by Jill Childs
Chairs scraped. A voice rose in thin, elderly laughter. She leaned in closer to me.
‘That love your father felt for your mother, that you feel for your daughter… I don’t think it ends with death. There’s more than just nothingness.’ She paused, considering. ‘That’s what I choose to believe. But what you choose is up to you.’
I sat very still. Something hard inside me shifted and my mouth trembled. I couldn’t answer. I looked through to the church again but all I could see was darkness and weak shafts of coloured light.
‘You know, perhaps Gracie came back to you because it wasn’t her time. Or perhaps your love for her was so strong, so overwhelming, that God showed mercy to you both by sending her back.’
An animated woman interrupted by tapping Angela on the shoulder and she turned away to talk to her.
On the far side of the table, the elderly man shuffled to his feet and started, with slow, deliberate movements, to thread his arms into the sleeves of his coat. The young woman from behind the counter came out into the café and started to separate the tables again, re-ordering the café as if our meeting had never been.
Forty
By the time I headed to nursery to collect you, the skies had clouded over and the clouds looked heavy with rain. I was thinking about lunch and what to feed you when my phone rang.
‘Jen. I need to see you.’
‘Matt?’ My heart thumped. Since the accident, unexpected calls frightened me and he sounded anxious. ‘Are you OK?’
‘Fine.’
Traffic thundered past on the main road and I strained to hear him. ‘What?’
‘I said, what about this afternoon?’
I frowned, struggling to understand what was so urgent. We’d already planned to meet up over the weekend. ‘I’m on my way to get Gracie.’
‘Please, Jen.’ His tone was sharp. My stomach contracted. ‘There’s something you need to know.’
We arranged to meet in a soft play centre at three o’clock, just a ten-minute walk from the house. We hadn’t been for a while and you were delighted. You ran in, shedding your coat on the ground behind you, as soon as we entered through the turnstile. You were always bursting with energy, even after a morning at nursery. My biggest challenge each day was finding new ways to exhaust it.
By the time Matt arrived, you’d pulled off your shoes and were tumbling on the miniature bouncy castle. Your hair was wild with static as you threw yourself back and forth. It was an effort for me not to interfere, not to caution: ‘Be careful, Gracie! Mind your head!’ I saw so many dangers unravelling. You were so perfect, so precious, I found it hard not to imagine we were only one clumsy landing, one twisted neck from catastrophe. Perhaps all mothers are the same. Perhaps, after all we’d been through, I was worse.
It was term time and just before the end of the school day and the centre was quiet. The air was punctuated by the tinny notes of a children’s television programme, the mechanical beeps and squawks of ride-on cars and trains and the occasional burst of wailing from a young child. It was a woman’s world of babies and toddlers.
I waited for him in the café corner, drinking a black Americano. It was almost deserted. Just a few huddles of women who shared gossip and advice and roused themselves every now and again to change nappies or wipe noses.
The only other man on the premises was the youth behind the counter in reception. Matt, with his broad shoulders and bohemian hair, looked as if he’d come striding into the wrong building. The mothers and nannies watched him as he picked his way through the chaos to buy himself a coffee. He sat opposite me at the grey, plastic-topped table. It was gritty with spilt sugar.
You were busy now on the jungle climbing frame, heaving yourself up staircases of padded blocks, running back and forth across a rope net like a mad monkey and sliding down a tube, only to jump out and run round to do it all over again. As Matt settled with his coffee, you looked across at us and took in the fact of his arrival with a solid, steady gaze.
‘How are you doing?’
His face was set and it worried me. He looked down into his cappuccino and stirred it. Chocolate powder melted into smudges in the froth.
The other women seemed suddenly quiet. I leaned forward and lowered my voice.
‘Whatever it is, please. Just tell me.’
He sighed. ‘I’ve heard from Geoff.’
My stomach tensed. ‘Your brother?’
I’d almost forgotten Matt’s promise to look into Ella, to ask Geoff to do the same.
