by Lucy Lawrie
‘James . . .’
His eyes opened, blank and empty. With one hand, he pushed me back down onto the bed. Lying there, my collarbone pressed under the flat of his hand, I thought of the grey, formaldehyde-drowned frog Mrs White had dissected in biology, its legs crooked and pinned to the sides, its cloudy eyes. I remembered how I’d cried for it that day.
The room started to spin, spinning off my thoughts, so that I became nothing, nothing more than the pale ceiling above me, the sound of the headboard thumping against the wall, the waiting for it to stop. And then – because it didn’t matter any more – the sound of my own sobs.
Finally, he shuddered and collapsed on top of me. I felt him pulse inside me before he pulled out and rolled onto his back. I lay there, frog legs trembling, and pulled the pillow over myself.
‘Yeuch.’ He stared at his hand, then wiped it on the yellow blanket, leaving a smear as red as paint. ‘Blood.’
I couldn’t say anything. My jaw was shaking. I closed my hand around it, held it over my mouth.
What was going to happen now? Was he going to shout at me, for getting blood everywhere? Or hold me, kiss me again, invite me for Christmas lunch? Which James was he going to be, now that we’d done this thing? Which Janey was I supposed to be? It seemed, in that moment, impossible that I could be any kind of Janey, ever again.
A voice came from outside the room. ‘James! Where the fuck are you, mate?’
‘Gaz,’ he said, as if to himself. He reached for his trousers and yanked them on, the change in his pockets jingling as he stood up. ‘There in a sec!’ he shouted.
‘We’re out of fucking beer, you twat.’
‘Hang on,’ he called, fumbling with his zip, pulling on his Doc Martens. He moved towards the door, then turned around briefly, casting his eyes over the room, the bed, me. Then he left, slamming the door shut behind him.
*
‘No,’ whispered Steve. ‘Oh God.’ He was holding his face in his hands, against knees that were pulled up in front of him. I saw that one of his shoes had come undone, the end of one white lace muddy where he’d stood on it.
‘I didn’t say no.’
He lifted his head, dragging the hands down his face, skin taut between the splayed fingers.
‘Jesus Christ, Janey. You were fourteen. You were off your face from drinking spirits for the first time. You were clearly distressed. Nothing you said or did – or didn’t say – could’ve amounted to consent.’ He spat out the words, enunciating each one with vicious clarity.
‘Yes. But if . . .’
So many ifs. If I’d actually said no. If I’d pushed him off more forcefully. If I’d stayed downstairs in the kitchen. If I hadn’t drunk so much.
‘Look at me. Look at me, Janey.’
I managed to for a second. His eyes looked red and sore.
‘He treated you like you were nothing.’
I exhaled, trying to let his anger ignite inside me, to let it touch that cold grey nothing. Then shrugged, and said quietly, ‘It was a long time ago. But there’s—’
A thin cry emanated from Pip’s room. Silence. And then another, more insistent.
Go back to sleep. Back to sleep, baby.
‘Mama! Mama!’
‘Look, I’m sorry. You’d better go,’ I said.
He stood up. ‘I can’t leave you.’
‘I need to see to Pip. He’s always out of sorts when he wakes up after his nap. He might get upset to find you here.’
‘Will be you be okay?’
I nodded.
He put both hands on my shoulders and looked me straight in the eye. It was like an arrow hitting home. ‘I’m glad you told me. I’ll call you later, okay?’
Hattie
I should have listened to you. I know that. I should have stood there and listened to you telling me about James, and whatever it is he did.
Did to you. Because at fourteen, you were only a child.
I was aware, in a dull sort of way, that it would mean letting go of James. I mean the old James. The skinny boy in Superman pyjamas who used to read his Asterix comics to me when I couldn’t sleep. Who sometimes let me sleep in his room, with his Peter and the Wolf tape playing at volume ten, when Mum and Dad were shouting at each other downstairs.
And maybe it would mean letting go of you too, the Janey I took with me when I left: giggling in biology, limping and mutinous in cross-country, sitting in my kitchen solemnly painting vinegar onto the ends of my hair, because you were worried I’d get a hairball and die, like Amadeus.
