by Jill Childs
I went back into the sitting room where she was steadily emptying the contents of her box onto the table.
‘They didn’t know anything was wrong,’ she said. ‘No one did. Matthew painted the nursery. They had everything ready, the sweetest little booties, dresses, bonnets, everything. Then they went on that silly holiday. I did advise against it but they wouldn’t listen. They rushed to the hospital and it was too late.’ She paused, remembering. ‘Poor things. Imagine. Having to go through all that. To give birth to a child who’s already passed away.’ Her voice caught and she hesitated, collected herself. ‘It doesn’t bear thinking about, does it? Please try, Jennifer. Try to find pity in your heart for him.’
I turned to her to say goodbye. I thought of Matt and his sad little life, pictured him striding into this dim room in the evening, sitting with his mother, watching television. I shook my head. I never wanted to see this wretched house again.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said.
She pulled out a thin cardboard folder and opened it, held it up for me to see.
‘This is Katy.’
I looked down at the photograph. I recognised it at once. A sepia study of a newborn with closed eyes, wearing a sleep-suit and a tiny hat with lace trim and lying in a Moses basket. A sticker on the mount said: Portraits by Stella. On the table, beside the box, nestled in tissue paper, lay a lock of ginger hair.
‘Ella was his ex, wasn’t she? It was his baby she lost.’ I pointed, my voice sharp. ‘Catherine Louise.’
She shrugged, smiled. ‘She preferred Catherine. But we always called her Katy. It was my mother’s name too, you know. And besides, Catherine is such a formal name for a baby girl. Don’t you think?’
Fifty-One
On the way home, my hands shook on the steering wheel. I bit down on my lip to stop myself from crying. When I stopped at traffic lights, the eyes in the driving mirror were frantic. I switched off my mobile and pushed it to the bottom of my bag.
I drove as fast as I dared but I was late collecting you from nursery. Your face was tight with hurt, the teachers cross.
As soon as we entered the house, I locked the door behind me and bolted it, then went through to the sitting room and closed the curtains. You watched, wary.
‘What are you doing, Mummy?’
I swallowed hard. ‘Let’s watch television this afternoon. It’ll be fun.’
A moment later, the phone started to ring in the kitchen. I couldn’t move. We stood there, side by side, listening to the ring. Finally, it stopped.
After lunch, I got the box of videos out and let you watch as many cartoons as you liked. You were utterly absorbed. You clutched your bear to your chest, sometimes bouncing on the settee with excitement, sometimes chuckling, lost in the world of your programme.
As I watched with you, I could almost feel myself a child again, watching television in the afternoon, fresh from school, barely aware of the sounds that ran always beneath the soundtrack, the distant thud and crash of my mother as she moved about the kitchen, scraping and stirring and washing as she made my tea.
I took out my wallet and studied the picture of myself as a small girl, innocent in a summer dress and sandals. A scene from a world that was lost now. My parents close behind me, protecting me. Their faces so impossibly young.
I was still gazing at it when your video finished and you hung over my knee to reach for my wallet, to see what I was looking at.
‘Mummy, what’s that?’
I bent low and kissed your head, smelled your hair, your skin.
‘That’s an old picture.’ I hesitated, letting you look before I explained. ‘Guess who these people are?’
You peered more closely at the faces, then shouted. ‘Mr Michael! Look!’ Your eyes glowed with pleasure. ‘It’s him, Mummy. Look! Why did you say he was made up? He’s real!’
I stared. I couldn’t speak.
You grabbed my wallet with both hands, excited. ‘He’s got normal clothes!’ You considered. ‘Where is he? Who’s that girl?’
‘That’s me, sweetheart,’ I managed to say. ‘When I was about your age. With my mummy and daddy. That’s me.’
You hesitated, thinking.
I pointed. ‘See? That’s Grandma. Doesn’t she look young?’
‘Grandma?’ You narrowed your eyes as if you were struggling to reconcile the young woman in the picture with the elderly one you knew. ‘Why’s she with Mr Michael?’
‘That isn’t Mr Michael. That’s your grandpa.’
