought winter on the world?’
‘Persephone,’ Angela said. ‘And Demeter.’
‘Exactly. I’d do that. If I had to.’
She smiled. ‘I doubt you’d find her in Hell.’
I took a deep breath. ‘I do struggle to believe in Heaven. Literal Heaven. Somewhere with radiant light where you meet God and people who’ve already died.’ I shook my head. ‘So how do I deal with my own little girl saying she’s been there, telling me things she couldn’t possibly know?’
We sat in silence for a moment, an island in the general hubbub of conversation.
One or two ladies pushed back their chairs, hauled themselves to their feet and tottered away. Several leaned heavily on sticks as they disappeared towards the toilets. Others gathered at the counter to order a fresh cup of tea. Those who were left continued to chat.
‘There’s probably a rational explanation,’ Angela said. ‘She might have overheard something. Or absorbed information without even realising. She’s a perceptive child.’
I nodded. ‘I suppose so.’
‘That’s one theory.’ She carried on talking to me as she nodded across to ladies who were starting now to disperse, to say their goodbyes. ‘Or you stop trying to rationalise. You let go. That’s the thing about faith. It isn’t about proof. It’s about making a choice. Choosing to believe.
‘From all you’ve told me,’ she went on, ‘I believe your daughter did go to Heaven, that she really did meet Saint Michael and was blessed by him. Maybe you think of that as an actual place, a place where God is. Or, if that makes you uncomfortable, think of it as love. As the universal love which is all around us, which survives us.’