But it wasn’t just that, I found that the person I’ve become couldn’t listen. The nail polish, the perfect skin, the designer labels, the relentless common-sense attitude; it all started to slip and slide, like a cheap painting left in the rain.
And the person I’ve become couldn’t stay to see what I saw. Not just you, standing there in front of me, with your arms crossed over yourself and your sleeves pulled over your hands. But blood, pooling on the tiles beneath you. Dripping off your hands and sliding down your legs.
And I could barely hear the sound of my own voice, let alone yours, over the sound of the crying.
I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.
I’m sorry for whatever happened. For whatever’s coming.
Sorry for it all.
32
Janey
Had it been the right thing, I wondered, to mention Pip’s nursery parents’ evening to Murray? I sighed as I surveyed the new ‘My Family’ artwork display in the nursery corridor: gloopy humanoids whose legs were fixed straight onto their heads, and a few monstrous-looking cats or dogs.
Pip’s painting was a single blue line, bold at one end, scratchy and thin at the other where the brush had run out of paint.
What did it mean, I wondered? What had he been thinking? As though in response, I heard his shrill shriek emanate from the room upstairs where the special evening crèche was taking place.
He’d be exhausted by the time this was over – the crèche wasn’t an ideal solution. Hard to believe that it was only a week ago that Hattie had offered to babysit any time I wanted. But there’d been no word from her after the James conversation, until she’d texted late last night, to say there’d been a change in her plans. She was going to London for a while. One of her clinics there needed nursing back to health. Apparently Ernie had had to fire the manager. ‘I’ll be in touch next time I’m up in Edinburgh!!!’ she’d written, as though the use of exclamation marks might soften the blow, the implication that she’d gone for good.
I placed a hand against the wall and leaned there for a moment, trying to draw some kind of obscure strength from Pip’s blue line.
The front door opened and in came Murray, with – what? – Gretel in tow. I gave him a hard stare, which he ignored.
‘Oh, hi,’ said Gretel, as though vaguely surprised to find me there. ‘The traffic was terrible. There were roadworks on the Mound so we had to double back and cut round the back of John Lewis, but then York Place was closed westbound. So we had to go down Broughton Street but it took forever. They’ve still got part of it coned off. And then I remembered I had to get lemongrass for the green Thai curry tonight – Murray doesn’t like the red, it goes for his stomach – so we stopped at the little organic shop at the bottom of the hill. They didn’t have any. Useless shop. So we’ll need to go to Tesco on the way home. And then it was impossible to park. So we’ve left Trixie to park the car.’
I gave a nervous laugh, picturing Trixie working the clutch with an extended hind leg, checking the mirrors with earnest doggy eyes as she reversed into a narrow New Town parking space.
Behind them, the heavy red front door opened an inch or two and then swung back: someone was struggling to get in. Gretel stepped back on one six-inch acid green heel and watched. Murray, whose eyes had glazed over during Gretel’s monologue, sprang to the door to admit a stooped, wizened old woman in a long black coat with silver buttons.
‘Ah,’ said M
urray. ‘Janey, meet Trixie, er, Gretel’s mother.’
Perfect.
‘Oh, hello!’ I said, overcompensating. ‘Pleased to meet you. How nice. What a good turnout.’
A good turnout? Idiot, Janey.
‘Why is Gretel’s mother called Trixie?’ I demanded of Murray in hushed tones, as the two women inspected the artwork display.
‘Why shouldn’t she be called Trixie?’
‘It doesn’t sound very German. I thought she was called Mutti.’
‘Mutti just means “mum” in German. And Trixie is short for Beatrix.’
‘Doesn’t sound very German either.’
He shook his head, his face screwed in impatience. ‘I don’t know, Janey. Gretel’s granny was English. Maybe she was into Beatrix Potter or something. What does it matter if her name’s Trixie?’
Because I sent the woman a jar of bone-shaped dog biscuits.
And asked if she’d been fully vaccinated.
‘Why did you say your house had a “lovely garden for Trixie”?’
