The Flight of Cornelia Blackwood

by Susan Elliot Wright

  Cass’s face softens. ‘Oh God, yes, of course. I’m sorry.’

  ‘It’s more than fifteen months now.’ I feel the familiar stab of grief, tempered only slightly by the knowledge that at least I have Ollie. ‘A lot of the time it feels longer ago than that, but sometimes it still feels raw, like it’s only just happened.’

  Cass nods. ‘My David died five and a half years ago, and sometimes I still wake up wondering how I’m going to carry on without him.’ For a moment, it looks like she’s about to cry, but then she smiles and says, ‘Not so much since I’ve known Luke, but it still happens now and then.’ She sounds more like her usual self now. ‘The first couple of Christmases are shit. Did you say you’re going to your father-in-law’s?’

  ‘Yes, Christmas dinner with Paul and Helen. I’ll probably stay with them for the afternoon, but it’ll be low-key. We weren’t that big on Christmas anyway, not after . . . Well, with no kids and such a small family, it was never a huge celebration. I’ll probably have a brandy and a mince pie on Christmas Eve – after you’ve picked Ollie up, of course. Where is it you’re going again?’

  But Cassie’s face changes and her eyes flicker down to the table. ‘We’re . . . um . . . we’re supposed to be going out with some of Luke’s mates for a drink, maybe a bite to eat. I’m not that bothered about it, really.’

  ‘Oh, I thought you were looking forward to it?’ She asked me weeks ago if I’d babysit on Christmas Eve, and hadn’t she said it was a proper night out? Definitely more than a drink and a bite to eat. ‘I thought you were going to an Italian restaurant – carols by candlelight after the meal, and all that?’

  She shrugs and looks away. ‘I don’t think they could get the booking. I’m not too fussed. There’s so much to do on Christmas Eve, isn’t there? I might not go. I’ll see. Whatever happens, I’ll let you know in plenty of time. I’d better crack on. See you later.’

  I watch her walk back behind the counter. Have I said something to upset her? I rack my brains, but can’t think of anything to explain this . . . not coolness, exactly, but . . . distance. That’s it. Cass is unusually distant. I pick up the next essay and try to read it, but I’m three pages in when I realise I haven’t taken in a word. It’s no good, I can’t concentrate. I gather up my things, call ‘See you soon’ to Cass and head out into the cold.

  The pasta ready meal is mediocre at best, and I can’t really be bothered to finish it, so I scrape the remains into the bin and pour a glass of wine before pulling the pile of Katherine Mansfield essays out of my bag. I’m halfway through marking the third one when my phone rings. Cass. ‘Hi Cass, what’s up?’

  ‘Hi Leah. I . . . er . . . I thought I’d give you a quick call now, rather than leave it until the last minute.’

  ‘Oh yes? Leave what until the last minute?’

  ‘You know when I saw you today? How I was saying about that Christmas Eve thing with Luke’s mates? Well, I don’t think I’m going to go, so thanks for agreeing to do it, but we won’t need you for babysitting after all.’

  There’s a thudding sensation inside me, like a heavy weight falling from my chest down into the pit of my belly. I open my mouth to speak but my voice catches and tears spring to my eyes. I swallow. ‘Oh,’ I say after a moment. ‘I don’t have any other plans, so no need to decide now. You can—’

  ‘No. Thanks, but I’m definitely not going. Luke’s parents are coming for Christmas dinner, and I’ve got shitloads to do, so—’

  ‘But when am I going to see Ollie?’ I blurt it. I sound desperate, if I’m honest. ‘I mean, if you’re not coming on Friday and I’m not babysitting after all, when can I give him his present?’ My voice sounds higher than usual.

  There’s a pause before Cassie answers. ‘I expect we’ll see you before Christmas.’

  ‘But it’s only a few days away.’

  Another pause. ‘We’ll sort something out. Well, I’d better get on. Talk soon. Bye.’

  And she rings off.

