“Never mind,” I say.
“That girl,” he says. “The girl with the sun in her hair.” Separating out the words, as though he’s speaking a language he’s only just learned. “I want to know what fucking happened.”
There’s a sound in his voice like a sob. Someone different looks out of his eyes: someone with such a sense of deprivation, I hate this, hate the easy tears that alcohol induces. He makes me think of my mother.
“Richard, people change. That’s how it is. Just come to bed now.”
There’s impatience in my voice, perhaps; at last he seems to hear me.
“Bed,” he says. “That is a very good idea. What good ideas you have, Catriona.”
He reaches out and starts to unbutton my shirt with one hand, pushing his hand straight inside my bra, clutching blindly at me like a boy.
I take his hand between both of mine.
“Let’s go upstairs,” I tell him.
He follows me, stumbling a little on the steps, grabbing at the banister. I close the bedroom door behind us with a quick rush of relief.
He comes across to me as I’m pulling the curtains, and starts to take off my clothes. He’s impatient, there’s heat in his eyes, his fingers are clumsy, eager. Undressing each other in the middle of the room feels daring, strange. Not like the way we usually make love, in bed under the duvet, by the forgiving light of the bedside lamp. More like when we were first together, when it was all shot through with a sense of danger, when he used to dominate me and want to deck me out in bangles and silver chains. Maybe he feels this too; he’s holding my wrists together behind my back. I feel a flicker of the old excitement.
“I’d like to …” he starts to say. “Cat, what I’d really like.…”
And then he seems to give up, to slump. He collapses onto the bed, pulls me beside him. He still has his shirt on. He rolls on top of me, slides straight into me — he’s very heavy, he presses down on me, his muscles are too relaxed. The whiskey on his breath is all over my face.
He thrusts a few times.
“Fuck,” he says.
I feel his erection soften.
“You’ve just drunk too much,” I tell him. “Let’s go to sleep now.”
He rolls off me. He lies with his back to me and is instantly asleep.
I pull the duvet up over him and go to check on Daisy.
Next morning, he is full of apologies. He’s binned the rest of the whiskey; he promises he’ll never have it in the house again. He’s afraid he was thoroughly pathetic and he hopes I’ll just forget it. I tell him, Never mind, you just got a bit emotional — I mean, we’re both so stressed, with everything that’s happening … He uses a lot of mouthwash before he goes to work.
When I go up to the attic, I find that he has put the air bed away and the sheets he used are in the laundry basket. I feel a profound gratitude, thinking that maybe things will be all right now, that his drunkenness has in some obscure way healed the rift between us.
Chapter 32
SHE’S WEARING A TROUSER SUIT. She looks harder, older, today — definite, as though there is a black line drawn all round her. Next to her I am messy and unsure.
She leans back in her chair. She has a folder on her knee.
“Thank you both for coming in,” she says.
It’s our last session, I tell myself: It’s just an hour; I only have to get through.
“Now, since I saw you last, I’ve been discussing Daisy’s case with Dr. McGuire, and I want to share our conclusions with you,” she says. I notice that she doesn’t turn on her cassette recorder. “I’m going to, as it were, set out my stall, then you can come back to me.”
Richard nods.
I wonder why she feels the need of this elaborate preamble.
Her green eyes move across our faces.
“We believe,” she says, “and, as I say, we’ve talked this through together as a team.… We believe that some time out from the family would be useful for Daisy.…” I open my mouth: She silences me with her hand. “That that would enable us to comprehend more fully just what is happening here.”
“I don’t understand,” I tell her.
“What we’re talking about here is a spell for Daisy as an inpatient, for assessment,” she says.
I feel a warm surge of relief that Daisy’s illness at last will he properly investigated.
“OK. Well, good. I think she needs that.” My mind is racing ahead, making lists and plans. Sinead can go to Sara’s; Daisy will need new pajamas, she wouldn’t want to appear in public in her animal ones; and we’ll both have to get slippers, they insist on slippers in hospital, I remember that from when Daisy was born; and we’ll need some drawing paper and all her fairy-tale books.… “And I could stay with her, couldn’t I? They let you stay with your child now, don’t they?”
“That’s true on a medical pediatric ward,” she says. “But, you see, that isn’t quite what we’re talking about here.”
“I don’t understand.”
“As you know,” says Jane Watson, her voice as sleek as silk, “we do have concerns about Daisy and just what is going on. So it would be more a case of following up on the psychological side of things and seeing just what happens to Daisy’s illness when she’s away from the family.”
For a moment I can’t process this — it doesn’t seem to make sense. But Richard is murmuring agreement beside me.
“Now, as you may know,” she says, “I have some beds at an inpatient unit for children and young people. The Jennifer Norton Unit. It’s quite an easy journey from where you are. And that’s where I’d like to admit her.”
I recognize the name. For a moment I can’t remember where I heard it, then I think of Dr. Carey’s uninvited visit. But I can’t recall what she said, remember just the smell of dead fox and my feeling of unease.
