Postcards From Berlin

by Margaret Leroy

  “There’s nothing more you can do,” says Fergal. “Not for today.”

  “No.” I lean back on the sofa, slip off my shoes. I am exhausted but restless.

  He brings me wine and sits in the chair opposite me.

  “So tell me,” he says.

  I tell him the story of what has happened. About my mother, and what I learned about my father. About the police, about Daisy being taken away. He listens, doesn’t say much. Sometimes he nods a little.

  When I’ve finished, we sit in silence for a moment.

  “You look different,” he says.

  “Is that good, I wonder?”

  He smiles but doesn’t reply.

  It’s getting darker: Outside, a yellow moon is rising over the gardens. The moon has a pattern on it; I can see why, when I was a child, I half believed there was a face there. It’s soothing, sitting there in the quiet, darkening room. I feel that I can breathe now.

  He turns on a table lamp. In its amber light, I notice things about him: the line of his jaw, accentuated by shadow, his rather square hands and bitten fingernails. When he looks at me, his eyes lingering on me, I feel that I am being told a secret.

  The wine slides warmly into my veins.

  “I feel as though I’ve been away for years,” I tell him. “When I got back to the house, it was strange — as though I hadn’t been there for ages. Almost as though it wasn’t mine anymore …”

  I yawn. A great weariness overwhelms me.

  He’s looking at his hands.

  “You can stay if you like,” he says. “You don’t have to go back there and be on your own.…”

  I don’t know what to say.

  “I mean, whatever you want,” he says.

  I look away from him. I’m scared to sleep with him. And I see it isn’t the thought of Richard that stops me — as though my connection with him has become too tenuous, too frayed, for this to matter, and this shocks me. The fear is a deeper, more primeval thing, some superstitious sense of justice — that if I make love to Fergal I won’t get Daisy back.

  “Look,” he says, reading my mind, “the bed’s made up in the spare room.”

  “Yes. That would be best, probably.”

  But when I get up, I go to him, reach out, moving my hands across his face, his head, like somebody blind, learning about him. He wraps himself around me. I press my mouth into his, closing my eyes.

  In the little whitewashed spare room, under the Traidcraft bedspread, I think at first that I will be awake forever. But something has been soothed in me, and I slip down rapidly into sleep. In my dream, I am walking the cobbled streets of Prenzlauer Berg in the dappled afternoon, and I pass the graying block where the stucco is peeled away, revealing the naked brick, and I see the little girl high up on the balcony by the empty birdcage, the girl in the taffeta dress, and in my dream she seems to look like Daisy. I wave, but she doesn’t see me; she is looking away. I try to call, but no sound comes, and she turns and goes back into the darkness of the house, leaving me desolate.

  Chapter 40

  IN THE MORNING, Fergal wakes me with coffee.

  Before I go to the case conference, I ring the number that he has, the doctor at Great Ormond Street. I speak to the doctor’s secretary; I explain that we need a second opinion, half expecting that she will say this is impossible. But she makes a provisional appointment, as though my request is the most natural thing. All she will need, she says, is a letter from Daisy’s GP.

  Then I ring the Jennifer Norton Unit and ask to speak to Daisy. A different person comes to the phone, a woman. Terence is off till twelve, she tells me, and Daisy is eating her breakfast; she doesn’t want to disturb her. I feel a flicker of rage, but there’s nothing I can do. She agrees to give Daisy my love.

  I drive to the hospital through the clear, bright day. Heat lies across the car park in pools of glimmering haze.

  A woman comes up to me in the entrance. She has baggy purple trousers and gentle eyes and riotous dark hair.

  “Catriona?”

  I nod.

  “I’m Meera.” Her whole face creases as she smiles. “I thought it must be you.”

  She looks more like an infant teacher than a solicitor. I immediately like her.

  “I guess we need to pitch straight in,” she says.

  We sit in outpatients’ reception and she opens up her briefcase.

  “OK,” she says. “You’d better tell me.”

