Harriet made a little noise as she started to wake up, and the moses basket wobbled on its stand as she kicked her legs. I went to pick her up and found her already wide awake and staring. I trust you, Cornelia, she said with her clever eyes. I liked the way she didn’t call me ‘Mummy’. You know what to do. And all at once, I understood everything. It was so clear, I couldn’t think why I hadn’t seen it before. The urge to go into the woods, the crows coming every day to talk to me. That was what they’d been trying to tell me all along. Harriet wasn’t just an ordinary baby, and she mustn’t be shut away in this house, a box made of bricks where there was no wind and no rain. I had been chosen to be her mother and my purpose was to protect her, to keep her safe from all of them – Adrian, Diane, that health visitor woman. They were all in touch with each other, all making plans to snatch my baby from me and suck away her wisdom. But I wouldn’t let them. The sense of responsibility I’d felt when she was born was nothing compared with the mighty sense of duty and purpose that surged through me now.
I held Harriet against my chest with one arm as I moved around the ground floor, humming ‘Rock-a-bye Baby’ to her as I locked and bolted the doors and windows with my spare hand. Sure enough, as I closed the window in the dining room, I could see Diane coming down her garden path and reaching for the gate that connected her garden to ours. ‘Don’t you worry, sweetheart.’ I rested my lips against Harriet’s downy scalp. ‘No one’s going to take you from me.’
I was perfectly calm as Diane rapped on the back door. ‘Go away,’ I said, but she obviously didn’t hear because she knocked again. I raised my voice slightly so she could hear me, but I didn’t want to shout. ‘I said, go away. You’re not taking my baby.’
There was a pause, then her voice. ‘Leah? Leah, are you all right? No one wants to take your baby. Come on, love. Open the door.’
‘No, because I know what you’re planning, all of you.’
‘Leah, we’re just concerned, that’s all. Adrian’s proper worried about you, that’s why he asked me to pop round. Come on, love, just open the door and we can have a nice cup of tea and a chat.’
I chuckled. She must have thought I was stupid. I carried on humming as I walked up the stairs, because Harriet liked the song. I glanced out of the back landing window and saw that Diane was on her phone. Thirty seconds later, after she ended her call, my phone started ringing. Adrian. I hesitated, wondering whether to answer it, whether to try to explain. After all, he was her father. But I knew he wouldn’t understand. It wasn’t his fault; he hadn’t been chosen like we had. He wouldn’t believe me if I told him how special Harriet was, how special we both were, and how we had these extra powers. So I put my phone on silent and sat down on the stairs for a minute or two, watching his name flash up as he tried again and again. Harriet squirmed in my arms, and I realised that the sound of Diane banging on the door downstairs was disturbing her, so I started to hum the song again as I got to my feet.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
NOW
My back hurts and my headache is becoming increasingly intense; it feels like my body is screaming at me, stopping me from thinking properly. The man in the seat next to us has dozed off and is leaning against my arm, which I’m keeping rigid so he can’t lean against Ollie. Every now and again, he snores, but that makes Ollie giggle, so I don’t mind. I glance at the people standing within earshot – everyone seems to be wearing headphones or an earpiece. I speak quietly anyway. ‘Ollie, do you remember meeting your daddy?’ He looks at me blankly. ‘A man called Adrian?’
He thinks for a minute. ‘Adrian did come to my house. Adrian got me a farmyard set but not for my birthday.’
I nod. ‘That’s right. Well, didn’t Mummy tell you who Adrian was?’
Again, he looks blank.
‘I thought Mummy said she’d told you that Adrian was your daddy?’
He shrugs.
‘Adrian was your daddy, Ollie, even though he didn’t live in the same house as you and your mummy. You see, he was my husband.’ I hesitate. Now I think about it, why would Ollie know the word husband? Although maybe he does, because his eyes widen at this information.
