by Lulu Taylor
‘Cheska,’ he whispers.
‘I love you,’ she says meekly. ‘Always.’
He lifts her face to look at her. ‘Cheska, I’m half in love with you too, you know that.’
Her soul wells up with hope. ‘Really?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then we can be together?’
‘Of course we can. Yes.’ He sounds firm, determined. ‘We will.’ He bends to kiss her again. ‘Why the hell not?’
She falls back into his arms, more hungry for him than before.
Chapter Thirty
When Dan drives Olivia to the station first thing in the morning, Francesca feels a sense of calm mixed with a need to prepare for what she feels will be an important occasion. She is looking forward to spending the day without Olivia, relishing the opportunity to experience what it is like for the four of them to be alone together. It will help her understand what must be done.
Dan has had it his way all these years. I did what he wanted. Now he has to do what I want.
She is not entirely sure what that is. She had decided it was sending Olivia away but now she is not so certain. Besides, it would not be easy. Olivia is bound to kick up a fuss about that. So there has to be some other way of establishing her rights over the children, allowing her to share them somehow.
Perhaps I should tell her. Explain. Maybe she wouldn’t mind my sharing, once she knows the truth.
While she ponders this, she spends a happy morning with the twins, playing with them in the garden and inside on the play mat. She is expecting Dan at any minute but he doesn’t come back for ages and she starts to suspect that he has gone into town to do some shopping or have a coffee somewhere. Perhaps he’s trying to avoid me. I wouldn’t be surprised.
The long-buried feelings of hurt are beginning to rise to the surface. She has spent nearly a lifetime keeping them hidden, but they are bubbling up without her even really wanting them to. Flashes of the past start coming into her head, reminding her of what she gave him and what he took.
I let him forget it. I never punished him for it. And then, when he needed me, I was there for him. I helped him.
She doesn’t remind herself that she was the one who made the suggestion, and who pressed her offer on him even when he seemed reluctant, precisely so that she might finally regain some power over him. She doesn’t want to think about that, and she won’t think about that.
Instead she tells herself again that he has had it all his own way for too long. Then she looks at the children with glee. But not anymore. Now there are the twins. He can’t make me erase them. He can’t rub them out. He can’t make me pretend they never happened.
When her phone rings mid-morning, Francesca thinks it must be Dan calling to say where he is but she doesn’t recognise the number. Instead, she hears the voice of the builder she has hired to demolish the old pool.
‘Mrs Huxtable? It’s Terry Ellis here. I just wanted to let you know that we’re on site. We’re getting ready to start the demolition work. I wondered if you’d like to come round and take a look before we begin.’
‘Well . . .’ She looks over at the twins, who are playing with the train set she has put together for them. It will do them good to get a little air. ‘Yes. Yes. I’ll come round. Give me twenty minutes.’
By the time she has the twins dressed and in their jackets, and has given them a snack – she didn’t mean to but she can’t resist their smiling pleas for biscuits and rice cakes – it is more like forty minutes before they are walking down the broad avenue at the back of the house.
The children get excited as they approach the avenue and start shouting about rabbits and cats and owls but Francesca can’t see what they mean, and anyway she is in a hurry to get to the building site and have a look at what Mr Ellis is up to. They finally round the eastern wing, which really is a horrible sixties mess in Francesca’s opinion, and can’t be gone soon enough. She can see the bulldozers brought on site by large trucks, and men in hard hats walking about, taking measurements and staring up at the building, talking in earnest voices about what needs to be done.
As she nears them, a man leaves the others and walks towards her, holding out his hand. ‘Morning, Mrs Huxtable. Glad to see you. As you can see, we’re getting ready to make a start.’
‘Morning, Mr Ellis.’ She smiles politely, and lets go of Stan’s hand to take the builder’s and shake it. ‘How long until you can start knocking it down?’
He turns to observe the brick building that houses the old pool and gymnasium. ‘We’ve got some surveying to do yet, but it won’t be long. The boys are looking forward to it. They always enjoy a bit of demolition. The walls and ceiling will come down pretty quick, and then we’re basically carting away debris. As we get on with that, we’ll start digging out the old tiles from the pool itself. Then we’re ready to start anew at about the same time. I’ve got the plans if you want to have a look.’
