Yellow Room

by Shelan Rodger

  ‘Maybe that’s what he did.’

  ‘You mean by allowing it to be found in the attic?’ Chala thought of what Philip had said on the phone about sorting out the old boxes in the attic before she had gone to Australia. No, if he had wanted to sort them out for that reason, surely he would have taken the letter out – and either destroyed it or written another letter to go with it after so many years. ‘You know, I think he did try and tell me a couple of times. I can remember him being really awkward and trying to put something into words, but I felt bad about it, and I thought it wasn’t fair and it must be too painful for him dredging it all up, and I put my arms around him and said it didn’t matter.’ If only she had the power to turn back the clock and have that conversation again.

  ‘I think something like that happened once with me, too. Early on, after it happened, but I was so angry with him I never let him finish. I thought he was just trying to make excuses about not being there.’

  ‘Oh God, it must have been so awful for you.’ Chala felt another rush of sympathy for this woman who had lost her baby and her husband and her sense of self in a single wave of destiny.

  Denise smiled very gently, almost wistfully, and then changed the subject. ‘How do you think Paul will react?’

  Chala felt the dark water around her. ‘You mean about Philip?’ It was easier to focus on Philip. ‘I don’t know. I think he’ll be hugely disappointed, and angry, b…’ She couldn’t hold back the rest, couldn’t stop the tears coming. ‘I don’t know how to measure anything any more. I don’t even know if Paul will come back. I don’t know how to stop “being me” just because I suddenly discover that I didn’t need to go through all that, don’t need to be the way I …’

  ‘Oh Chala, don’t.’ Denise too was groping for solidity. ‘Think of the baby, think of Kenya, of what you did there.’

  Chala saw Julius laughing, the frozen pain in Kamau’s face, the tiny swaddled baby born at a police station in the aftermath of the riots, the hungry shame of the men she had fed. She stroked the promise of life in her tummy. Hold on to what you’ve got. And suddenly she was reaching out to Denise and both women sank into the female warmth of each other’s arms.

  CHAPTER 48

  Upstairs in the yellow room, Emma is sleeping soundly. She is lying on her back and her face is flushed from the warm, late afternoon sunshine that streams through the slats in her cot. Downstairs, her four-year-old sister is hugging a rag doll called Rosie as she sits curled up on the sofa in front of the television. Philip has told her not to move. He has just nipped out to get something. He won’t be long, not long at all. Chala is a good girl. She sits and she doesn’t move, not an inch. ‘Now you sit still, Rosie. We have to wait for Phiwip.’

  The front door opens and Philip enters the room, smiling and congratulating Chala for being such a good girl. He dumps a bag of loo rolls on the table and beckons her to him. ‘Come on, my sweet. Let’s go and get Emma for her supper.’

  ‘Can Rosie come too?’

  ‘Of course she can. Come on, then.’

  Chala holds Rosie around her hip as best she can, imitating the way she sees Neece and Phiwip holding little Emma. She follows two large feet up the stairs. As they walk into the yellow room, the atmosphere is very still. They approach the cot, where Emma is lying, still fast asleep, and Chala tugs at Philip’s arm. ‘Up, up,’ she says. ‘Put me up.’ This is the game they always play. Chala gets lifted into the cot and then she lies back beside her little sister and plays at being another baby, while Denise or Philip change Emma’s nappy.

  Philip sweeps Chala up and drops her gently into the cot, but then he stops dead. There is something odd about him. He looks as if he is playing musical statues and the music has stopped and he is stuck in a funny position. Chala wriggles down beside her sister, but Emma also seems to be stuck in a funny position. Chala grabs the pillow and tries to play peek-a-boo.

  Philip has fallen on his knees by the side of the cot, as if he can no longer stand, and still he makes no movement, just stares. Chala’s little mind doesn’t understand. She covers Emma’s face with the pillow, trying to make her take her turn at peeky-boo.