You shook your head. ‘I don’t have a grandpa.’
‘You did. You just never saw him. He died a long time ago.’
‘Silly Mummy.’ You laughed. ‘He isn’t dead. He’s looking after baby Catherine and the other girls and boys.’
I looked again at the young man, thinking of the father I remembered. Gentle and funny and strong and wonderful with small children.
‘So you do know Mr Michael.’ You sounded hurt now, considering. ‘Why did you say he wasn’t real?’
Fifty-Two
The phone kept ringing all through that long afternoon of videos and snacks. In the end, I stopped it for good by unplugging it at the wall.
When your bedtime finally came, I wrapped my arms round you, hoisted you high and carried you up the stairs in my arms.
‘Is Uncle Matt coming tonight?’
‘No, my love.’ My voice was tight.
You sensed that something was wrong but I didn’t know how to explain and you didn’t ask any more questions. In the bathroom, you perched, still and silent, on the linen basket as I ran a bubble bath for you. The cascade of running water shut out other noise. The rising steam in our small bathroom drew us together and hid us, kept us safe.
You sat, waist-deep in water, unnaturally withdrawn as I drew animals on your back with the bubbles, tried to make you laugh by tickling your toes.
When you were dry and warm in your pyjamas, smelling of lavender and argan oil, I drew the curtains on the outside world and let you climb into my bed, Mummy and Daddy’s big bed. We cuddled together there, the duvet tucked round us, reading as many stories as you wanted. Slowly, despite yourself, you started to yawn and your eyes grew heavy.
You fell asleep there, lying on your side, your arms clinging to your bear and my arm tucked safely round your waist. I put my face between your shoulder blades and tried to slow my heart to the soft rhythm of your breathing, to fill my senses with the smell of your skin, of your freshly washed body.
Later, I crept downstairs. The kitchen was full of shadows and I stood in the doorway, weary, letting my eyes adjust. Slowly, the shapes emerged. The kitchen table where Matt and I had so often sat together to eat. The worktop where he chopped and diced. The fridge. The silver gleam of the window over the sink.
I didn’t put the light on. I was frightened of the darkness but I was even more afraid of being seen. I thought of the photographs pinned to his wall and the way he’d spied on us, day and night. He hadn’t come across me by accident, that night in the hospital. I saw that now. He must have known about the accident soon after it happened. I imagined him tracking Ella at first, his ex, photographing her as crazily as he had me. Then extending his obsession to Richard, once they fell in love. And then to me and to you too, my love. He stalked us. He planned it all.
I opened a bottle of red wine and sat, curled in a corner of the settee in the darkness, cradling a glass. My body trembled.
I thought about Matt. About his focused pursuit right from the start. The chance meetings in the hospital, on the high street. I shivered. They looked different to me now, not accidental at all but deliberately engineered. The way he phoned me every evening to talk, turned up on my doorstep, invited or not, saying how desperately he missed me, promising to take care of me. Of the way he wouldn’t take no for an answer when I tried to cancel. The way he constantly hurried the pace. I love you so much, Jen. I don’t think I could live without you. We belong together. I’d do anything for you.
&n
bsp; I’d seen it all as devotion, as proof of his love. I wanted to. I’d been so lonely. I let him into our lives. I trusted him.
I thought of him sitting in the darkness in your bedroom, silently watching you as you slept.
When I closed my eyes, I saw his poky bedroom with its tasteless beige, his mother stooping to pick up socks and underpants. The thought of it made me nauseous. I drank off the glass of wine and then another and finally the edges of the room started to blur. After a third glass, I buried my face in the cushion and sobbed.
I must have dozed. When I woke, I groped my way across the kitchen and filled a glass from the tap, drank it off. My hands trembled. I stood in the silence for a moment, trying to steady my nerves.
A sound. I stiffened, strained to hear. The low groan of our gate on its hinges, barely audible. A ting as it closed. Footsteps. A pause. Then the bang of the knocker on the door.
‘Jen! It’s me, Matt.’
I leaned against the sink, afraid to move.