“But surely that’s psychiatric.”
She gives me a little frown. “It’s a unit where we have the space and time to look at psychological problems,” she says smoothly. “It’s time out from the family, time out from some of the pressures in these young people’s lives.”
Fear is rising in me. “And I could stay with her?”
“I’m afraid we don’t have the facilities for that,” she says. “And in a way it would defeat the purpose of the assessment. Which, as I say, is about time out from the young person’s normal environment. But you’d of course be able to visit weekly.”
“Weekly? She’s only eight, for Chrissake.”
Richard puts his hand on my wrist. I move my arm away.
“And how long would this be for, exactly?” I ask.
“Obviously, there’s a settling-in process,” she says. She’s looking at Richard, enlisting his support. “We need to get to know her, and she needs to get to know us.”
Richard nods. “Of course,” he says. His voice bland and reasonable, keeping everything calm.
“And we would certainly need some weeks to do a full assessment.”
“Weeks? But she’s ill,” I say. “What would happen about her illness — who would look after her?”
She smiles at me, that shiny, practiced smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.
“I really don’t think you need to worry,” she says. “As I say, we’ve got a very good staff ratio. And you don’t need to worry about her schoolwork, either. At the Jennifer Norton we’re fortunate to have two full-time teachers and an occupational therapy department — you can rest assured she won’t get behind.… So, any more questions about what I’ve said so far?”
But Richard is shaking his head, and I cannot speak.
“Let me tell you a little more about the unit.” She’s moving forward carefully, as though examining every word she says. “We do have quite a mixture of children. We have some girls with anorexia, for instance. Obviously, these are all children with troubles of one sort or another — and where it’s been decided that for whatever reason a period away from their families would be beneficial. But, as I say
, the staff ratio is excellent — virtually one-to-one.”
“But this is ridiculous — Daisy doesn’t have psychiatric problems.”
“Maybe not as such,” says Jane Watson. “But if there are, as we think, issues in the family that need to be addressed, this will help us to get a handle on that.”
She waits for my response.
“And if we refuse?” I say.
Richard leans toward me.
“Cat, we need to talk all this through properly,” he says. The turn of phrase is hers. I feel a brief wild rage with him, that’s he’s taking on her language.
“I want Jane to answer my question. What if we say no?”
“Well,” she says, “I’m very much hoping that that won’t happen. I’m very much hoping that you’ll recognize the necessity for this.” She smiles briefly at Richard. “You’ve been so very cooperative so far, in coming to sessions and working with me here.…”
“But if we don’t want this, if we don’t let her go?” I say again.
Richard lets out a small exasperated sigh.
Jane Watson clears her throat.
“We do feel this is very important.” Her voice is hard, clear. Now there’s none of that tentativeness that invites you to confide. “It’s Daisy’s future and health we’re talking about here. And — just in the hypothetical situation that you did have objections — to be frank, we would need at that point to take some legal powers, because we do feel that it’s crucially important to have Daisy thoroughly assessed.”
I realize I am shaking. I clasp my hands tight together so she won’t be able to see. I feel the walls press in.
“You mean a Care Order?”
“It’s something we could do.” She turns to me — she’s talking just to me now. “And I have to say — I mean, I don’t want to dwell on this — but if it came to that, we would have good grounds for a Care Order in Daisy’s case, if that’s the only way for the assessment to be done. Though to have to go through the courts would greatly increase the stress on Daisy, as I’m sure you recognize.”
Richard glances at me and away again. “Jane, I really don’t think you need worry. Like I said, we’ll talk it through at home.”
Her face softens. She nods. “Well, obviously it’s far, far better for all concerned if we’re agreed on how to move forward.… Now, you will I’m sure want to look round the unit before Daisy is admitted — just to put your minds at rest. You’ll find it’s a very friendly place and the dormitories are quite small and really very cheerful. In the meantime, I’ll reserve her a bed.”
“When would you want her to start?” asks Richard.
“I’ll have to check out the bed situation,” she says. “But I think I do have a place coming up, probably at the end of the week — normally we’d have to wait for very much longer.” She’s brisk now, leaving no space for disagreement. “As I’m sure you’ll appreciate, there’s tremendous demand for beds in the Jennifer Norton, Right, then.” She snaps the folder shut. “I’ll try and get the letter confirming everything in the post as soon as possible. I’m confident we can all agree on this.…”
She stands. We get up too.
“Look, I’ll find you our leaflet. And you can look at the map and reassure yourselves that it’s very easy to get to.…”
She rifles around in an in-tray on her desk. Her hair falls over her face.
“Here we are,” she says.
It’s like the publicity for a holiday play scheme, with lots of paint-box colors and photos of smiling children.
She brings it over, stands close to us, next to Richard. I smell her sandalwood scent. She turns to the map on the back, points to the place with one discreetly manicured fingernail. I just catch sight of the road name for a moment, then she tips the leaflet slightly away from me. I tell myself I must have read it wrong.