‘He had to look after me because I was very poorly, so he wasn’t able to see you as much as he’d have liked.’ Ollie blinks and waits to hear what I’m going to say next. ‘So,’ I continue, ‘because . . . because I was married to your daddy, you know, he was my husband and I was his wife, like most mummies and daddies who live together, so because of that . . . well, you see, I’m your stepmummy. Have you heard of stepmummies and daddies?’
He nods gravely. ‘Paris has got a stepdad.’
‘There you are, then.’ I try to smile, but my face feels tight and scared and I can’t move it properly. ‘You see, it’s perfectly normal to have a stepmum or stepdad, and some people have stepbrothers and -sisters, too. I expect you’d like a brother or sister, wouldn’t you?’
‘Just a brother,’ he says.
I’m guessing Cassie and Luke have talked about this, then. I want to tell him about his half-brother and -sister; I have wanted to tell him many, many times. But I have no idea what a child of his age is likely to understand about death. What will any of this mean to him, I wonder? My thoughts trail off, and that voice comes into my head again, screaming at me this time. You can’t keep him. The police will be searching for you by now.
I look out of the window and realise we’re nearly there just as the announcement comes: We will shortly be arriving at Stockport. Stockport is our next station stop . . . ‘I love you, Ollie,’ I whisper into his hair as I savour the warmth and weight of his little body. The sky is darkening rapidly as we pull into the station. I sigh and give him a quick hug. ‘Come on, sweetheart. This is our stop.’
I check in both directions as I lift him down from the train, half-expecting to see the police waiting for me, but there’s no obvious sign of police uniforms, just the station staff in their bright red puffy jackets.
‘Leah?’ Ollie allows me to take his hand. ‘Will we see my mummy soon?’
This time I can’t answer him. I can’t find the words, can’t locate them in the jumble inside my head. I glance along towards the viaduct. There are two black shapes on the platform edge – crows. ‘I had my own little boy once, Ollie,’ I tell him as I zip up his coat. ‘And a little girl, too. They were called Thomas and Harriet. They both looked a lot like you, you know.’ I can’t see his reaction to this because tears are blurring my vision. ‘If they were here now – Thomas and Harriet, I mean – you could all play together, couldn’t you?’ He doesn’t answer straight away, then he says, ‘Can they come and play at my house?’
I look at his sweet, innocent face and wonder what the hell I think I’m doing. In my imagination, the three of them are all about the same age, the two boys so alike, and Harriet, with the same dark hair and eyes, a bit more grown up than her brothers. How I’d love to watch them play together.
Those crows – it can’t be coincidence. There was a time when I believed they were communicating with me. Still holding Ollie’s hand, I start to walk towards them, as though I’m being pushed in that direction, but then something happens in my head, a clunk, like a heavy object falling to the floor. What are you doing, Cornelia? And this time I recognise that voice. It’s Harriet. Always so wise. I stand still for a minute, taking in Ollie’s pale, uncertain face, then I turn back to the busier end of the platform. There’s a café, its golden light welcoming in the near dark. ‘I know, how about a cake and a drink, Ollie?’
Usually he’d be nodding enthusiastically, but he still looks hesitant – worried, almost. I hate that I’ve done this to him, to this child I love. ‘And some crisps,’ I add, my voice cracking, ‘while . . .’ I take a breath, ‘ . . . while we wait for Mummy.’ The words are like magic. He nods and the tension lifts from his face.
I buy him a fruit drink, a chocolate brownie and a packet of cheese and onion crisps, and we find a table next to a woman with a little boy
about the same age and a baby in a high chair. The woman smiles as she spoons food into the baby. The little boy is playing with a tiny Thomas the Tank Engine, which he’s running along the table edge. The two boys eye each other, and the other boy runs the blue engine down the table leg. Soon Ollie is eating his crisps, swinging his legs and grinning happily at the other child. I attempt to scrawl a note to Cassie on one of the papery serviettes. It’s as if I have forgotten how to write, but eventually I make my hand work enough to write an apology and the briefest of explanations. It’s barely legible, but Cass should be able to make enough sense of it. I tuck it into my bag and glance again at my phone. More missed calls. I stand up, scraping my chair back, my whole body tingling and straining to move. ‘Ollie.’ I put my hand on his shoulder. There are so many things I want to say. But instead, I turn to the mother at the next table. ‘Excuse me, will you be here for ten minutes or so?’