  Ollie’s presents – a remote-control car, some Lego and a big hinged wooden case full of art materials – are all waiting under the tree. I was going to give them to him on Christmas Eve – one when he arrived, the next one after dinner and the last one later in the evening when he’d be getting bored. I made a point of checking with Cass that it was okay, and she said he was bound to have loads on Christmas Day, so having one present – I haven’t told her there are three – on Christmas Eve was fine. I imagine Ollie in his little red PJs – the plan was for me to get him ready for bed here, then he could stay up as long as he liked in the hope that he’d be good and sleepy by the time they picked him up, and if he went to sleep in the car, they’d just lift him in and straight to bed when they got him home. I’ve been looking forward to a magical Christmas Eve ever since Cass asked me. I’d planned to give Ollie hot chocolate, watch something Christmassy on telly. My throat tightens as tears threaten again. I really must get a grip on myself. It isn’t as though I won’t see him at all. Cass knows I want to give him his presents before Christmas; she said she’d sort something out.

  Tomorrow is Christmas Eve, and I still haven’t heard from Cass. I pick up my phone a couple of times, but stop myself from calling. Something’s wrong, and I can’t work out what it is. Maybe I was being too full on with Ollie; I shouldn’t have let on how upset I was when she cancelled the babysitting. Although thinking about it, I’m fairly sure this coolness started before that. It flashes through my mind to come clean about who I am so Cass’ll understand why Ollie is so important to me, but there’s every chance it would freak her out completely. I go into the kitchen to make coffee, but I’m too agitated to sit still and drink it, so I pace up and down the kitchen, wishing for the first time in months that I had some cigarettes. I can’t pace for long with Spider rubbing round my legs, and anyway, it’ll make my back hurt. Perhaps I should just put the gifts in the car and drive round there. There would be nothing wrong with that, would there? But what if they’re out? Worse, what if they’re there but don’t invite me to stay? They could just be on their way out, or . . . ‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ I say aloud and reach for my phone. ‘Cass, it’s me. I was just wondering when I could see you. I’d like to give Ollie his present, and I’ve got a little something for you and Luke. Perhaps—’

  ‘Oh, that’s sweet of you, Leah, but I’m not sure when we’re going to be able to get together. It’s all a bit mad here at the moment.’

  ‘But . . . do you mean I won’t be able to . . . I mean, I know you’re busy, but . . .’

  ‘Look, I’m sorry, Leah.’ There’s a pause. ‘I can’t really think straight right now. Things are a bit hectic, you know? I’ll be in touch after Christmas, okay?’

  The following morning, Christmas Eve, I wait until half past eight, then pick up the phone and, not trusting the stability of my voice, send Cassie a text: Can’t believe I forgot 2 ask yesterday – would U 3 like to come over on Boxing Day? Proper lunch or evening drinks and nibbles? Whatever’s best 4 U. Let me know! L xx

  The reply comes just after ten. Thanks for the invite, but we’ve got some friends coming over. Have a good one! xx

  I stand looking at the message, especially the bit that says, some friends coming over. Usually Cass would say, some other friends. As in, other than you, Leah, who are also my friend. This has to be something to do with Luke, surely. Unless I’ve done or said something to upset Cass, but what? Just then, another text comes through. How about lunch here on New Year’s Day? It’ll just be something light, but we could give each other presents then.

  The relief that I’ll be able to give Ollie his presents in a week’s time almost counters the disappointment that I’ll have to wait so long. I feel bereft, robbed of the promise of a little joy this Christmas, but what choice do I have? I tap out my reply, glad that Cass can’t see the tears streaming down my face: That wd be lovely – see u then!

  So that’s that. I haven’t seen Ollie for more than two weeks, and now I have to wait anoth
er week. Spider is pressing himself against my shins, purring loudly. I pick him up, and bury my wet face in his warm fur.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  THEN

  It wasn’t even ten o’clock, but I couldn’t stop yawning. Adrian put his arms out to take her. ‘Go on,’ he said. ‘You go up. I’ll give madam her next feed so you can get some sleep.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Of course. As long as you’re okay doing the night feeds.’

  He was back at work now and he had to be up at six tomorrow, so he couldn’t be up with her half the night. ‘Thanks.’ I kissed them both goodnight and went into the kitchen for a glass of water. The steriliser, bottles and big tub of infant formula were lined up on the work surface as if they were reproaching me.