“There’s been a unit on the site for quite some years,” she says. “It’s named after a psychiatrist who was superintendent there for a while. She lectured on our course when I was a student — a rather wonderful woman. She died suddenly in her forties.” Her face is briefly poignant. “A stroke, so terribly sad — and they renamed the unit in her memory.” She hands the leaflet to Richard. “Before the name was changed, they called it Avalon Close,” she says.
She’s showing Richard the easiest places to park, but her voice is thin, remote from me, as though she’s speaking from very far away.
In the car on the way to the station I can scarcely speak. But Richard seems perfectly at ease. He takes out his diary, starts flicking through.
“What are you doing?”
“I guess we should fix up a time to go and look at this place,” he says.
“Richard, I’m not going to let her go there.”
A motorbike pulls out sharply in front of me. I only just see it in time. I swerve violently.
“For Chrissake,” He says. “Calm down or you’ll get us both killed.”
“Daisy is not going there.”
He sighs, “I wish you’d stop acting like this is some major tragedy,” he says.
“Richard, she’s only eight.”
“Oh, come on,” he says. “Loads of kids go to boarding school at eight. I did.”
“You hated it.”
He shrugs. “It was fine. It didn’t do me any harm.”
“That’s not the line you usually take. Anyway, you weren’t ill.”
“For God’s sake,” he says. “This whole bloody place is geared up for children who are ill.”
“No. Not ill like Daisy.” The car is full of the thick cough-sweet smell of his aftershave: It makes it hard to breathe. “Richard, there are girls with anorexia there — very disturbed girls — and they’ve probably got kids who cut themselves — a lot of those girls do; I used to know girls who did.… Daisy can’t even manage school.”
“I just don’t get it,” he says. “You worry yourself sick about Daisy, and then when they offer you help, you won’t take it. I mean, this has been dragging on for months, and you take her to see all these weird mates of Nicky’s and we don’t seem to be getting anywhere. Somebody’s got to find out what’s going on.”
“Richard, she is not going there. I’m not going to let this happen.”
I pull up outside the station. He puts his diary away, clicks his briefcase shut with a sharp little sound like the breaking of a bone. But he doesn’t get out of the car.
He turns to me, “Well, what do you propose to do, exactly?” There’s a kind of controlled rage in his voice.
“There is another way. We could get a lawyer. We could fight.”
He shakes his head slowly — as though I exhaust him, as though I am someone he is very weary of.
“Please,” he says. “Not all that again. What on earth is the point of wrecking our relationship with the very people who are trying to help us?”
He gets out of the car; he isn’t looking at me.
“There’s a dinner after work tonight.” He’s speaking to the dashboard. “A leaving do. I shouldn’t wait up; I could be really late.”
Chapter 33
I SIT BESIDE DAISY and stroke her back. She’s white, retching. These evenings make me so desperate, because I cannot help her. The nausea exhausts her, but she can’t get to sleep. I read to her from the book of Celtic tales. I don’t hear a word I read.
At last her eyelids flicker extravagantly and close. I stay beside her for a while, waiting till she’s deeply asleep to put her pillows flat. Ail I can hear is her breathing, and the faintest sound from Sinead’s television, some frenetic soap she’s watching, and in the distance a siren, blaring then abruptly cut off. I sit there in the middle of the silence, trying to trace out a path, to find a way through. I could ask for Daisy to see another doctor, but she’d need to be referred by Dr. Carey. I could go to a solicitor on my own, but I have no money that is mine. If Richard is happy for Daisy to go to this place, and the doctors will use the law if I try to prevent it, do I have any power to
stop it happening? I wish I knew about these things. I’m like a child, so ignorant of the world. And I spell out what they have on me — the lost letter, the lies I have told, my secret history, my wish to be alone in the house with my child: everything on my charge sheet. Despair washes through me. Every turn I take, it seems the way is closed to me.
Daisy is sleeping deeply now. I ease her onto her pillows; she scarcely stirs. I stand, and my shadow looms across her and halfway to the ceiling, huge, stretched out, the shadow of my hair like a fall of black water against the blue of the wall. And I think, for a moment, my darkness falling across her: But what if they are right — these people who suspect me? What if, as Jane Watson seemed to be saying, I am the environment from which Daisy needs to be removed? I’ve striven to create a perfect childhood for my child, a safe, encircled place of tenderness and picnics, a childhood so different from mine. Yet something has gone wrong. Maybe I am not like other people. Maybe, as Richard says, I try too hard, am too protective; or perhaps there is some knowledge other people have that is denied me — some mothering art that I don’t understand. And all these experts look at me and see this — the profound, unnamed thing that is missing in me. Or there is perhaps, something subtly, secretly wrong with me — bad thoughts, bad blood, the passing on of some psychological taint. A blight, a contagion, handed down in the genes. And so I must surrender to them and let her go to this place, which to me is the worst thing. For I was shut away, and now it is going to happen to my child.
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