The woman looks up at the monitor. ‘At least another forty minutes. Although knowing my luck, it’ll be longer.’
‘I was wondering,’ I say quietly, nodding towards Ollie, ‘if you’d mind keeping an eye on him for five minutes? I need to find the loo, and,’ I lower my voice further and glance around as if I’m embarrassed, ‘I might be a little while.’
‘No problem.’ The woman smiles.
‘Thank you so much.’ I swallow and turn back to Ollie. ‘Ollie, I just have to pop out of the café for a few minutes, but I’ve asked this lady to keep an eye on you until I get back.’
‘We’ll look after you, Ollie.’ The woman smiles, and pats the seat next to her. ‘Come and sit with us. This is Rufus, and this greedy little girl is Maisie.’
I move his drink and brownie to the other table while Ollie climbs onto the chair next to Rufus and offers him a crisp. I lean down and kiss him on the top of his head, savouring the moment. ‘Wait here,’ I whisper, but Ollie is already more interested in the Thomas the Tank Engine, which Rufus has shyly pushed towards him. After a moment’s hesitation, I am out and onto the platform, hurrying along in the opposite direction, against the wind. It’s easy. No one is paying any attention as I head away from the main part of the station.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
NOW
I need to let Cassie know that Ollie is safe. She must be out of her mind with worry. Out of her mind. Am I out of my mind?
She answers before it even rings. ‘Leah! Thank God. Where are you? Where’s Ollie?’
‘Stockport station,’ I croak. ‘He’s in the café on platform two. He’s fine, Cass. He’s safe – he’s with a mother and her two children.’
‘But what—’
‘I . . . I’m sorry.’ I end the call before Cass can speak, then I hoist myself up and swing my legs round so that I’m sitting on the viaduct wall. It’s higher than I realised. I can feel the wind on my face and neck, so I pull my collar more tightly around me. I feel bad for causing Cass all that distress. She’s been a good friend to me; I shouldn’t have put her through this. I look at my phone – she’s calling back. I reject the call. I look further along the wall and I see my two crows, still waiting.
Tentatively, still hanging onto the wall, I turn and start to lower my right leg towards the narrow ledge that runs along the other side. I stretch my foot down and search for the flat concrete, but it’s further away than I thought. My hands feel sweaty, even though it’s getting chilly now. I know it’s silly, but I don’t want to slip. I don’t want to do anything by mistake – I want to be fully aware. I’m not ready to put myself down on that ledge just yet, so I try to pull myself back up but pain shoots from my back through my hip and down my leg. I grit my teeth and try again, but it hurts so much, I cry out.
As I stand here, clinging onto the wall, waiting for the pain to subside, my thoughts stray to Paul, who has been like a father to me almost from the day I met him. I’m glad he has Helen now. Then I think about Ollie, and Cassie and Luke, and what I’ve done to them. And I think about Thomas, my firstborn, and Harriet, my beautiful daughter – my lost babies. My thoughts are leaping about so much in my head that I’m surprised I’m able to stand still. Am I in my right mind now, I wonder? I wasn’t back then, that’s for sure, when I thought we were escaping, me and Harriet. In fact, I wasn’t in my mind at all; it was as if I was completely disconnected from that version of myself. Even now, I still don’t remember exactly what happened that day – I don’t even remember the pain of fracturing my hip and spine. All I know is what I was told, much later, after weeks of medication-induced oblivion.
Now, though, as I stand here, high above the ground and with the breeze on my skin, I find I can remember those moments immediately before with a crystal-sharp clarity. It is as if it’s happening right now. I can actually feel myself back there: I am standing in the attic room with the music in my head, holding Harriet against my chest, certain that the hammering on the door downstairs is because they are coming to tear my beautiful baby daughter from my arms.