‘No, that’s all right. I don’t want to hold you up,’ she says. Bea is straining at her hand, trying to get away. ‘What are you doing, Bea? Stop pulling like that.’
‘Then we’ll get on,’ Mr Ellis says. ‘Are you stopping around for the knocking down? It won’t be too long now.’
‘Oh no. I’d like to, but it’s a little dangerous with the children.’ She looks about for Stan, whose hand she was holding a moment ago. ‘Stan?’
‘You had two, did you?’ Mr Ellis says. He looks about as well. ‘Where’s he gone?’
A nasty sick fear churns through Francesca. She looks about for the bright pink jacket that Stan wears, but she can’t see it. ‘He was here a second ago.’ She calls out, ‘Stan! Stan!’ There’s no answer and he’s nowhere to be seen. ‘Stan, where are you?’ Panic is rising in her voice. She’s suddenly aware of the enormous number of dangers in the immediate vicinity, from the huge bulldozers lumbering slowly but crushingly over the churned-up soil to the piles of tools and the open doors that lead into the abandoned building. If Stan has wandered into the house, he could be lost forever.
‘Oh my God,’ she says, real fright in her voice now. She is shaking, her heart pounding so violently it threatens to prevent her from speaking.
‘We’d better find the little fellow,’ the builder says grimly. ‘Hold on to that one, will you?’ With a shake of his head, he adds, ‘Small kids, the bane of my life on a building site. Why do people bring them?’ He strides off, calling to his men, alerting them to Stan’s absence.
Francesca picks up Bea and holds her wriggling body close. ‘Come on,’ she says breathlessly, looking wildly about. ‘We have to find Stan.’
The builders are passing on the news of the missing boy to one another and beginning to search the site. But what if he’s not there at all? What if he’s wandered further off? There are so many places he could be. An image erupts in her mind. The pond in the rose garden. She sees the little figure leaning out to touch the surface of the water and toppling in. At once, she starts off along the long walk behind the house, in the direction of the rose garden. Bea jolts in her arms, too surprised by the sudden movement to do more than cling on to Francesca and whimper.
As she races along the walk, past the topiary, she is frantic with panic, nauseous with the thought of having to tell Dan and Olivia that she has lost Stan. She longs to see his little figure with such ferocity that it feels as though she can will him back. But the seconds tick past and there’s no sign of him.
How far can he have got? He was only out of my sight for a moment. She sends up a prayer. Please, please, let me find him . . . All she knows is that she has to reach the pond as soon as possible. The thought of the little body floating in the dark water drives her on.
I can’t lose him . . . not my boy . . . my baby . . . I can’t lose my baby . . .
Bea has had enough of the wild run and starts to struggle in Francesca’s arms. ‘Down, down!’ she cries and tips herself over so that she can fall from Francesca’s arms.
Francesca tries to hold
her firm, forced to slow her pace. ‘Stop it, stop it, you’ll fall! We have to look for Stan!’ She struggles with the child but Bea doesn’t care about Stan or about what Francesca wants. She only wants to pursue her own desires, no matter what. She pushes herself further out of Francesca’s arms, not seeming to mind that she will plummet to the ground and hurt herself. Francesca is full of anger, frightened and frustrated, desperate to get to the pond. There are only seconds in which to act if Stan has fallen in. But she has to stop, clutching on to the little girl as she twists and writhes, trying to slip free.
‘Bea!’ she yells. ‘Stop it! Don’t you understand? Stop doing that!’ With her free hand, she strikes the little girl across her cheek. The blow is sharp rather than hard, but Bea gasps and is still, then pulls in a huge breath and begins to cry, her palm over the place where Francesca has hit her. At once, Francesca is mortified, appalled at herself. ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Bea.’ She tries to kiss the child, who turns away sobbing.
‘Mummy, Mummy!’ Bea says through her tears. ‘I want Mummy.’