  As I brushed my teeth I caught sight of myself in the mirror. My face looked greyish and there were dark circles under my eyes. I tried to remember when I’d last washed my hair. As I undressed and pulled on my pyjamas, I thought about the pictures in the baby magazines I’d sometimes flicked through at antenatal appointments – the smiling, radiant mothers holding naked babies to their plump, full breasts. That’s what you’re supposed to be when you have a baby, isn’t it? Radiant. I laid down on our bed and sighed with relief as the softness of the duvet enfolded me. The pillow was cool against my cheek and I felt as though I was sinking, being sucked right down into the mattress, then down through the slatted base, through the floorboards, down through the sitting room below, through the cellar and down into the foundations of the house, then down, down even further into the clay soil on which the house was built. I wondered if I would ever stop sinking, or if I’d fall right through the centre of the earth and out the other side into space, into infinity.

  I woke again at midnight as Adrian was settling Harriet into the moses basket. I tried to go back to sleep, but the thoughts were going round and round in my head along with little bits of music, snatches of tunes that I couldn’t quite catch. I dozed on and off until just after two, when Harriet started to make those snuffly, pre-crying noises that meant she’d be properly awake soon. I could feel myself becoming anxious already. Adrian was so good with her, so calm. I wished I could be like that, but I was obviously doing something wrong or she wouldn’t cry so much. The moses basket moved as she kicked her legs and wriggled around before starting to cry in earnest. ‘Shush, sweetie, shush.’ I picked her up and kissed her forehead. I loved the silky texture of her skin, and I had to stop myself from stroking her cheek all the time. I still couldn’t quite believe she was really here.

  I passed the room where she’d sleep once she was in the big cot, and I climbed the stairs to the attic where we’d set up the rocking chair and a little changing station. I liked to come up here because sometimes the change in air calmed her without me having to feed her again. I sat in the rocking chair, holding the shawl around her so she didn’t get cold. I tried singing softly to her as I rocked the chair gently back and forth. ‘Rock-a-bye baby, on the tree top . . .’ She stopped crying and looked at me for a few seconds, and I thought maybe it would be okay, but then she turned her head away and started again. ‘Oh, Harriet, I wish you could tell me what’s wrong.’ Her furrowed forehead and screwed-up eyes made her look cross, impatient. ‘You’re not hungry again, are you?’

  As I said this, I felt my whole body tense up in anticipation of the pain I knew I’d feel as soon as I put her to my breast. Maybe that was why she was crying; maybe she sensed my reluctance.

  ‘All right, sweetie.’ I made a conscious effort to relax as I prepared to feed her, but she was rooting frantically, almost desperately, as if I’d been starving her. Then she found my nipple and clamped her hard mouth round it. I gritted my teeth as she twisted and pulled and stretched it like a bird pulling a worm from the earth.

  I seemed to be feeding her almost constantly. Her face was filling out and she was gaining weight, but it was as if at the same time she was draining the life out of me. I felt I was Harriet’s Picture of Dorian Gray, except that instead of ageing while my counterpart grew younger, I was fading like a photocopy of a photocopy while Harriet became stronger and sharper. Sometimes I felt as if Harriet was taking me over.

  She made contented little noises after each swallow and for a while things were peaceful, but when I moved her to the other breast, she started screaming again. I held her against my shoulder to bring up her wind and then I tried to swaddle her like Liz had shown me, but her arms were waving around too much. ‘Shush, sweetheart,’ I whispered. ‘Shush, shush, shush.’ Maybe she needed changing. I checked her nappy, but it was still clean and dry. The screaming settled to a less urgent crying and I stood up so I could jiggle her. I wandered over to the dormer and looked out. It wasn’t as bitingly cold as it had been the last few days, so I unlatched the window and flung it open to the night air. It worked. For a moment, Harriet seemed startled by the chill breeze and she stopped crying. She blinked, and I noticed the real tears wetting her eyelashes, then she gave a shuddering little sigh. Why was I making my precious child so unhappy?

  Now she’d stopped crying, she was looking at me, and again I saw that wisdom, that ancient intelligence living behind her eyes. I held her up to the window. It was a beautiful crisp, clear night with a bright moon lighting up the garden and the woodland beyond it. ‘Look, Harriet,’ I whispered. ‘Look at the stars up there in the sky, twinkling away like little diamonds, like in the song.’ And I started singing it to her, softly. She burped, dribbled some milk and then yawned. Her eyes were starting to close and there was a change in the feel and weight of her body as the tension began to leave it. I kept on singing, gradually quietening my voice. Twinkle, twinkle, little star, over and over. I was scared to stop in case it brought her back to wakefulness.