  She listens mostly in silence, frowning a little, her dark eyes resting on me. She takes notes with a Biro that’s been comprehensively chewed. As I talk, her frown deepens. When I’ve finished, she sits for a moment, biting the end of her pen.

  “So today, at the conference, what would be a result for you?”

  “I want to take Daisy home.”

  “That’s the thing that matters more than anything?”

  “Yes.”

  “You see,” she says, “the wardship will take a while to undo. And they may well want to put Daisy on the child protection register.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It’s a list of children believed to be at risk. Really, if a professional has worries that a child is being neglected or abused, the child will go on the list pretty automatically. I don’t think we can avoid that.…”

  “But she isn’t …”

  “I know.” She puts her hand on my arm. “Catriona, I know. But we need to focus on what we can achieve today.”

  “OK. As long as I can take her home.”

  “Catriona.” She looks at me, her head on one side. Her eyes are harder suddenly, penetrating. “You’ve got to tell them exactly what’s happened with you and Daisy — how you see it. I’ll back you up, of course, but it’s best if it comes from you. Can you do that?”

  “Yes. I think so.”

  “What you say will go in the conference notes; that’s very important. It’s your chance to tell your story, to have it written down. Don’t worry about trying to say the right thing or how you might be seen. You mustn’t think you can help Daisy by being polite and quiet. You’ve got to speak out. D’you think you can do that?”

  My mother is there in my mind, with all her lies and evasions, the discarded photograph, the things she wouldn’t say. And I see how costly my own secrecy has been, the secrecy I learned from her, all my attempts at concealment — the burned letter, hiding my history. How my silences have not protected me, not protected Daisy.

  “Yes. I think I can.”

  I glance over her shoulder. I start. Richard is there, the distinctive outline of his back, his head. My confidence seeps away. I’m shocked to see him; I never imagined him being here this morning. Yet of course he would have got the message from Lauren Burns, would know what was happening. He’s walking away from me.

  “Richard.”

  He doesn’t seem to hear.

  I call his name again. People stare.

  He turns, nods, comes to us. He doesn’t seem surprised. It enters my mind that he knew already that I was here with Meera, that he saw as he came in and just walked on. I notice his shirt is crumpled.

  “Where were you?” I ask. “I went back to the house; I couldn’t find you. You’d just disappeared.…”

  “I might say the same of you,” he says dryly. He looks quizzically at Meera. “And this is …?”

  I do the introductions, stumbling over the words, furtive, uncertain, as though I am guilty of some crime. He raises one eyebrow a little but shakes Meera’s hand with elaborate politeness.

  Meera closes her briefcase.

  “I guess it’s time we got going,” she says with a tentative smile. “I know the way to the conference room. I’ll show you.”

  We walk there awkwardly, the three of us together, down a corridor that smells of antiseptic, Richard, who is always so good with strangers, talking lightly about the weather.

  Chapter 41

  IT’S ONE OF THOSE FEATURELESS HOSPITAL ROOMS, with neutral walls and gray acrylic
carpet; it’s chilly with air-conditioning. Dr. Carey is there, looking flushed and anxious; and Jane Watson, in a black linen dress with a slit in the side of the skirt; and Dr. McGuire, with his sleeves rolled up. He doesn’t look at me. A man with earnest glasses comes and shakes my hand. He says he is Phil Hardy, a Social Services manager, and that he will be chairing the meeting.

  There’s a table down the middle, and chairs with padded seats arranged around the table. I sit where there are two empty chairs together, and Meera sits beside me. Richard takes the remaining spare chair on the other side of the circle.

  “We need to introduce ourselves,” says Phil. “I imagine we’ll all be happy with Christian names?”

  There’s a murmur of assent.

  We go round the circle and people say who they are. Next to Phil, there is a woman in a dress patterned with poppies who is an administrative assistant; she will be taking the notes. There are people who are new to me: a solicitor from the Civic Centre; a policewoman from the Child Protection Unit; a social worker with pulled-back hair and a practiced expression of concern — she says her name is Lauren Burns and, turning to me, that she will be key-worker on the case. So now it seems we are a case — Daisy and Richard and me. And there’s a man with a sparse, sandy beard and perpetual slight frown who says he is from the Jennifer Norton Unit. I study his face, try to read him. I want to press him with questions: How is she? Tell me, tell me everything. Did she eat any breakfast? Has she cried? But I know too well just how that would be seen.