‘I’m your mummy!’ Francesca says, pleading. ‘I didn’t mean to get angry. I’m scared about Stan.’ Her own eyes are full of tears; she’s about to start sobbing too. ‘I’m your mummy!’
‘No, no.’ Bea twists to get away from her. ‘I want Mummy. I want Mummy!’ She starts to howl in earnest, and Francesca begins to cry as well, in fright and despair and remorse.
What am I doing? I don’t want to hurt them!
‘Put the girl down.’ The order comes in a rough, accented voice that’s cracked with age but full of command.
Francesca looks up, her vision blurred with tears. The old man, the gardener, is striding towards her. ‘I’ve lost the boy,’ she manages to say through Bea’s wails.
‘That’s no excuse,’ he answers harshly, ‘for hitting a child like that. What were you thinking? Put her down.’
Francesca obeys meekly, letting Bea down gently where, now she has her way, the little girl clings to her legs, her wails subsiding into whimpering sobs. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt her, but she was struggling, she was going to fall. I need to find Stan.’
‘What would she say? Their mother? If she could see this now, what you’re doing with her children?’ The old man fixes her with his faded but intense stare. His mouth, wide and surrounded by the deep lines of age, is tight with disapproval. ‘Children are precious. Easily hurt. Easily lost.’
Francesca is ashamed that he should see her like this, tearful and afraid, humiliated. But she also needs him. ‘Will you help me find Stan?’
William says roughly, ‘I’ll do it for her, not for you. And on one condition. You keep those little ones away from that pool, do you understand? As far away as you can.’
‘Yes, yes, I understand.’ She sniffs, her panic still swirling through her body. Without Stan, nothing can be right. ‘But please, the pond . . .’
‘He’s not there.’ The old man turns on his heel and heads back along the walk, his old tweed jacket flapping around him. ‘I think I know where we’ll find him.’
She follows, picking up Bea, who doesn’t resist. The little girl has stopped crying, the mark on her cheek has faded and she seems to have forgotten the slap. She holds tight to Francesca, her fingers digging hard into her skin. Francesca is still afraid but she is also grateful that there is someone else to share this awful burden with, and hope springs up that the old man is right and Stan is nowhere near the pond. He leads them back along the walk to the topiary hedge and begins to inspect the hollows within the carefully trimmed figures. He’s bent over almost double as he looks under the wall of green to the darkness inside, and then suddenly he darts forward and she sees a flash of pink. The next moment he is guiding Stan out into the open, his jacket bright magenta against the hedge.
‘Here he is,’ he says, his tone more gentle than she has ever heard. ‘I’ve found him.’
Relief crashes over Francesca in a huge wave. ‘Stan! Oh, thank God. Stan . . .’ She hurries towards him, Bea still in her arms. Stan has dirty streaks over his face but he gazes up at her with round eyes and says simply, ‘Wabbit.’
Francesca laughs and sniffs at the same time. ‘What do you mean?’ She bends down and picks him up, her arms full of both children but unable to put one down in case she loses them, and kisses his face. ‘Oh, Stan, you gave me a fright, such a horrid fright!’ Then she turns to the gardener, who’s observing her with an unreadable expression. ‘Thank you. Thank you so much. Thank you for helping me.’
‘I helped the children, not you. And if you ever raise a hand to either of them again, you’ll have me to deal with, understand? Just remember what I said. You’re not their mother.’ He lets his words hang in the air, and this time, she has to accept them. Everything between her and this old man has changed, and she can say nothing in reply. Something in his words chimes in her.
I’m not their mother.
‘I’ll tell the men the boy’s been found. You take them home.’ William turns and strides off down the walk.
She gently puts the children down and they trot back to the hedge, clearly fascinated by it. They’re both quiet now, docile, prepared to allow her to look after them.
They don’t love me the way they love Olivia and they never will.
She has never considered that the twins might not want her to be their mother, or that they might not care that they were grown from her eggs. She thinks about the blow across Bea’s face and knows that she never touched Fred or Olympia in such a way. And she knows, too, that if Stan had been lost, Olivia’s grief would have been the darker and more desperate.