  After what felt like hours, I crept back downstairs, tiptoeing across the carpet to where the moses basket stood next to my side of the bed. Adrian stirred with a half-snore and I froze, terrified she’d wake, but her breathing didn’t change and I was able to lay her down, carefully sliding my hand out from under her head before covering her with the fleecy blanket. I slipped back under the duvet and noticed Adrian’s warmth. I’d been up with Harriet for so long that my side of the bed had gone completely cold.

  I woke to the sound of crows cawing in the tree just outside the bedroom window. They were so loud it was almost as if they were deliberately trying to wake me. I felt as if I’d only been asleep for a few minutes. It was just getting light and Adrian was still sleeping, so I guessed it was still quite early. I leaned over to look at Harriet and she was just lying there, wide awake, looking up at me. I reached in and lifted her onto my shoulder, breathing in the warm, salty smell of baby sweat. Her head felt hot against my chin. Was it too hot? Maybe she was ill. No, she didn’t look ill. Perhaps I was putting too many blankets over her at night. I worried she’d be cold, but what if she overheated? She started to grizzle so I leaned back, ready to feed her.

  Adrian stirred, then leaned up to look at the clock. ‘Shit!’ He threw back the covers. ‘It’s almost seven.’

  The mattress bounced as he leapt out of bed. Harriet started at the sudden movement, twisting her head away from my breast and dragging my nipple painfully at the same time. The floorboards shook as he hurried along to the bathroom. I heard him pee and flush, then turn the shower on and start singing, not one thing but little bits of several different tunes. ‘Oh, shut up,’ I said aloud. He’d probably had seven hours of unbroken sleep, whereas I’d been up three times with Harriet, once for over an hour and a half. I knew I shouldn’t resent it, but I did, so much so that tears stung my eyes. I braced myself as I tried to get her to latch on again, but she chewed at my nipple half-heartedly then let it fall from her mouth. ‘Come on, sweetheart.’ I tried again, but she turned her head away as if my milk disgusted her. Adrian came in towelling his hair and smelling of shower gel, then he made more noise opening and closing the dresser drawers as he looked for underwear and socks. It was onl
y then that I noticed the empty bottle on the dressing table.

  ‘When did she have that bottle?’ I asked.

  ‘About half five, I think.’ He put the heavy cotton check shirt I bought him for Christmas on over his t-shirt, then grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair. I must have been so deeply asleep I didn’t hear him get up. Now I felt guilty for being cross with him. I was a bitch.

  ‘I was going to stay up, but she went down again quite quickly,’ he continued, ‘so I thought I’d try and grab another half hour. Forgot to set the bloody alarm.’ He smiled down at Harriet, who looked back at him and burped. ‘How was she before? Did you have an okay night?’

  I was about to run through all the times I’d been up with her, tell him that I fed her every time but it never seemed to be enough, and then I realised how whiny and ungrateful it would sound. Not only that, but I didn’t want him to know how crap I was turning out to be at this, so I just nodded. ‘Not too bad, thanks.’

  ‘Great. See you later, then.’ He kissed me, then he kissed Harriet on the top of her head. ‘Bye bye, baby girl. Be good for Mummy.’

  The snow had mostly cleared now, and although it was cold, it was a crisp, bright day, and now my stitches had healed and I was feeling stronger, I was itching to take Harriet out in the pram. The first week or so after leaving hospital, I felt safe and cosy just staying at home, but it had started to feel claustrophobic.

  I didn’t want to risk her getting hungry again while we were out, so I gave her a bottle of formula. I still kept hoping she’d reject the bottle in favour of breast milk, but yet again, she gulped it down like cold water on a hot day. Her head wobbled as I sat her up to burp her. She looked drunk. I couldn’t stop myself from wondering whether there was something about me that wasn’t meant to be a mother. Although I knew rationally that it wasn’t my fault, two babies had died inside me, as though my body had poisoned them. And now, having finally given birth to this beautiful, perfect baby girl, I couldn’t even make enough milk to satisfy her hunger.