‘Because she lives in a retirement flat. I’m failing to see the issue here, Janey. Get to the point, if there is one.’
I cleared my throat.
‘You should have told me you wanted to bring them tonight. It’s a parents’ evening, “parent” being the operative word. And what about the puppy, anyway? Where’s he?’
‘Bingo? He’s asleep in his cage at home. Why the effing hell do you care?’
It could’ve tipped into a full-scale row, but just then Mrs Paxton came out of the Rainbow Room and ushered us in.
Having to sit on a tiny blue plastic chair seemed to calm Murray, or at least take the wind out of his sails. There were yellow ones for me and Mrs Paxton, and red for Gretel, who’d somehow managed to fold her legs gracefully to the side. She’d taken off her jacket to reveal a shift dress in a leafy pattern reminiscent of Miss Fortune’s infamous green-and-olive number. I caught the eye of Trixie/Mutti, who was standing, hovering on Gretel’s other side, and she looked away quickly.
‘Pip is getting on so well,’ began Mrs Paxton. ‘A pleasure to have in the class.’
Murray nodded and made murmuring, appreciative noises, and Gretel flashed one of her girlish smiles at him. I was sitting close to her, one of her bare, tanned, slightly heavy arms just inches away from mine. I could smell her perfume and, underlying that, the faint, sherbet scent of deodorant.
It was amazing, the way she occupied her space in the room, the very opposite to invisible. She exuded the same air of entitlement, the ‘nothing can go wrong’ confidence that she had on the Thomas train.
‘He seems very happy here,’ I said with a tentative smile. Maybe there was no reason to be tense. Everyone was here because they wanted the best for Pip.
But Gretel turned to Murray. ‘You said you were going to ask about his delusions.’
‘Oh, er . . .’ As Murray looked to Mrs Paxton for help, Gretel glanced back at me with a tiny triumphant twist of her mouth.
And here was the catch, of course, with her ‘nothing can go wrong’, golden-girl aura. My world could crumble around me, I could end up as a lunatic in a secure facility and lose Pip forever, and in Gretel’s book, nothing would have gone wrong . . .
Mrs Paxton smiled wide enough to display two gold-capped molars, and screwed up her eyes to make it look like it was heartfelt.
‘I take it you’re referring to Pip’s rich imaginative life? I want to reassure you that this isn’t anything to be concerned about. His imaginary friend, this Dend, is nothing to worry about. In fact, we’ve all rather got used to having Dend around!’
So Dend had followed Pip to nursery. I began to feel sick.
‘Is Dend much in evidence at home, Miss Johnston?’
‘A bit.’ I cast my mind back. ‘But I’m not so sure it’s a specific thing. “Dend” is just his word for friend.’
‘Does he have any friends?’ asked Gretel.
‘Pip is a little shy,’ conceded Mrs Paxton brightly. ‘But this is entirely normal at his stage of development. He is learning to socialise with his peers. That is a big part of his learning journey.’
‘So. No friends?’ said Gretel.
‘At this stage he plays mostly by himself . . .’
My heart contracted in pain. Pip sitting in the corner, or gazing at the window waiting for home time.
‘But he does join in group activities when he’s in the mood,’ she went on. ‘He likes music sessions, in particular. Although there has been some conflict over instruments. Dend always insists on having the tambourine,’ she added with a delicate grimace. ‘There’s only one, and it is rather sought after.’
Murray shifted in his chair, clearly itching to offer funding for more tambourines.
‘Just one more thing,’ said Mrs Paxton. ‘I’d like to make sure we have a joined-up approach to Pip’s eating issues. I wanted to check, have you sought any advice about it? From health professionals, a nutritionist, anything like that?’
‘Dr Polson told me not to worry,’ I said. ‘As long as he is eating something. And his milk is full of nutrients. He said the worst thing I could do was make a fuss.’
‘Chuh!’ This noise came from Gretel. ‘That’s because his NHS budget won’t stretch to a proper referral. Murray, we’ll organise something, yah? Get it fast tracked?’