‘You can’t repeat this. To anyone.’ He bent forward to me. ‘I only did this because I love you so much, Jen. I’d do anything for you. I leaned on Geoff to do this as a favour to me. You understand? If anyone found out—’
‘I get it.’
Cartoon music burst out of one of the rides as it rocked into motion.
Matt was hesitant. ‘It may not be the same person. I mean, there could be more than one Ella Hicks.’ He spoke carefully, weighing each word. ‘She did have a baby. A girl. Found dead in her cot.’
I couldn’t breathe. Teeny-weeny. You were right.
‘What happened?’
His eyes were on mine. ‘Febrile convulsions.’
‘What does that mean?’
He shrugged. ‘Seizures. They’re not often fatal but they can be.’
Auntie Ella sent her to Mr Michael because something bad happened so she couldn’t stay with her mummy. That’s what you said.
‘Was it her?’ I swallowed. ‘Was it something she did?’
Matt hesitated. He seemed too reluctant to answer.
‘I don’t know,’ he said at last. ‘The coroner’s report wasn’t conclusive.’ He paused. ‘But convulsions can be the result of injury. Of being shaken.’
The air swam and I closed my eyes, grasped at the edge of the table. He reached for my hand at once and encased it in his own as if he were trying to protect me.
I saw you, a newborn, with your scrunched-up face and perfect, tiny hands. How could anyone hurt a baby? And a mother, what mother harmed her own child? It was obscene.
‘Are you OK?’ Matt’s voice was close and warm.
I nodded, pulled my hand free and wiped my eyes with my fingers. ‘I’m sorry.’
When I opened my eyes, he looked anxious. ‘I’d never hurt you, Jen. You know that, don’t you? You mean the world to me. You and Gracie.’ He paused. ‘I just thought you needed to know.’
‘Of course.’ I reached in my sleeve for a tissue. ‘I do.’
My body was heavy on the seat. Exhausted. How did you know, my love? How? I didn’t understand. How could she do such a thing? I shook my head. And what about your safety? How could I ever leave you with her again? ‘What did they do to her? I mean, was she charged or anything?’
His eyes stayed on my face. ‘The police interviewed her. It’s all there, on record. But they couldn’t prove anything. In the end, the coroner gave a verdict of death by natural causes. That was it.’
I almost didn’t bother with the next question. I knew the answer. ‘What was the baby’s name?’
He paused. ‘Catherine.’
‘Catherine.’
You were right, my love, all the time.
A toddler, barely walking, stumbled over to our table and stood there, staring up at me with unblinking eyes. A voice called: ‘Holly!’ and she turned, considered her mother’s outstretched arms, teetered back to her.
I felt a sudden physical need to hold you and looked over, trying to search you out in the cloud of moving children. There you were, hanging upside down from bent knees, your legs hooked over a metal bar, your hair streaming to the ground like water. My love, where did you go, in those awful moments of lifelessness, as the paramedics rushed you to intensive care? How could you know these strange unknowable things?
‘Jen?’ Matt came around to my side of the table and sat next to me on the cushioned seat, so close that his thigh pressed against mine. I put my hand on his leg and he wrapped h
is fingers round mine. ‘Jen, darling, are you OK?’
‘What do I do?’
‘Do?’
I thought about Richard. He was a kind man. A gentle one. That woman had manipulated him from the start.
‘What if they have a baby together? She might do it again.’ I breathed deeply. ‘And what about Gracie? She might hurt her.’
He squeezed my hand, shook his head. ‘You can’t do anything, Jen. You know what? I think you’re right. I think she did kill her baby. But medically that’s so hard to prove. The evidence just isn’t conclusive.’
I sat very still, trying to take it all in. My feet, under the table, juddered against the hard, shiny floor.
His hand, round mine, tensed. ‘You know now. You know what she is. Let’s forget about them. Leave them alone. Focus on our own life together.’
‘Richard needs to know.’
‘Really?’ He pulled away from me. ‘What are you going to say? You know Ella killed her daughter because an angel told Gracie when she was in Heaven? Do you know how crazy that sounds?’
