The Godsend

by Bernard Taylor

“Tell you—? About—about the baby?”

  “Yes. You should have told me.”

  “I was going to. That day—”

  “God, you should have told me.”

  “There was no chance afterwards. You were gone. I only had Bonnie.”

  Bonnie . . .

  I had to know. I had to ask it:

  “Did you say anything? To her?”

  I kept my face impassive as she answered:

  “Oh, yes. Bonnie knew. I told her on the day you left.”

  It began to rain as Lucy and I drove home, quite heavily, and we made a dash from the car for the front entrance. I wasn’t only anxious to get out of the wet, though—it was imperative that I get in touch with Mrs. Taverner and I just prayed her husband was at home. As soon as Lucy and I got indoors and took our coats off I left her and went across the landing and knocked on the Taverners’ door. I had a great sense of relief when I heard sounds of movement coming from the other side. Thank God. Then, a moment later Mr. Taverner was opening the door, standing there buttoning his shirt, getting ready to leave for work. I’d caught him only just in time.

  “Ah,” he said, “you’re back. Good!” giving me a broad smile that deepened the creases in his lean, angular face. Whether he knew why I had gone I had no idea, but if he did he wasn’t holding it against me.

  “I’ve just been to see my wife . . .”

  He nodded and ran a hand through his thinning hair. “Poor girl. How is she today?”

  “Much better, thanks. I’m very grateful that you went to visit her . . .”

  “Oh, no, don’t mention it. I wish I could have been some real help.”

  “You were. Believe me. And Mrs. Taverner.” I hesitated. “I’m told she took Bonnie away with her and the children.”

  “Well, it seemed the best thing to do under the circumstances. She couldn’t just leave her here on her own. She was taking the kids off, anyway, so it seemed the logical thing to do. At least the little thing would be with people she knew.” He grinned. “She’s probably having a right old time—I wouldn’t be surprised.” He turned and looked over towards the window where the rain pelted against the panes. “Though I wouldn’t guarantee that it’ll continue if this keeps up very long.”

  “Where did they go?”

  “Of course, you’ll be wanting Bonnie back again. Though she’ll be fine where she is for a few days, I’m sure. Anyway, I’ll get you the phone number and address. They’re with her brother in Bournemouth. Come on in.”

  He turned and I followed him into the untidy living-room and watched while he searched in the muddle for pencil and paper. “Rather them than me,” he said as he wrote. “I can’t stand Bourne­mouth and I can’t stand her brother. Still, it takes all sorts—so they tell me.” I didn’t ask what particular sort Mrs. Taverner’s­ brother was, but thanked him and took the scrap of paper he held out in his broad hand.

  “I’ll phone her now.” I was moving to the door. “I’ll give her your love when I do.”

  “Yes.” He spoke as if the thought hadn’t occurred to him. “Yes, do that, please.”

  Back in the flat, Lucy greeted me with the information that she was hungry. I realised I was as well. It had been hours since we’d eaten.

  “Okay, sweetheart,” I reassured her, “we’ll have something in a minute.” I could open some tins or we could go out. But for the moment food wasn’t the upper-most thing in my mind. “I’ve got to make a phone call first. Just be patient for a while.”

  It was the brother who answered the phone. “I’ll get her,” he said, and after half-a-minute Mrs. Taverner’s familiar voice came on the line. After she had enquired about Kate’s progress and various predictable phrases had passed between us I asked how Bonnie was getting on.

  “Oh, she’s enjoying herself immensely. Having a wonderful time.”

  “That’s—marvellous. When do you plan to return?”

  “Anxious to see her, are you? Well, not till Saturday afternoon. But you’ll let her stay till then, won’t you?”

  “Oh, yes,” I said quickly. “It’s very good of you to look after her. Believe me, she’s much better off with you as things are right now—if she’s no trouble.”

  “Trouble? That little love? No trouble at all.”

  “You’re very kind, Mrs. Taverner. Really.” I meant it. “And I can’t tell you how grateful I am that you helped Kate as you did.”