Crash. The knocker again, slammed with force now.
‘Jen. I know you’re in there. Come on. We need to talk.’
I didn’t want to talk. I didn’t want to see him. I crept across the kitchen and into the hall, feeling my way in the darkness. I made it to the bottom of the stairs, and took hold of the banister.
The clatter of the letter box rang out. His voice came again, clear now. I imagined him sitting or kneeling on the doorstep, his mouth against the metal, speaking into the darkness. I shrank into the wall.
‘I know, Jen. I know how it looks. But let me in. I can explain.’
My breathing blew through the silence of the hall. He seemed to sense me there.
‘All I ever wanted was to take care of you. You and Gracie. Don’t you see? I love you so much. Come on, give me a break. Did I ever hurt you? Or Gracie? I would never do that.’
A pause. I held my breath, waiting.
‘Don’t do this. Let me in. We can sort this out. We can. We belong together. We’re a family now.’
He broke off. A strangled noise. A sob.
‘I love you, Jen! For God’s sake. Please. Give me a chance to explain.’
The letter box clattered shut, then, a moment later, opened again, even wider. I sensed his eyes there, peering into the house, into the shadows, reaching for me.
‘Come on, Jen. Open up. I know you’re there.’ His voice was thick. ‘I’m begging you. Don’t do this.’
I turned and ran up the stairs, climbed into bed beside you and drew the covers over us both, panting. I tightened my arms around you, your slight shoulders, your small body, pressed you to me and rocked.
You stirred, twisted onto your back, murmured: ‘Mummy?’
‘Hush, my love. Mummy’s here.’
I buried my face in your hair. Your neck tasted salty.
From down below, footsteps crunched on the gravel as he retreated down the path. Then, again, silence. I sensed him out there in the dark night, his hands in his pockets, looking up at the house, at our bedroom window, keeping watch as he had so many times before.
I lay stiffly against you. My body shook the mattress. Your small, warm feet pedalled my leg as you made sure of me, even in your sleep.
I stroked your hair and managed to whisper: ‘It’s alright, Gracie. It’s alright.’
Fifty-Three
I woke early the next morning and lay, groping my way to consciousness, my eyes trying to focus on the blank spread of the ceiling.
As I hung, for a moment, between sleep and waking, life still seemed normal. Then the memory of the day before, of Matt and his mother and his unspeakable lies, came crashing in like a tidal wave, knocking the air from my chest. I felt sick. I lifted my head from the pillow, twisted to see you. You lay curled on your side, your breaths puffing through parted lips, deep in sleep.
I peered past you to the bedside clock. Already seven. I slid sideways out of bed as stealthily as I could, pulled my dressing gown from the back of the door. Your hair was flung out across the sheet and I bent to smell it, then to touch my lips to your forehead.
The kitchen floor gleamed with shafts of weak morning sunlight. The wine bottle, almost empty now, sat on the table with my dirty glass. I clicked on the kettle, reached for a mug and turned back with it. Screamed. Crash. The mug, slipping from my fingers, exploded like a grenade on the hard floor. Shards and splinters skimmed in all directions.
‘Get out!’ I didn’t recognise my own voice. It was high. Scratched at the air. ‘Get the hell out. How did you—’
‘Jen.’ He rose from the settee, there in the sitting room, arms out, hands extended as if he were calming a storm. ‘Please.’
I put a hand out and grasped the edge of the sink.
‘Any nearer, I’ll call the police.’
‘Really?’ He shook his head. ‘Don’t be like that, Jen. Please. Hear me out.’
I pulled the folds of my dressing gown more firmly round my body, tightened the cord.
He blinked, his eyes heavy and red-rimmed. ‘Let’s talk, Jen. Work it out. Can’t we do that?’ His tone was wheedling. ‘Please, darling. I love you. What else can I say? We’re good together.’
I narrowed my eyes and looked past him to the sitting room windows. The curtain on the right hung crookedly and the lining billowed as a breeze stirred it.
‘Forget about Richard. He and Ella – they aren’t like us, Jen. They don’t love deeply and forever. Not like we do.’