I couldn’t answer. He was right. It sounded absurd.
He raked his hand through his hair. ‘I’m sorry, Jen. I didn’t mean—’
He reached an arm round me and drew me closer against his chest. We sat like that for a while. The children’s cries, the grating mechanical music filled the silence.
Finally, he said: ‘Richard’s a lawyer, isn’t he?’
‘Solicitor.’
‘See this through his eyes.’ He paused. ‘So much of what we know is hearsay. Things Gracie has told you. Maternal instinct. A question of faith. None of that’s evidence.’
‘Yes, but even so—’
He winced, awkward. ‘From what you’ve told me, he already seems to doubt you, to think you’re—’ he hesitated, feeling his way ‘—over-wrought. That you’ve got a grudge against Ella.’
I sighed. He was right, of course. I did hate Ella. And Richard was already exasperated with me.
‘I know that’s not true,’ Matt went on. ‘I’m just saying. You can’t tell Richard. Or anyone else. They’d never believe you.’
I shrugged. ‘So what do I do?’
He looked at me closely. ‘Why do you have to do anything?’
I swallowed. ‘For the baby. Catherine. She deserves justice.’
‘In a court of law?’
‘Yes.’
He sighed. ‘You’re not listening to me.’ He shook his head. ‘You have no evidence she did anything wrong. The coroner already gave a verdict. OK?’
I looked at the scratches along the surface of the plastic tabletop. A knife, maybe. A metal toy.
‘I just think—’ I broke off, trying to find the words. ‘Richard’s making a life with this woman. He needs to know what she is.’
‘He’s in love with her.’
I frowned, turned away. You ran across to the dressing-up baskets and rifled through the capes, hats, aprons there.
‘And you can’t mention Geoff. You give me your word? He doesn’t even know I’m telling you.’
‘He’d get into trouble?’
‘Trouble? He’d lose his job.’
We drank our coffees. The centre started to get busier. A small boy astride a pink plastic car banged into our table, reversed, struggled to get clear.
We tried to be normal for a while, chatting without enthusiasm about nothing much. You and our plans for the rest of the day. His late shift at work.
When we finished our coffees, I said: ‘You should probably make tracks.’
He put his hands on my shoulders and turned me to face him, right there on the bench.
‘I love you, Jen. You do know that, don’t you? I adore you.’ He spoke in a low voice. He was so close that his breath, coffee-scented, was warm against my cheek. ‘I want to spend the rest of my life looking after you. You see? You and Gracie. My two gorgeous girls.’
I nodded, moved in closer to touch my lips to his, conscious of the mothers and nannies all around.
‘I love you too.’ I mumbled the words into his neck.
You were in the toddler area, building towers out of coloured foam blocks, then knocking them down again. Now, as Matt reached to hold me, you stopped and lifted your eyes to watch. Your expression was knowing.
His voice was in my ear. ‘I want to be with you always, Jen. I know it’s a lot to take in. Just think about this.’ He paused. ‘I want to us to be a proper family.’
I didn’t move.
‘My place is great for me. But it’s tiny. Far too small for three. Why don’t I move in with you? We were made for each other. I know we were and I think you do too, don’t you?’ He kissed me chastely on the top of the head, pulled away. ‘Let’s do it. Soon.’
Your eyes hadn’t left us. Across the play centre, even with the cries, the beeps, the noise, you seemed to know exactly what we were discussing, to hear and understand every word. I blinked, my eyes on yours. How could you be so wise? How could you know about Catherine and be privy to these strange secrets from the past? Unless of course everything you’d told me from the start, however incredible, was actually true.
Forty-One
That night, at bath time, you said, from nowhere: ‘Do you like him as much as you like Daddy?’
I had just lifted you into the bubbles and was drawing shapes on your back with my finger. It was a guessing game, my mother did the same with us when we were children, but at this age, there wasn’t a lot of guesswork. Half the time, you told me what to draw before I started.