  “I only did what anyone else would have done under the circumstances. I wish I could have done more.”

  “Do you know what happened exactly?”

  “The accident? Well, the first thing I knew about it was when Bonnie came ringing at our bell. It must have been just after ten o’clock that night. I suppose she’d heard her mother fall—noise must have woken her up. Thank the Lord she had the sense to come and get me. Such a clever little girl—such presence of mind. She said her mother had fallen down. So, of course I went in straight-away. Your wife was lying at the bottom of the stairs. She must have had a terrible bump. She was right out. I think those stairs are too steep. I’ve always thought it about ours. They seem steep and—”

  “What happened then?” I cut in. “You phoned the ambulance—”

  “Yes—after I’d put a couple of cushions under her head. The ambulance got there in no time. They were fantastic. She’d come round by the time they arrived, but she was in an awful state, she really was. I told her not to worry about Bonnie—said I’d take care of her. There wasn’t really much else I could do. So Bonnie slept in with Gillian that night and then yesterday—next morning—as you weren’t there, I thought the best thing to do was to bring her away with my lot. Well, rather than have her go to some strangers—which is what would have happened.” She paused. “Dave phoned me yesterday afternoon when he’d been to the hospital . . .” Another slight pause. “The doctor told him about . . . well . . . the baby . . . And I’m really sorry. I really am . . .”

  “Thank you . . .”

  “Anyway, the main thing is, she’s getting better. And you tell her she’s not to worry about Bonnie at all. She’ll be quite safe and well looked-after.”

  “I will. Thank you.” God bless you, Mrs. Taverner, for taking Bonnie away. It gives me a week. In a week I could do a lot. Perhaps I can make sure that she never comes back.

  I had one more question.

  “Do you know how Kate came to fall? She doesn’t know . . .”

  “Oh, well, I think it must have been little Bonnie. She’d been playing on the stairs, I expect.”

  “—I’m not sure what you mean . . .”

  “Well, you know how children are with their toys—leave them anywhere . . . I should think your wife must have slipped on it.”

  “There was something left there?”

  “Yes—lying on the stairs. Later she put it back in her room, but it was on the stairs when I went in.”

  “What? What was it?”

  “Oh, I thought I said . . . It was Bonnie’s doll.”

  TWENTY

  “I must ask you, Mr. Marlowe, whether you’ve really thought this out. Are you sure this is what you want?”

  “Absolutely.” My fingers drummed on my knee, betraying my nervousness. I stilled them. The face of the social worker, Mrs. Warner, who sat looking at me across the large desk showed consternation. I was a problem, and her distress was evident in the way she put up her hand and smoothed her already smooth, greying hair.

  “But she’s not a foster-child, Mr. Marlowe. We could—would—take her into care at once if she were—if there was any kind of trouble. But she’s yours. She’s your daughter. Legally adopted.”

  “I know that. But you’ve got to do something.” I consciously put a hardness into my voice—which she didn’t react to. She just looked at the pad on which she’d been making notes.

  “You say she’s nearly four.”

  “Yes. In August.”

  “And your other daughter—how old is she?”

  “Ju
st ten.”

  She paused, choosing her words. “This is a very big step you’re taking, you realise. Is the situation really so—impossible?”

  “Yes. We just can’t cope with her any more.”

  “She’s unmanageable?”

  “You could say that . . .”

  “And does your wife feel as strongly as you?”

  “My wife is ill and under a great deal of strain. She’s very recently had a miscarriage . . .”

  I knew I shouldn’t have said that. The woman would think that that was what had precipitated my demands—that they were the results of temporary worry and neurosis.

  “I’m very sorry to hear that. And of course she’s under a strain. But perhaps she’ll feel differently about it in a while—once she’s feeling better . . .”

  “I know how I feel,” I said, too quickly. “I want the child gone.”

  “And does your wife want the child gone as much as you do?”

  I hesitated for a second. “—Yes.”