I feel Harriet’s tiny heart beating close to my own. I am the only one who understands, the only one who knows why we need to be free. This room full of sunlight is the only place where we even stand a chance of being able to breathe, or to think. I am the only one who knows that Harriet isn’t an ordinary baby. Until now, I have failed to realise that I’m not an ordinary mother, either – no wonder everything felt wrong when that was what I tried to be. I’m not sure what will happen next – all I know is that we can’t stay here, trying to live the wrong life. How will Harriet ever learn to fly if we stay in this brick house? How will she thrive and grow strong? How will her feathers grow long and lustrous and ready to carry her over the rooftops?
Of course, they weren’t coming to take Harriet away, I know that now. If only I’d gone downstairs and opened the door, maybe . . . But I was too far gone by then. According to the expert witness at the trial – a perinatal psychiatrist, a kind man with a soft voice and a serious face – I’d been suffering from a particularly severe post-partum psychosis when it happened. It was treatable, once diagnosed, he told the court, but it was a rare condition, and could be difficult to recognise.
‘Harriet, look!’ I point to the big plane tree. The crows are waiting for us. ‘Listen, sweetheart,’ I murmur as I release Harriet from the stupid clothes I dressed her in this morning, ‘our favourite song.’ I open the window and step up onto the window seat, then I tuck Harriet snugly between my breasts and gently fold my wings around her. I raise my head up towards the trees and position myself so that we can soar up quickly towards the others. And as we fall forward, I know that in seconds we’ll be free, gliding and swooping through the air, happy, safe from harm, finally able to breathe.
I don’t remember much about the trial, only part of the judge’s summing-up, and then only because I read it in the papers afterwards: ‘Although the consequences of Mrs Blackwood’s actions resulted in the loss of her baby daughter’s life, I am satisfied that the tragedy that occurred was not a criminal act in the way we would normally understand such activity. I unreservedly accept that Mrs Blackwood was a loving mother, and that when these events took place, she was suffering from a severe mental illness that had not, at that time, been recognised. Mrs Blackwood is in many respects a broken woman, who will have to live with the consequences of her actions for the rest of her life.’
Everything looks beautiful from up here, especially now it is almost completely dark. The woman in the café must be wondering where I’ve got to, but perhaps the police will be there by now – Cass will have called them, I’m sure. I glance down and everything tilts. The pain in my back is easing off, so I bite my lip, grip onto the concrete and with an almighty effort, I manage to heave myself back up and twist round so that I am sitting on the viaduct wall instead of standing precariously on the ledge.
Paul has Helen, Cassie has Luke, but who do I have? I thought I had Ollie, but I’ve been fooling myself, ignoring the plain truth of it. Ollie may be Adrian’s child, but that doesn’t give me
any right to him. I have to let him go, but I can’t bear the thought. Nor can I bear the thought that, after today, he won’t be able to think of me as someone who loves him and cares about him. Instead, I have become the person who tried to separate him from his mother. Cass won’t let me meet him again. How will she feel when she finds out I’ve deceived her from the very first day we met, that I took advantage of her good nature, abused her trust? Even if she never finds out about my connection with Adrian, she knows I tried to steal her son.
There are golden lights everywhere, in shops and houses, in buses and cars. People are going home from work, back to their families, women to their husbands or boyfriends, mothers to their children. I lift my head up to allow the wind to blow my hair back from my face, and I stay like that for a few moments, enjoying the sensation. I look along the ledge and smile as I see the two crows there. They’re watching me, their feathers fluffing up in the breeze. Rationally, I know it’s coincidence that they seem to be hanging around, waiting for me. They are not some reincarnation of Thomas and Harriet, and I know that, but it does feel like some sort of sign. I like to think Adrian is with our babies, taking care of them, and that I’ll be with them all again soon. Maybe that’s a load of rubbish; I don’t know.
The Flight of Cornelia Blackwood Page 26
