I had told Mrs. Taverner that I’d collect Bonnie on Friday. I still would. And that’s when it must happen—an accident. But not only to Bonnie. When Bonnie went, I would go with her.
Lucy and I drove to the hospital to find Kate all ready, dressed and waiting for us—she had been, she said, for well over an hour. It was a miserable day, raining heavily again, but she wasn’t daunted by the wet. We stopped at a supermarket on the way back and the three of us walked between the banks of shelves while she filled the trolley-basket to restock the larder. I could see she was still nervous to a degree, so it was probably good for her to be occupied with normal, everyday tasks. She hadn’t mentioned the loss of the baby since the time the doctor had told me about it, but I was sure it must still be there, very much on her mind.
And that night she lay beside me in bed and wept on my shoulder.
“I wanted him so much,” she cried. “God, I wanted him so much . . .”
I let her cry. There were so many tears inside her waiting to be shed.
Long after she was still and sleeping, warm against me, I lay awake thinking over what was to come. I realised that I would have to tell her—sometime—of my decision to go and collect Bonnie—otherwise she would never believe in the subsequent “accident”. But I could manage it all right. I could be sufficiently convincing and make her believe that my attitude towards Bonnie had changed—that I had come to my senses. She was eager to believe it and she would believe.
After breakfast the next morning, Thursday, I got ready to go to the studio. Really it was Kate’s idea. She was well enough, she insisted, to do a few jobs that had to be done around the flat, and she was eager to get back to her routine. Lucy would be there too, so she’d be perfectly all right.
In a way I was rather relieved to be going; it wasn’t easy to face her rather strained contentment and determined attempts to show that everything was going to be okay. Besides, there was work that I should be getting on with, work that had already been delayed for several days and was still sitting in the boot of the car—not that I felt at all like doing it.
As I stood in the hall putting on my raincoat, she came out to me, watched me in silence. I nodded towards the rain-patterned window and smiled, muttering about the “bloody weather”, and she came closer, reached up and pulled the collar of my coat up around my ears.
“Don’t be too late back,” she said.
“No, I won’t. And don’t you overdo it.”
“I’ll be fine . . .”
We faced each other, smiling. To an outsider everything would have looked as usual—but in reality nothing was.
“I should have told you about the baby earlier,” she said.
“—It’s over now.”
“Yes.”
A pause, then she said haltingly, trying to read in my eyes the reaction to her words:
“But it—it doesn’t have to be—so—so final . . .”
I said nothing. She went on:
“The doctor told me—well—I can still have another child—we can still have another. Just because—this happened—is no reason why we can’t . . .” She looked away. “He said it’s no reason,” she finished lamely.
I put my arms around her, held her to me and kissed her, my mouth gently brushing the mark of the bruise.
“No reason at all,” I lied, “if that’s what you want.”
When I got to my room I unpacked the stuff from the car and tried to settle down to do something, but it was almost impossible—I felt that practically each pencil stroke required a conscious effort. In the end I gave up.
It had been on my mind since leaving the flat that there was nothing to stop me going to collect Bonnie this morning—I was free to do so—and I sat there in a sweat, trying to come to a decision, telling myself that it had to be done and trembling with fear at the prospect of it.
After nearly two hours of deliberating, sitting over my forgotten drawing-board, I made up my mind: if it had to be done then it was as well to get it over with quickly; Macbeth and his wife had been faced with a similar problem and come up with the same resolution.
Taking a very deep breath I picked up the phone and dialled the Bournemouth number.
There was no answer. And they could be out anywhere—and who knew when they’d be back? So it would have to be tomorrow after all. As I put the phone down my heart hammered with relief at my temporary reprieve.
I went to a local pub for an early lunch but found I could eat hardly anything. It didn’t matter. I sat there with my beer while the time passed and the rain beat against the windows—would it never stop? I stayed till closing-time. When I got back to the front door of the house I found Kate waiting for me, sheltering in the narrow porch.
“Kate . . .”
The smile I started to give her died on my face; I could see by her mouth and steady eyes that something was wrong.
“Well,” she asked, “have we got to stand out here looking at each other?”
I unlocked the door and stepped aside to let her pass. She went by me and, without looking back, started up the stairs.
When we got inside my room she turned and faced me.
“How did you get here?” I asked.
“A taxi.” Her voice was clipped. She had a slightly wild look about her. The rain had darkened the shoulders of her light raincoat and wisps of hair clung damply to her forehead.
“What brings you out in this weather?” I asked. “You should be at home. You’re not well enough to be out yet.”
“I’m all right.”
“Do you want to sit down?” I indicated a chair.
“No. I don’t intend staying very long.”
“Kate, what is it? What’s the matter?”
She shrugged. “I should have thought it was obvious. I wanted to see you.”
“Couldn’t it have waited till I got back?”
“No. I had to see you now. That’s why I’ve been standing out there.”
I waited for her to continue. At last she said:
“I’m going to divorce you.”
“—I see.”
“That’s all you can say—‘I see’.” She shook her head. “I don’t trust you, Alan. I’ll never trust you or believe you again. I don’t want ever to live with you again. I want you to—pack up everything that’s yours and leave. Find somewhere else to live.” Her face was drained of colour and against the whiteness the bruise showed livid.