  “There are many times, Mr. Marlowe, I know,” she smiled, her voice taking on a sympathetic tone, “when a child can be a bit of a problem, and they can get you down—I know how it is. But mostly it’s never that serious. Families go through their problems—they have setbacks—but they do get through them. Don’t you think—” here she leaned forward slightly, “—that you’re possibly over-reacting a bit? You might merely be going through a little rough patch. It happens to all of us from time to time . . .”

  She was doing her best, I knew it, but only one thing would satisfy me. “I want her taken away,” I said shortly. “I want you to take her into care. Anywhere—it doesn’t matter where—just so long as she leaves my home.”

  Silence for a few seconds.

  “She really is a—a bad influence?”

  “She’s evil.”

  It was too strong a word, and the woman’s eyebrows lifted slightly. I must be coming over as a complete madman. “Yes,” I said, nodding, “she’s a bad influence.” Bonnie had murdered my three sons, tried to kill my daughter, made me sterile and caused my wife to have a miscarriage, and I had to describe her as “a bad influence”. I said again,

  “Somebody’s got to come and take her away. Soon.”

  “Well, now even if it’s seen as the best course it can’t be done just like that. We have to look into the situation first. You must remember that a child’s happiness is at stake here.”

  And Lucy’s life was at stake too. “Soon,” I said firmly. “It must be arranged before the end of the week.” I wanted to hand Bonnie over as soon as she returned.

  “Well,” she looked at her notes again, “I think the best thing is for me or one of my colleagues to come and see you and your wife in your home—providing she’s well enough. We can see the child too, then, and discuss the whole thing properly.”

  “I told you—my wife is ill. I don’t want her bothered.”

  “But you must realise that both parents have to agree to such a step. We have to have the approval of both parents. We always insist on meeting all the relatives.”

  I’d never imagined it would be so difficult. “Can’t you understand?” I said, “I just want that child gone. If I have to I’ll come and dump her here in your office!”

  She looked at me steadily for a second before replying.

  “If you are that desperate and did take such a step then we’d be forced to take her into temporary care. But you must know that it would only be temporary. Your wife could reclaim her immediately.” She paused. “—If your wife wants the child.”

  If your wife wants the child . . . It was becoming a farce. I got up and moved towards the door. When I turned and looked back the woman was standing, watching me, her hands spread on the desk before her. She said kindly:

  “You’re obviously very upset. I think we should all sit down and talk this thing over. I’m sure with a little help—counselling—we can do something . . .”

  Help, counselling—they wouldn’t help where Bonnie was concerned. “Thank you,” I said wearily. “It doesn’t matter any more. I’m sorry I wasted your time.”

  It was still raining that afternoon when Lucy and I went to visit Kate again. I saw Doctor Geller in the corridor and he told me how pleased he was with her progress, adding that he thought she’d be well enough to leave on Wednesday, providing there were no setbacks.

  I could see the difference in her too. Her face lit up as we approached. Her hair was newly-brushed and shining and she looked brighter, rested and relaxed.

  “The doctor says you can come home on Wednesday,” I said when I had kissed her.

  “I feel well enough to go home now.”

  “Well, you’ll just have to grin and bear it. Anyway, you need the rest, I’m sure.”

  We stayed there for nearly two hours. Just before we got ready to leave I said:

  “I talked to Mrs. Taverner on the phone.”

  “—How is Bonnie?”

  “She’s fine. They’ll be coming back on Saturday. You just think about getting better. That’s the important thing.”

  I don’t know the precise moment when the idea of killing Bonnie came into my head. Perhaps it had been there for a long time, below my awareness, only surfacing now when everything else had failed. Any plans I had had for getting rid of her by lawful means had been scotched by my interview with the social worker, and I’d been left exactly where I’d started. Now, by the weekend, Bonnie would have returned to the fold, and from that moment Lucy’s life would be in the greatest danger.

  I had only to stand in the room which had been stripped of Lucy’s belongings to know the singleness of Bonnie’s purpose. It came through so clearly. She would never rest until everything—the room, Kate’s love and caring—was permanently hers, and hers alone.

