by Nicole Trope
‘These aren’t children,’ I said.
‘No, Mum, but they were when they’re saying Dad . . . did these things. I’m not saying I believe them over him, I’m just asking why they’re saying it.’
‘You are saying you don’t believe him,’ said Rosalind. ‘That’s exactly what you’re saying. You’ve never got along with him.’
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake.’
‘Girls, girls, please,’ I said and I could hear that my voice was high pitched and strained. I was desperate for some silence so I could think through what Simon had said. ‘I think maybe your father and I need a little time alone. If you could give us some space, I’m sure we can discuss this rationally.’
‘No, Mum, I want to stay,’ said Rosalind.
‘Rosalind, you need to go now. The children will be finished with their activities soon. And Portia, I’m sure they’re expecting you back at work.’
Reluctantly, they both left, exhorting me to call them at any time, and I sat on at the kitchen table, my beautiful kitchen table made of honey-coloured wood in my beautiful house, with my cup of tea growing cold, working through different ways to approach Simon.
There was no point in even trying to raise the subject with him, of course. If Simon didn’t want to discuss something, it remained undiscussed.
Chapter Thirteen
Mina and I are in the mother and child unit this weekend.
Isabel and Suresh are building a house out of the pillows from the couch and some blankets. Mina and I have to wait until we are invited over to have some tea.
‘You will wait, Mummy,’ says Suresh.
‘Yeah, wait there until we call you on the telephone and say, “Hello, would you like to come to tea?”’ says Isabel.
Mina and I are waiting and watching our children. We don’t talk much, but I can see in Mina’s eyes that she has the same filled-with-joy feeling that I do.
There is a knock at the door and I look at Mina and we both look at the clock on the wall, even though we know it’s still only Saturday and the children will not go home until tomorrow.
‘It’s not Allison,’ I say.
‘Who is it, who is it Mummy,’ says Suresh and he looks a little scared. He knows that his father isn’t coming home anymore but he is still worried. It makes Mina cry when she thinks about how afraid Suresh is.
I get up and open the door and Rose is standing there. My throat gets tight and I feel afraid like Suresh does, but I don’t know why.
‘I’m so sorry to bother you here, Birdy,’ she says, ‘but I think one of the finches is sick. It’s sitting on the bottom of the cage and it seems to be sleeping. I know you’re with your daughter, but I asked Allison if I could just come over and ask you about it. I can try to help if you tell me what to do.’
I hate it when the finches get sick. Allison won’t call the vet for just one bird. ‘Too expensive, Birdy, and they’re not essential to us.’ Calling the vet doesn’t always help anyway. Sometimes when you finally notice that they’re sick it’s too late. He told me that.
‘You have to pay very close attention to the birds, beautiful girl, you have to watch all the time, because they cannot tell you when they’re sick. They get sick very quickly. If you see they’re sick you must make sure they stay warm and try to make sure they keep eating.’
He told me things about the finches over and over again, and when his fingers went tap, tap, I would watch the finches and think about all the things he had said about them. ‘Try to keep them warm and fed if they’re sick,’ I said to myself over and over again while his fingers went tap, tap and he turned into the raggedy man and I listened to his raggedy, raggedy breathing.
‘Birdy?’ says Rose and I realise that I am just standing and staring at her.
‘I’ll come and see,’ I tell Rose, and then I close the door so I can tell Isabel where I am going. I ask Mina to watch Isabel so I can go and look at the bird.
‘No, no,’ says Isabel. ‘I want to come with you.’
‘Stay here, Isabel. Build your house and then when I come back we can have tea.’
‘Take me to see the birdies, Mum, please, please,’ she says. She knows that I’m in charge of the finches. She and Lila looked up finches on the computer and Isabel sent me a drawing of a Gouldian finch, only she didn’t know it was that. She just liked the colours. She thinks it’s funny when people call me Birdy. ‘You’re not a birdy,’ she says, ‘you’re a mum.’
I can’t say no to Isabel.
I think that Rose will have gone back to her work, but she is waiting for me outside the unit. I don’t want her near Isabel. Isabel is little and she needs to be protected. Rose doesn’t know how to protect her.