For God’s sake. I worried about Pip’s eating. Of course I did. But he was doing okay, couldn’t Gretel see that? His heart was beating, his lungs were breathing, his cheeks were pink. He could talk, and play, and run in the bright open air of the park, and laugh himself into a giggling heap over the slightest of reasons. He could open his eyes to look at me, and his mouth to tell me he loved me, and these things were all miracles.
Gretel didn’t know what it took to keep a little life going, day after day, week after week, all the worry, and coaxing, and hoping. And the pleading with fate, in the darkest hours of the night, that no disasters would happen.
She had no idea.
I felt my fists tighten. Actually no, just my left fist. I released it and it tightened again.
Oh God. No!
My left hand reached over, grabbed the back of Gretel’s chair and shoved. There was a loud crack as the plastic parted company from the metal legs, tipping Gretel to the side, then a flash of lime green as one of her heels flew into the air.
*
They insisted on coming back to the flat, the full delegation: Murray, Gretel and Trixie/Mutti.
I showed them into the sitting room, and took Pip off to his room to play with his trains. No way did I want him to hear this conversation. It took me a good minute and a half to prise him off me.
‘Missed you, Mama,’ he kept saying.
‘Missed you, too.’ Oh God, my nose was running. I was about to cry all over him. ‘Now, see if you can make a nursery school for your trains, and I’ll be back in a few minutes with your milky and a jam sandwich. Deal?’
Back in the sitting room, I tried to appease Gretel once again. She stood, side by side with Murray, in front of the bay window. Mutti was perched on the piano stool, looking as though she’d quite like to leave.
‘I’m so sorry. I saw that the chair was about to break and I put out a hand to try and stop you falling.’
‘You shoved me,’ said Gretel calmly. She wasn’t hurt: she’d landed in the story corner, and a large Winnie the Pooh had broken her fall.
‘I don’t know what to say. I’m sorry if it seemed like that. I misjudged the distance, or something.’
Murray sighed. ‘I’ll get to the point, Janey. Our lawyer says you haven’t responded to either of the letters he’s sent to you.’
‘Well,’ I said. ‘You’re having Pip stay over one night every fortnight, which is what you wanted. I assumed you’d have told me yourself if there were any issues.’
‘We want to formalise the access arrangements,’ Gretel cut in. ‘Murray told you that already. We’ve some concerns about Pip, and we
think it would be more balanced for him to spend more time with us. Say . . .’ She glanced heavenwards and shrugged, pretending to search for inspiration. ‘Friday to Sunday, three times a month.’
Murray turned around and faced the window. It had begun raining heavily.
‘Balanced, how?’ My voice sounded tiny in the room.
‘Well, rather than spending most of his time with just one person he’d be—’
‘No,’ I said. ‘He’s only two. He would hate to be apart from me.’
‘That’s the problem,’ said Gretel. ‘He’s too attached to you, your relationship is too exclusive.’
‘He’s two,’ I repeated.
‘As Murray says, we have a number of concerns,’ went on Gretel, leaning into the words as though she was enjoying this. ‘The parents’ evening confirmed what we suspected: that Pip is introverted to the point of being reclusive.’
‘Er, Gretel . . .’ said Murray, shifting round to face us. It was quite astonishing, if you really stopped to notice. In the presence of Gretel, he lost his square stance, the deeper tones in his voice.
She flicked her hand to silence him. ‘Then there’s the eating thing. And he’s having these delusions about invisible friends which are, to be quite honest, alarming. And then there’s you.’
‘What about me?’
‘Pushing me off chairs. Calling Murray away from work because of some issue concerning a missing glove. I would say it’s your own wardrobe you should be worrying about.’ She looked me up and down.
‘Okay, Gretel,’ said Murray. ‘Lets leave the personal stuff aside. Janey, I’m sure you could do with a break from one week to the next. Pip’s wonderful, but he’s a full-time job. We’re here, and we’d like to be involved.’
‘But you two work all the time,’ I said, struggling to keep my voice steady. ‘Even at weekends. How would you manage it? You’d have one foot in the office the whole time.’
‘That’s where Mutti comes in,’ she said. ‘She has agreed to care for Pip when Murray and I have to work.’