  It’s Meera’s turn. “I’m Meera Williams, solicitor. I’m representing Catriona.”

  “Not both parents — just Catriona?” Phil Hardy asks.

  She nods.

  “OK,” he says. He glances round the circle. “Right. Daisy Lydgate.”

  People shuffle and settle and open their folders out on the table. Through the wide window behind him, there’s a blue glare of sky. My heart pounds.

  “Just to briefly summarize where we are now. I gather that a period of inpatient assessment in the Jennifer Norton Unit was recommended for Daisy and that it was made clear to the parents that legal action might be taken if they refused to have Daisy assessed. I believe it was Catriona, not Richard, who objected to this course of action. That Richard was happy for Daisy to be admitted?”

  Richard leans forward. “That’s correct,” he says. Even he seems nervous here: He’s restless, shifting in his seat and smoothing back his hair.

  “As most of you will be aware,” Phil Hardy goes on, “Catriona then took Daisy out of the country. Richard was concerned for Daisy’s safety and contacted Jane Watson. Jane immediately rang us. We had Daisy made a ward of court, which enabled us to bring her back to the U.K. Daisy was then admitted to the Jennifer Norton Unit. Our purpose today is to establish a course of action for the future, and in particular to decide how far we consider Daisy to be at risk.” He turns to Dr. Carey. “I’d like to start with you, Geraldine — as the person whose involvement with the family goes back furthest.”

  Dr. Carey shuffles the papers in front of her. “I’ve been with the practice for a year. According to the notes, in the past Daisy has attended surgery with the normal childhood illnesses.”

  “Who usually brought her?” asks Phil.

  “Always her mother.” says Dr Carey. Nervous blotches flower across her neck. “In January, Catriona brought Daisy complaining of a flu-like illness. This was the first time I’d met Daisy and her mother. I was worried about Daisy’s weight, which was on the lowest percentile. I did suggest that Catriona might like some advice on appropriate diet — I felt she wasn’t giving Daisy enough protein — but she refused to see our nutritionist.”

  I’m cold, so cold: the little hairs stand up along my arms.

  Dr. Carey clears her throat. “Catriona was also resistant to the idea that Daisy’s illness might be psychological in origin.”

  “Why did you think that yourself?” asks Phil. “That it might be psychological?”

  “There wasn’t any obvious pathology, and Daisy looked unhappy. As you will know, stress is a huge factor in the illnesses we see in the surgery. I did all the usual blood rests and referred her to Graham McGuire.”

  She looks up and aims a slightly obsequious smile in Dr. McGuire’s direction.

  “Thank you,” says Phil. “So, Graham, could you tell us about your involvement?”

  Dr. McGuire opens up the file on the table in front of him. “I saw Daisy and her parents twice, in my pediatric outpatient clinic,” he says. “The mother said Daisy was suffering from nausea, stomach pains, and joint pains. I began by investigating physically. There were very few positive findings. Her blood tests were all normal, apart from a rather high IgE, suggesting a possibility of allergy. A barium meal showed she had reflux. In spite of the complaint of joint pains, there were no arthritic changes at X ray.” He leans forward as though confiding, his angular hands clasped together on top of Daisy’s file. “But I did have great concerns about the mother’s attitude. She seemed extremely overprotective toward her daughter, she had failed to give her the drugs that I prescribed, and when I suggested there might be psychological reasons for Daisy’s illness and recommended a psychiatric referral, the mother became quite belligerent, which I found worrying.”

  To my surprise, Phil Hardy turns to me. “Catriona, d’you want to respond?”

  The room is suddenly vast: The edges of things seem sharp and far away.