‘Oh my, this must be your daughter,’ says Rose when she sees us.
I try to push Isabel behind me but Isabel likes to say hello to everyone. She steps in front of my legs. ‘I’m Isabel,’ she says.
Rose smiles at her and then her smile disappears. She looks at Isabel for a long time and her skin turns white. I think she is going to throw up. She puts two fingers in front of her mouth. ‘Oh,’ she says. ‘Oh . . . you’re so pretty . . . so pretty,’ and then she turns and walks away quickly. She looks back at us once and then she walks even quicker.
‘What’s wrong with her?’ says Isabel. ‘Is she sick?’
‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘Maybe.’
Rose looked at Isabel like Isabel was someone who wanted to hurt her, but she’s only five. A little girl of five or six or seven can’t hurt a grown-up. A little girl of five or six or seven can’t do anything to a grown-up.
I take Isabel with me to the finch cage. Rose is right, one of the birds is sick. It’s sitting in the corner of the cage and I can see it breathing very fast. Its purple and yellow body is shivering.
‘If you catch them early enough you can save them, Fliss,’ he told me. Keep them warm. Feed them sugar water and take them to the vet. Don’t leave it too late. Finches are delicate creatures and they will die if you leave it too late.’
It is too late for the bird in the cage. Its eyes are sad. It isn’t looking at anything. I know it is too late.
‘Can you help the birdy, Mum? Can you help him?’ says Isabel. She stands beside the cage and puts her fingers in the little holes in the wire. ‘Don’t be sad, little birdy, my mum will save you.’
‘Isabel, get away from there,’ I say.
‘Can you save him, Mum?’
‘No,’ I say. ‘It’s too late. He’s very sick.’
‘Take him to the doctor, to the vet, Mum, please. He’s so pretty.’
‘It’s too late,’ I say. ‘There’s nothing I can do.’
When I was nearly eight I stayed away from next door for two whole weeks. I had a cold that turned into the flu. I got sicker and sicker.
‘I’m afraid this is now quite a serious case of the flu,’ said the doctor who came to our house in the night when I was hot and cold and hot again.
‘That’s all I need,’ said Mum.
I had to stay in bed and take lots of medicine, and Mum brought me soup and jelly because my throat was so sore. She sat on my bed and stroked my head and said ‘Isabel’ over and over again until her voice was tired. I felt bad all over my body, but I liked it when Mum sat on my bed and said ‘Isabel’. I wanted to be sick forever.
I was in bed for five days. Mrs Winslow came over to see me. She brought me a colouring-in book and some pencils. The book was filled with pictures of animals. I found a picture of a bird and I coloured it purple and yellow like the finches in the cage next door.
‘Get better soon,’ Mrs Winslow said to me, and she smiled.
‘This is such a bad virus,’ she said to Mum. ‘They sent Portia home from school yesterday. I think we should keep them apart until everyone is well again, don’t you?’
‘Oh, absolutely,’ said Mum, and she nodded like she agreed with Mrs Winslow, but her voice sounded like she didn’t agree with her at all.
‘I�
��m sure I wouldn’t want her precious children to get sick,’ Mum said to me when she came back from closing the front door behind Mrs Winslow. ‘Of course darling Portia and Rosalind are more important than anyone else.’
‘Are you mad at Mrs Winslow, Mum?’ I said.
‘No, Fliss, I’m just tired,’ said Mum. ‘I’ll get you some more juice.’
When I was better I still played at home after school. I tried to be a quiet little mouse. I didn’t even squeak. I walked on tiptoes and I played with Lila when Mum had a headache and I went to bed without her telling me to. I thought that if I could be there but not be there Mum wouldn’t send me next door again.
But then after two weeks I was tired of being quiet all the time, and Lila came into my room and bashed down my block castle and I hit her because I was mad at her. I didn’t hit her very hard, but Lila screamed so loud she even made my head hurt.
‘Oh, give me strength,’ said Mum. ‘Will you just go next door and play so I can have some peace, please!’