“Would you tell me why you’re saying all this?” I asked. I was trying to appear calm.
“Yes, I’ll tell you!” she blurted out. “A certain Mrs. Warner came to see me!”
“Mrs. Warner—? I don’t know any Mrs. Warner.”
“That’s surprising, considering you went to see her. She’s a social worker. She works in the Adoptions Section of the Social Services Department!”
Sweet Jesus, why did that have to happen?
I said weakly:
“Oh . . . yes . . .”
“Oh, yes,” she echoed. “Now you remember. Good. Well, you’ll be interested to know that she came round to—to discuss the case of our daughter, Bonnie.” She almost spat the next words at me: “You asked them to take her away. Ever since you got back you’ve been so—so nice—so considerate—and all the time you’ve just been plotting—trying to arrange for Bonnie to be taken away! How could you do it? Why?”
Suddenly I could taste the beer in my mouth. I felt sick. I turned away. “You know why.”
“I know you think you know why.”
“Listen!” I spun, grabbed her by the shoulders and held her. “Listen to me—!”
“Let me go.”
“Listen! God damn it! You’re going to listen! I won’t stand by and let that—that—creature destroy—everything—just because you’re—blinded by your maternal feelings! She killed our sons. She made me sterile. Yes!” I almost shouted at the surprise that came into her eyes. “It’s true! She didn’t want us to have any more children, and eventually s
he made sure of it. So she gave me mumps. It was no accident.”
“No, no, no—” Kate shook her head from side to side. “You hate her so—that’s why you’re saying all this.”
“Yes, and I’ve got good reason to hate her. You want to hear more? She caused your miscarriage. It was her doll you slipped on, going down the stairs. That doll she never ever played with. ‘Bonnie was in bed asleep’—isn’t that what you told me? No—Bonnie wasn’t in bed asleep. Bonnie was in bed waiting her chance. She’d accomplished everything she wanted—the boys were gone—I couldn’t possibly give you another child—and I’d taken Lucy away. She had the nest all to herself. And then you go and tell her you’re pregnant.” I dropped my hands back to my sides. She stayed there—staring at me, wide-eyed.
“If you hadn’t told her,” I went on, “that baby you wanted would still be safe inside you. That was your mistake. And that night while you were—what?—sorting out clothes, I think you said—she crept out of her room and put her doll on one of the top steps. Then went and got back into bed. You, turning the corner from the landing, didn’t see the doll—and that was it. You went down. She took a chance, mind you—you could have been more seriously hurt—but I suppose she must have been desperate. And if the fall hadn’t been serious enough she would have done something else in the next day or two. You can be sure of that—”
What was the point? I was hitting my head against a brick wall. Suddenly I just didn’t care whether she saw the truth or not. I turned away. I should have driven to Bournemouth today—and that would have been the end of it.
The room was silent except for the swish of tyres on the wet road below. Into the quiet Kate said softly, her voice full of horror and wonder:
“Such a terrible thing can’t be possible . . .”
“Yes.”
“But how?”
“Don’t ask me how. I only know it is.”
“Oh, God . . .”
I thought I had detected a note of—nothing approaching belief, but something else—a softening of her resistance? I looked at her. No. If her belief had wavered it had only been for a moment. She was glaring back at me, as immovable as ever.
“You don’t know that child at all,” I said.
“You don’t know her! She’s gentle and sweet and loving!”
“She’s very, very clever—and quite ruthless.”
“You should have seen her while you were away. You never saw a more affectionate child.”
“Of course! Can’t you understand? It wasn’t because I was away—it was because Lucy was away. Lucy was gone and that’s what Bonnie wanted . . .”
“It’s impossible to make you understand,” she said, moving away. “I’ve told you what I came here to tell you—and that’s it.” In the doorway she turned. “For an artist you’re unbelievably blind. You’re a slave to your outsize imagination—I know that now. Well, I’m not. I know. I can see what goes on. I know love when I see it.”
“All right, Kate.” I wanted her to go. I wouldn’t wait—couldn’t wait till tomorrow, I’d decided—I’d drive to Bournemouth as soon as she’d gone. But she hadn’t finished—she kept hammering away. “You don’t open your eyes. You’re determined to see only what you want to see—”
I nodded, I wasn’t even looking at her. The time, precious time, was ticking away. Go away, Kate. Please go.
“You should have seen them—how happy they were to see each other again—”
“. . . What . . . ?”
“So—fond of each other . . .”
I whirled to face her.
“What do you mean—? Are you saying that Bonnie’s back?”
“Yes.”
“That can’t be . . . Mrs. Taverner told me they’d be coming back on Saturday.”
“Well, they’re back now. They left early because of the rain. What’s all this about? Why are you—?”
“Where are they now?”
“Who?”
“Lucy and Bonnie, of course! Where are they?”
“At home! Where else would they be!”
“You’ve left them alone? Together?”
“What’s wrong with you?” she shrieked at me. “I came here to tell you that—”
“The girls—” I shouted back at her. “You don’t know what you’ve done!” I spun on the carpet, aimless in my blind panic.