  “Yes, it’s true I was angry.” I think about what Meera said; I’m trying to speak boldly, but my voice sounds thin to me, tike the voice of a child. “I thought that Dr. McGuire wasn’t taking her illness seriously. And I couldn’t give her the drugs because they made her retch.”

  But Dr. McGuire moves on as though he hasn’t heard.

  “The mother’s attitude and the shifting and elusive nature of Daisy’s symptoms led me to believe that a diagnosis of MSBP or of fabricated illness were possibilities we should be considering here,” he says.

  Meera raises her hand. “If I could comment, Phil, at this point? What worries me is that a diagnosis with such serious implications was being suggested at this early stage.”

  I see Phil nodding slightly.

  “Could I just briefly ask you, Geraldine, as Daisy’s GP,” Meera goes on, “whether you at any point informed Catriona that she had a right to a second opinion on Daisy’s illness?”

  “Not as such,” says Dr, Carey.

  “So Catriona was unaware that that was her right?”

  “I can’t answer that,” says Dr. Carey.

  The woman in the flowered dress is writing all this down.

  “Now, in spite of Catriona’s reluctance,” says Phil, “Daisy and her parents were in fact referred to Jane Watson. Jane, could you tell us what you found?”

  Jane Watson nods. She’s on the other side of the circle, but even from here I can smell her sandalwood scent. “As you know, Graham and I work very closely together.” A brief, vivid smile in Dr. McGuire’s direction. “I decided, in view of Graham’s concerns, to work with the parents, without Daisy. I saw Catriona and Richard for three sessions. I found Richard quite responsive, but Catriona …” Her eyes, which are green as leaves, rest on my face for a moment and slide away. “It’s perhaps easiest if I read out some comments I made in my report.” She takes a sheet from her folder and glances down. Sunlight falls on the paper in front of her, so it looks white, blank, as chough the words have been erased. She coughs slightly. “‘Mrs. Lydgate is highly personable and appears cooperative and smiles frequently,’” she reads. “‘However, I find her evasive and distanced from her feelings. Also, she has chosen to hide certain salient facts from me, about her childhood and background, and I find this secrecy highly worrying.’”

  “What facts were these?” asks Phil.

  “Most notably, the fact that at thirteen she was abandoned by her mother and spent the years from ages thirteen to sixteen in a local authority children’s home, which is
of course exactly the kind of childhood history that can lead to dysfunctions of parenting. Because of this evasiveness, I was forced to conclude that Graham was right to be worried about this family, and to take seriously the possibility of some maternal factor in Daisy’s illness.”

  Phil turns to me. “Catriona, d’you have any comments?” he asks.

  I clear my throat. “I read about Munchausen’s in a book I bought.”

  It sounds naive. I think that people may laugh.

  He nods and says, “Go on.”

  “It said parents who caused their children’s illnesses had often themselves been in Care.” My mouth is dry; the words are hard to form. “I was very frightened about what was going to happen to Daisy. I didn’t want to tell Jane about The Poplars because I was worried what she might think if she knew.”

  “Thank you,” says Phil. He turns back to Jane Watson. “So, how did your sessions conclude?”

  “In our final session, I told them my recommendation.”

  “Which was a period of assessment in the Jennifer Norton?”

  “Exactly,” says Jane Watson.

  “I’d like to know how Daisy’s parents reacted,” says Phil. “Richard, we haven’t heard from you on this.”

  Richard clears his throat. Again that nervous gesture, smoothing back his hair.

  “What Jane was saying made sense to me at the time.”

  His voice is guarded, careful, but I note the past tense and feel a surge of hope — that he has changed his mind, in spite of everything,: that he is on my side.

  “But you objected, Catriona?” says Phil.

  “Yes,” I tell him. “I thought it was all wrong for Daisy. I felt she’d be unhappy among strangers, especially as she’s ill. She doesn’t need psychiatry. What Daisy needs is for someone to diagnose and treat her.”

  Phil turns to the man from the Jennifer Norton Unit. “Finally, Paul, can you tell us about your observations of Daisy since she’s been with you?”