He’s right. I’m not their mother. Nothing can change that.
The realisation seems to break open inside her, spilling out a clear-sightedness that is calm and almost soothing. Her plan to displace Olivia and take the twins for herself appears almost fantastical suddenly, a strange, delirious dream imagined under the influence of something hallucinogenic.
That’s not the answer. That’s not what I really want. But what is?
Francesca knows she has to take the children home, where they belong. She goes to the twins, takes a pudgy hand in each of hers and starts to lead them back towards the cottage.
When she gets back to the house, Dan has returned and he comes out to greet them with an air of anxiety. ‘You’re back. Is everything okay?’
‘Everything’s fine,’ she says, outwardly calm now. ‘We just went to see the builders, that’s all.’
‘Really? The builders are here?’ He puts his arms out to the children, who come running. With a trace of irony in his voice, he adds, ‘So something’s finally happening.’
‘What do you mean?’ she says, unable to resist pouncing on his remark, baited by his tone.
‘Come on, children, let’s go in for lunch. It’s all ready.’ The twins, chattering away, obediently take his hands and trot at his side as he says over their babble, ‘Well, you’ve been here for over a month. And absolutely nothing has happened until now. And you don’t really need to be here for the demolition either, do you?’ He speaks casually, as though he isn’t throwing down the gauntlet. Does he want to quarrel with her? She isn’t sure, but she needs to decide how to react.
She says nothing as they go inside. Dan washes the children’s hands and puts them at the table in front of the plates loaded with their lunchtime sandwiches. Perhaps she imagined that he was setting the scene for a fight. After all, he’s in no position to do so. She holds all the cards.
She watches as he goes about the usual task of feeding the twins. Whenever she tries to help, he stands between her and the children, preventing her from doing anything. She would protest if it weren’t for the heavy burden of guilt that weighs her down. She nearly lost Stan. Imagine how it could have been if she’d been responsible for harm coming to him . . . Her magical, almost divinely inspired connection to them is not infallible after all. She sits back and watches him bustle about, realising that s
he is happy to relinquish the children to him. Something in her is beginning to cut them loose and set them free.
They’re not mine. I see that now.
But she senses that Dan is spoiling for some kind of confrontation, and she knows that she is ready for it. It isn’t about the children at all. Perhaps it never was. It is about them – Francesca and Dan – and the past.
When Dan takes the children up for their nap, she puts out some things for their lunch, trying to calm herself. There is a crackle in the air, like the tension that comes with an approaching storm. As she lays the table, she thinks that this could be their one opportunity. Olivia isn’t here after all. They’re alone together.
She has a mixture of fear and excitement simmering inside her, like stage fright. But she knows she is ready. He wants to shut her up and make her go away. He wants her to let him get away with it, just as he’s got away with everything in the past.
If that’s what he wants, he’s in for a surprise.
After twenty minutes, Dan returns and wordlessly sits down to eat the soup she has put out for him. She feels something inside her harden at his hostility.
So he is going to take me on. All right then. Let’s see what happens.
Dan pushes his empty soup bowl away and takes a breath, his brow furrowed and his mouth unsmiling. He says slowly, ‘I think you know that there’s a situation here, Cheska. I’ve given it a few days to settle since we spoke the other night and it comes down to this. Either you leave, or we do. This can’t go on.’
‘Why not?’ she asks lightly but she has a prickle of half-excited apprehension on her palms.
He leans towards her across the table. ‘Cheska, you know it can’t. That thing you said, about how we’re a family. It’s not true.’
‘Yes it is. You know it is.’
‘No.’ He speaks slowly, as though this will somehow convince her more thoroughly of his point of view. ‘You and Walt and Freddie and Olympia. You’re a family. You should be with them, not with us.’
The names echo in her ears. It seems an age since she has thought about them with any kind of intensity. Their images flicker through her mind like the contents of an old photograph album. Why has it been so long? I miss them. She feels a sudden yearning for her children.