  Yet I couldn’t take Lucy away again. It hadn’t worked before and it wouldn’t work a second time. I couldn’t separate her for ever from her mother, and any temporary flight would only put the danger off till a later time. When she returned Bonnie would still be here, waiting.

  Really, simply, I was presented with a choice, and if the choice was between Bonnie’s life and Lucy’s life then I had no choice. None at all. I thought briefly of what might happen to me as a result, but I wasn’t that concerned—I just didn’t care any more. I had lost my three sons, and my marriage would certainly be gone for ever whatever the outcome. I had nothing left to lose—nothing that I cared about—only Lucy. Years in prison?—the prospect meant nothing—a small price to pay if it would buy for Lucy her life.

  I spread out my hands before me, turned them over, studied them. They were hands that had been used only to build things—no earth-shattering things, nothing likely to become a part of history, but still, creations for all that. I wondered how I could turn them to destruction. Then when I looked back again to the near-bare walls, to Bonnie’s doll over on the chest, I knew that I must.

  While Lucy was safely out of earshot, soaking in her bath, I phoned Mrs. Taverner. My call was brief. I told her I’d try to be in Bournemouth to collect Bonnie on Friday morning.

  “You can’t wait till I bring her back on Saturday . . . ?”

  I’d gone over it in my mind—carefully: Saturday would be too late and Thursday—Kate’s first day home—would be too early; it might not be easy for me to get away.

  “No,” I said, “Friday. But please—don’t mention it to Kate if she phones you—I’d like it to be a surprise.”

  On our visit to Kate in the afternoon I took with me a case containing the clothes she’d asked for—her blouse and skirt, coat, shoes, etc.

  “They’ve been so kind to me here,” she said, “but I can’t wait to get home tomorrow.” She looked brighter than ever now. The bruise on her face had faded a little more and the promise of leaving the next day had given her an added lift. In view of what I was planning to do I knew the period of happiness didn’t have that long to run.

  The next morning there came from m
y publishers an advance copy of a book I’d illustrated—Hans Andersen’s The Little Mermaid—and after a late breakfast Lucy and I sat together on the sofa and turned over the crisp new pages. I was pleased with the book; they’d used a good-quality paper and my pictures had been carefully and faithfully reproduced. Lucy fell in love with it right away, and twenty minutes later while I was busy with the carpet-sweeper—getting the place in order for Kate’s return—she was still poring over it.

  “I wish it were Monday tomorrow,” she said.

  “Why?”

  “I want to take this book to school, to show my friend, Carol. She thinks you’re fantastic. She said she wishes her dad could draw.”

  I stopped working and looked at her. She had gone back to be absorbed in the book again but the happiness with which she had spoken still showed in a small, lingering smile on her face. I turned away from the look, went over to the window, stood gazing out.

  Yes, I could kill Bonnie. And by doing so I could save Lucy’s life. I had thought it all through—right to the outcome, sure that what happened to me afterwards would not matter; I could face the years in prison, the permanent separation from Lucy and Kate, because I would have done what needed to be done—and if I couldn’t face it then it didn’t matter much either. But in planning the means of giving Lucy back her life I had not envisaged the quality of her life. Was that little smile of pride and love to be replaced by disillusionment, fear, shame and mistrust—? Yes, it would be. And for how long—?—Always? Yes . . . She would grow up with the certain knowledge that I had cold-bloodedly murdered her younger sister. I could never give to her such a legacy.

  And Kate, too. Added to her grief she would now live with hatred—where she had known only love.

  My thoughts were racing and into my mind came the memory of a particular stretch of road I had taken once not too far from Bournemouth. The hillside fell away on one side in a steep, breath-catching drop—the view was clear before my eyes, fixed like a picture-postcard. I stood trembling, suddenly seeing in my mind’s eye the bonnet of the car as it plunged over the grass verge, smashing through the flimsy barrier of the hedge—and then down, down to certain blackness—blankness—and the ending.