‘I don’t want to go next door. I want to stay here. Don’t make me go, Mum, I’ll be good.’
‘Felicity, I’m sure Rosalind misses you. Go and play with her for a couple of hours and then we can get some ice cream.’
I loved ice cream, especially chocolate ice cream with sprinkles on top. ‘I don’t want ice cream,’ I said.
‘Just go now!’ yelled Mum. ‘Take Lila with you. I haven’t had five minutes to myself for weeks.’ Her voice was loud and sharp, and Lila and I were scared.
‘Next door, Fliss,’ Lila said. ‘Next door, next door.’
I took her hand and we went next door. I thought I could stay with Lila and she would keep me safe from Mr Winslow even though she was my little sister. ‘Well, we haven’t seen you two for ages,’ said Mrs Winslow when I rang the doorbell and she opened the door.
‘Mum wants us to play here,’ I said.
‘Oh, I’m sure she could use a break. Your poor mum. Hello, Lila, it’s not often we have you come over for a visit. You’re such a pretty little thing. Just look at those curls. Rosalind!’ she called. ‘Felicity and Lila are here to play.’ She turned to me. ‘I think Rosalind is in her room, but as you can hear, Portia is practising the piano. Come with me, little Lila, and you can watch her play.’
‘Lila needs to stay with me,’ I said.
‘Don’t worry about that,’ said Mrs Winslow. ‘I’ll take good care of her, I promise.’
I went up to Rosalind’s room, but she didn’t want to play. ‘I’m reading,’ she said.
‘I’ll be very, very quiet,’ I said.
‘No, I don’t want you here. Go and play with Portia or sit with my mum.’ Rosalind was nearly ten and she thought I was a baby and she didn’t want to play the games we used to play. She didn’t like to explain things over and over.
I left her room and went down to the kitchen. Mrs Winslow was giving Lila some juice. She was touching her hair and stroking her cheek and talking to her in a baby voice. Lila was pretty with golden curls so everyone loved her lots and lots. My hair was straight and brown. Mum wanted to cut it short so that she wouldn’t have to worry about tangles. I always said ‘Ow’ when Mum brushed my hair, and then she said, ‘One day I’m just going to cut it short so I never have to hear that again.’
‘Mr Winslow is down by the finch cage, Felicity. Why don’t you go and say hello?’
‘Can’t I stay here with you and Lila?’
‘Now don’t be silly. Off you go. Lila and I are having a lovely chat, aren’t we?’
Lila didn’t look like she was having a lovely chat. She looked bored.
‘Off you go,’ said Mrs Winslow. I had to do what she said. Mum wanted us to give her some peace, so I had to do what Mrs Winslow said.
I went down to the cage. He was sitting on a chair and watching the birds. ‘Felicity, angel,’ he said, ‘are you feeling better?’
I nodded and I went to stand far away from him. I hooked my fingers through the cage and watched the finches hop from stick to perch to seed basin. Mr Winslow stood up and came to stand behind me. He put his hands on my shoulders. ‘Do you know what happened when you were away?’ he said.
‘What?’
‘One of the finches died. He got sick and I tried to keep him warm and I fed him sugar water but he died.’
‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Poor finch. Poor, poor finch.’ I started to cry because I loved all of the finches.
‘Oh, now, don’t be too sad,’ he said.
I sniffed and wiped my nose on the back of my hand. Mr Winslow took a tissue out of his pocket and wiped my hand and then he wiped my nose.
‘Do you know,’ he said when he put his hands back on my shoulders, ‘I think he would have lived if you had been able to visit him.’
‘I was sick,’ I said, and his hands went down over my chest and into my pants.
‘I know you were, lovely girl, I know you were, but all the finches missed you very, very much, especially the one that died. Promise me you’ll always come and visit them and keep them safe and happy.’
His fingers tap-tapped on my private place and his breath was raggedy. Mr Winslow was gone and the raggedy man was back.
‘I promise,’ I said.
‘You love the finches, don’t you?’ he said. ‘I know you love them and you want to keep them safe. Don’t stay away again.’ He spoke slowly because his breath was raggedy, raggedy.