Beyond, out in the street, a car passed. The noise was too loud, too clear. The window was open. He’d forced it, lifted the sash high enough to climb in.
‘What do you want?’
The kettle burbled, shuddered on its stand as it began to boil.
‘I just want to talk. That’s all.’
He came slowly towards me, his arms outstretched, his face pleading, crossing the threshold into the kitchen.
‘Don’t.’ I flinched.
‘For heaven’s sake.’ He stopped and stood there, running his hand through his hair. His skin was grey.
He must have sat down here all night. All the time I was holding you close upstairs, imagining I was keeping you safe, he was here, in our home. He could have come into the bedroom in the darkness. I started. Perhaps he had.
‘I won’t touch you, if you don’t want me to. OK? Jen, please. Don’t do this.’
As he advanced further into the kitchen, I took a step backwards and bumped up against the worktop.
He shuddered. ‘This is ridiculous. Alright, I’ve got some explaining to do. Hands up. I admit it. But I’m the same person, Jen. I’m no different.’ He hesitated, his face tense. ‘I love you so much. You know that. And deep down, you know you feel the same about me.’
He pointed me to a chair. I sat on the far side of the table, putting a barrier between us. The kettle boiled and he took down mugs, made tea. His hands, usually so capable, shook as he poured the water onto the tea bags. I thought about his mother and her teapot, her strainer and knitted tea cosy. I opened my mouth to say something about her and where he really lived, then, uncertain, closed it again.
We sat opposite each other. He hunched forward over his cup, his chin moistened by rising steam. I stared at him, taking in the curve of his cheek, his jaw. I was seized by a strange sense of nothingness, of floating unanchored between two worlds, between reality and illusion. I knew this man, knew him intimately. And yet I didn’t know him at all. All the times. All the times we’d sat at this table, dined on food he’d cooked. Talked through his difficult cases, the small children struggling against infections, against diseases. It was all lies.
‘A doctor.’ I couldn’t stop myself. ‘Why did you say that?’
‘I’m almost a doctor. Alright, not a paediatrician, not at the hospital. I shouldn’t have pretended. I just thought, well, would you have bothered with me if I’d told the truth.’
‘All that stuff about seeing us in the street, wanting to know if we were OK—’
; ‘I did want to know. I was concerned.’
‘You followed me for weeks. Took photographs of me. Why? You didn’t know anything about me.’
‘Of course I did. I heard what happened. What Ella did to you. Her mother and mine still talk.’ He spread his hands. ‘We’re two of a kind, you and I. She hurt me, just like she hurt you. I admit, that’s what it was about, in the beginning. I wanted to use you to get to her.’ He shrugged, smiled. ‘Then we fell in love. We couldn’t help ourselves. I know you love me too, Jen. Don’t fight it.’
I stared at him. ‘Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you say she was your ex? All that stuff about a mysterious girlfriend who took your daughter from you.’
He looked at me, his face calm now. ‘She did.’
‘Matt, I know what happened. She was stillborn, your baby. I’m sorry. That’s awful. But you can’t blame Ella for that.’ I paused, remembering. ‘You encouraged me to think she killed her own baby!’
He shrugged. ‘She did, in a way.’
I thought of Catherine, her tiny eyes closed, lying in Ella’s arms.
‘How can you even say that?’
‘You really want to know?’
I looked down into my cup and the tea swirling there. ‘Not really.’
‘She was reckless. Wild. I liked it when I met her. But then she had a baby to think of, our baby. I told her to calm down, to be careful. She just laughed in my face. I couldn’t bear it. That poor little girl. She was my daughter and I couldn’t protect her.’ He paused, ran his hand down his cheek. ‘Ella fell, you see. In Torcello. We had a fight about her going up that tower and she wouldn’t listen. It was her fault. Her fault our baby died.’
I blinked, thinking of the winding stone slope, the giggling up ahead as I climbed.
‘I don’t believe you.’
He lifted his head, looked me in the eye. ‘That’s up to you.’
‘Why did you take me there?’