“They’re all right. Perfectly. And Mrs. Taverner said she’d pop in and check on them.”
“Knowing Bonnie,” I flung at her, “that is no comfort!” Then I was moving across the room, reaching out for the telephone.
TWENTY ONE
The dial of the telephone revolved at an incredibly slow speed. Hurry up! Hurry up! I urged—the wait was endless. But at last I heard the ringing tone and then, a few seconds later, Lucy’s voice.
“Hello—?”
“Lucy—?”
“Yes.” She recognised my voice at once. “Hello, Daddy.”
The relief I felt made my voice shake as I asked:
“Are you all right?”
She didn’t answer, and then, into the silence Kate was grabbing at my arm, starting to speak. Impatiently I shook her off.
“Lucy, are you all right?” I repeated.
“I . . . I think so . . .”
“What do you mean—you think so?”
“Well, it’s . . . it’s Bonnie . . .” Her voice was small over the wire, small and scared. My heart began to thump. I said, trying to sound off-hand:
“What about her?”
“She . . . Well, she’s being so . . . funny . . .”
“In what way?”
“Well, she won’t leave me alone. She keeps following me. All the time.”
“Perhaps she just wants to play—that’s all . . .” I didn’t believe it myself—not for a moment. And Lucy didn’t believe it either.
“—No. It’s not like when she plays. It’s . . . different. She looks at me like—even now—she’s looking at me so . . . strangely . . .” The fear was stronger now in her voice. “Daddy . . . I’m afraid.”
I thought I could choke on the tightness of my breathing. “Darling—” I began, but Kate leaned over and wrenched the receiver from my hand. “All this nonsense!” she said. “Let me talk to her—” Without hesitating I snatched the phone back again, not caring that my nail dug into her chin, drawing a trace of blood.
“Listen, my dear,” I said into the mouthpiece. “I’ll tell you what I want you to do. I want you to go out of the flat and ring Mrs. Taverner’s bell. Keep ringing until she lets you in. Then stay with her until I get home. All right?”
“I can’t . . .”
“Why? Why can’t you?”
“The door’s locked—the big lock—not the other one.”
“What!” I turned to Kate. “Did you lock them in together?”
Fingers to the small wound on her chin she looked away, ignoring me. I half-grabbed, half-hit her shoulder so hard that she lurched, almost falling. I gripped the lapel of her coat. “Answer me! Did you lock them in?”
“Of course not.” She tore herself away. “Don’t be stupid.”
“Well, they’re locked in now. Where did you leave the key?”
“It’s kept where it’s always kept—on the shelf by the clock! But you know that lock’s never used during the day.”
I went back to the phone.
“Listen, Lucy . . .”
“Yes, Daddy . . .”
“The key is on the shelf by the clock. Have you ever used the big key before?”
“No.”
“Well, you’ll manage all right. Turn it towards the window. But you’ll need to press hard. You understand?”
“Yes . . .”
“Good girl. Now just don’t hang up the phone, but just go and get the key and do as I tell you. And don’t worry. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“That’s my girl . . .”
I heard the rattle of the receiver as she laid it down on the table. Se
conds went by. Kate said:
“What’s happening? Would you mind telling me what this is all about?”
I ignored her; I was listening for Lucy’s return. After a few moments her voice was there on the line again.
“Daddy?”
“Did you get the key?”
“It’s not there.”
Christ. “It must be,” I said. “Did you look properly?”
“Yes. It’s gone.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“All right, baby, it doesn’t matter.” I paused, dumb, not knowing what to tell her—anything that would keep her safe until I could get there. “Listen,” I said, “Mummy and I are on our way home right now,” I was reaching for my car keys as I spoke. “Until I’m there I don’t want you to play with Bonnie at all. Don’t go near her. You understand?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” I turned to Kate. “I know there’s no lock on our bedroom door, but can the girls’ room be locked from the inside?”
“Yes—but why?”
“How does it lock—?”
“There’s a key in a jar by the window . . .”
“Lucy—” I said quickly. “—If you go up to your—” Then I stopped. The phone at the other end had gone quite dead. When I dialled again the ringing tone just went on and on—and I knew it wasn’t going to be answered.
Slamming down the receiver I hurried to the door. “Quick!” I said to Kate over my shoulder, “we’ve got to hurry!” Maddeningly slow behind me, she protested, and I turned back to her, making no effort to hide my fury and my fear, my words hissing out through gritted teeth.
“Listen! Either come with me now, and fast, or stay here! I don’t give a damn! All I care about is Lucy!” Then I turned, ran down the stairs and out onto the pavement. When I got to my car in the next street I looked back and saw Kate just coming round the corner, running. I got in, switched on the ignition and swung open the door for her.
“Hurry!”
She got in beside me, and I revved the motor and moved the car out to join the flow of traffic.
It was a nightmare ride.
Looking back, I see myself hunched up over the wheel, Kate pale and silent at my side. It seemed that all the other vehicles on the road were bent on hindering our progress, and I could only retaliate with muttered curses and invective.
The Godsend Page 18