‘I won’t stay away,’ I said, and then I cried some more. I didn’t cry about the dead finch. I cried because I knew that I would have to go to the finch cage every day. I would have to watch the finches and keep them safe and happy so they didn’t die and I would have to let the raggedy man’s fingers tap, tap on my private place.
‘Good girl,’ he said. ‘You’re such a good girl.’
He didn’t care that I was sad and crying. He only cared about his fingers and his finches. I hated him. I hated him, hated him, hated him.
‘Felicity!’ Mrs Winslow called from the house. ‘Lila wants to go home.’
‘I have to go,’ I said.
His fingers went away and he stood up straight and smiled at me. His teeth looked yellow. ‘Don’t stay away too long,’ he said. ‘Remember about the finches. You have to help me keep them happy.’
‘Poor bird,’ I say to the sick little finch sitting on the bottom of the cage. I pick up Isabel and we walk away from the cage. She starts to cry but then I tell her that we are going to bake a cake and she stops. Isabel loves baking. I had saved money so I could buy the ingredients to make a cake. Mina and Suresh were going to help as well.
I don’t think about Rose or Mr Winslow anymore, even when I wonder why her face turned white and she ran away from me and Isabel. I just squish the thought down. I am with Isabel She gives me a filled-with-joy feeling and thinking about Rose and Mr Winslow gives me a heavy feeling, like my legs can’t move. I don’t want to feel like that when I’m with Isabel.
Chapter Fourteen
When I was in the early stages of my pregnancy with Portia, I would get dizzy. I would be standing up at work and I would feel myself begin to sway back and forth; time would slow down as objects and people moved slowly past me when they should have been standing still. It was a combination of low blood sugar and nausea that did it. Margaret, who worked on the till next to mine, was always on the lookout for one of my episodes. She was sweetly overprotective, telling me what I should and shouldn’t eat, despite never having been pregnant herself. Pregnant women are magnets for useful advice, and instead of finding it tiresome, I lapped up everything anyone said. I had little idea of what was happening to my body and was desperate for guidance.
Seeing me begin to sway, Margaret would say, ‘Oh dear, Rose is about to go,’ and then shout across the store, ‘Bring us some juice for the young one, Kev!’ The manager would come running with grapefruit juice and then watch me sip it slowly. The acid hitting my stomach brought everything back into focus and quelled the nausea. Any custome
rs in the store at the time would wait patiently for me to be able to get back to work and would then dispense advice and old wives’ tales. I never got dizzy with Rosalind, or perhaps I didn’t have the luxury of giving into it because I had Portia. I haven’t had that surreal, almost out-of-body experience since my first pregnancy.
But I remember that feeling when I see her child. I want to put out my hand and hold onto something to stop myself from spinning away. ‘I’m Isabel,’ she says, and as I look at her I know that I can remember the feel of her golden curls in my hands. Her hair smelled of baby shampoo and she let me brush it and tie it in ribbons so that she could admire herself in a mirror.
I feel the rise of bile in my throat and press my fingers against my lips, suddenly craving grapefruit juice. It isn’t her, of course it isn’t her, but there she stands right in front of me. ‘I’m Isabel,’ she says, and she smiles. There she stands, a reminder of Simon and his sins.
I walk away as quickly as I can and only turn around once, fearful that she will be following me. There is nowhere to hide. Even in here the ghost of my husband has found me. I am allowed no peace. I have not thought about him for a few hours, just a few hours, but Simon will not be forgotten. He does not care what I think about him as long as it is only him I think about.
‘Even bad press can be good,’ he said to me once when he had been photographed coming out of a party, me holding him up as he smiled with inebriated joy. ‘At least I will be talked about, as speculation on my problem with alcohol grows.’
‘It’s invasive,’ I said. ‘You were a little tipsy. I hate the idea that you’re always being watched.’
‘Better to be looked at than ignored, darling girl, better to be seen than not.’
‘Don’t worry,’ I want to shout to the wind as I stumble back to the vegetable garden, ‘I will not forget you. No one will forget you.’