I carried on, pretended not to hear.
‘It’s got a big body and four legs like this and a large head with big flapping ears.’
You didn’t move.
‘And a very, very long trunk.’
You twisted round, delighted. ‘An elephant!’
I tried to look amazed. ‘How did you know?’
‘Another one. Do a bunny.’
I dipped my finger in the bubbles again.
‘This one is really hard.’
You tensed, eyes forward towards the taps, bracing your back as you concentrated.
‘So. This one is small with long floppy ears. One. Two. And big feet. And a small round tail called a scut.’
‘A bunny!’
‘Yes!’
You beamed.
Later, we snuggled together in the armchair by your bed. You were wrapped up in a big, warm towel, then wrapped again in my arms. Your pyjamas, your favourite ones with the Dalmatians, lay across the back of the chair, waiting until we’d finished our cuddle.
‘I love you, little Gracie.’
The ends of your hair were still damp and I rubbed them dry in the folds of the towel. You wriggled, twisted sideways to lie across my lap like a baby. Sometimes you liked to play babies when we were alone. I rocked you, put my lips to your cheek, your hair. You smelt clean, of lavender soap and scented bubble bath. You kicked as you settled and your tiny pink feet came free from the towel.
‘What story do you want? Have you chosen?’
You turned your face up to mine and that look came in your eyes, a knowing look, older than your years. ‘Is he downstairs?’
‘Who?’
You didn’t answer, just looked at me, as if to say: you know exactly who I mean.
‘If you mean Uncle Matt, no, he isn’t here tonight. Just Mummy.’
‘If you marry him, will he be my daddy?’
I hesitated, tried to find the right words. ‘Daddy will always be your real daddy, Gracie. Uncle Matt is Mummy’s special friend. He’s been very kind to us, hasn’t he?’
‘In Venice?’ You squirmed until you were sitting upright again, reached for your pyjamas and began to put them on. I fought back my urge to help you. It only caused an argument.
‘Yes, in Venice. And when he takes us out and buys us treats.’
You considered. ‘Daddy buys me treats too.’
‘He does. Daddy loves you very much, Gracie. He always will. What
ever happens with Uncle Matt.’
‘So I’ll have two daddies?’
‘In a way.’
‘And two mummies. You and Auntie Ella?’
‘Possibly.’ I struggled to keep my face neutral. ‘Into bed now.’
You finally let me tuck you up and I lay beside you while we read a couple of stories together. I switched off the light and sat in the armchair. You lay on your stomach, hunched forward with your forehead buried in your bear, your legs drawn up under you.
‘Shush.’ I made the word a long, steady sigh, which formed a wave of white noise through the quiet room. Gradually, as my eyes adjusted to the semi-darkness, familiar objects grew. The nursery rhyme pictures. The shelf of medicines, of stuffed animals and dolls, of books.
We moved you in here when you were just six months old. I didn’t want to. I wanted your cot to stay in our room, by my side of the bed, but Richard was adamant. He nearly broke his back, carrying the armchair up from the sitting room. If we’re going to spend half the night in here, he said, we may as well be comfortable. He didn’t know, then, how much of the time you’d end up sleeping in our bed, curled up with me.
You sigh, turn onto your back, bear abandoned, arm sprawled above your head. I lean forward for a closer look.
You look so beautiful, my love, you always do. I sit there for some time, listening to the rise and fall of your breathing and marvelling at you. Your skin shines clear and fresh. Your fair hair is splayed on the sheet. Your eyelids flicker as you dream and I wonder where you’ve gone to, what you’re seeing and feeling in sleep.
I try to imagine a baby girl called Catherine with ginger hair. Ella must have sat beside her as she slept and kept watch, as I’m keeping watch over you. She must have nursed her and changed her and stumbled out of bed, night after night, more asleep than awake, to lift her out of her cot when she cried and rock her back to sleep. How could she not adore her, protect her? I shake my head. Was it really possible that she’d lost her temper and shaken her so hard that she’d hurt her? How could any mother do that?