  At this moment, Denise walks into the room – no one has heard her come back – asking where everyone is, but her question dies in the moment that it takes to register that all is not right in the yellow room. She takes in the scene in front of her: Philip on his knees in front of the cot, the frozen shock on his face, the sight of Chala bent over Emma, holding a pillow over her face – and the silence, the terrifying silence, from under the pillow.

  In a split second which will last the rest of her life she races to the cot and snatches Emma from under the pillow. She shakes her gently, she puts her cheek against Emma’s little cheek and her flesh knows that the flesh next to it is dead. Then she screams, and screams, and screa…

  Chala starts crying, and Philip slumps further into a heap on the floor, and a doll called Rosie stares at them all with unblinking black-cloth eyes.

  * * *

  Chala watched this new reconstruction like a film in her head and knew that it made more sense than any of the other versions ever had. She wished it were a memory chip she could simply insert to erase the vision that had haunted her all her life. And yet this new knowledge was powerful, validating, a new resource to draw on every time she faced the habit of her own being.

  She stroked the bump beneath her jumper and looked at Paul in the wedding photo on their mantelpiece. She had been back home for two days now. She and Denise had talked twice on the phone and she had also spoken to Femke and Amanda. The call with Amanda had been hard, with so much to tell and one thing she could never tell. Amanda had said she would find someone to help out with the kids and come and visit immediately, but Chala had said with the directness of true friendship that she wanted to be alone and have time to come to terms with it all before Paul made contact with her.

  He had not called her, and she had no idea what was going on or where he was. It made her feel full and empty at once. Full with the knowledge of her baby and the urge for them to move on together – away from the murky history of her past – and empty with the ache of his absence and the uncertainty of what would happen.

  She wanted desperately to share this new reality with him, but she also feared his reaction when she told him about Philip. Paul, too, had suffered the consequences of Philip’s guilty silence, living with Chala’s demons, and she was worried about how he would judge Philip. The memories of what she had half-seen in Naivasha were a constant salutary reminder of what human beings are capable of, and she wondered often what had become of Kamau, banished from the protection of the shelter after one moment of weakness. His scar, in many ways, would be worse than Julius’. She simply couldn’t find it in her to blame Philip for colluding with the version of events that had been accepted in a world before cot death had even been properly understood.

  Chala sighed deeply and got up, responding to the frequent urge to pee. She went through the motions mechanically, her thoughts still buffeting between memories of childhood and Kenya and Paul and Philip.

  And then she screamed.

  CHAPTER 49

  The blood was unmistakable: small dark spots on her knickers.

  ‘No. This isn’t happening. This can’t happen.’ She crouched down over herself, still sitting on the toilet seat with her knickers round her knees. ‘Paul, Paul, Pa…’

  Shaking, she wiped herself and inspected how much blood there was. It was like the beginning of a period. She stood up unsteadily, patting her tummy, putting a panty liner into her knickers and pulling up her jeans, all the while crooning aloud to herself. ‘It’s going to be OK. It has to be OK. Don’t worry, little one, don’t leave me now. Oh Paul, Paul come ba…’

  She found the number and called. The nurse was business-like. ‘You need to go to bed immediately and rest. Bleeding can be quite normal, but you can’t afford to take any chances. Plenty of fluids and bed rest is what you need
. Call us back in twenty-four hours and we’ll see how you are and maybe ask you in for a scan, but right now just rest.’

  Chala walked in painful slow motion to the kitchen, collected a bottle of water, a carton of orange juice, a packet of digestive biscuits and the cordless phone, and moved slowly upstairs. She left the curtains open, desperate to avoid any suggestion of darkness, undressed down to her T-shirt and knickers, avoiding the temptation to check her panty liner already, and climbed into bed. She picked up one of the unread books on the bedside table and got to the third page before she realised she had no idea what the book was about. She forced herself to reread the opening sentence. ‘John was not the person Lucy had married.’ She put the book down, too apathetic to find out who John and Lucy were, unconcerned about their private drama.

  No more loss, no more loss, please, no more loss. It was like a wave beneath the surface, an ironic reaffirmation of the karma that was still deep inside her, despite the recent discovery that her childhood guilt was misplaced. But the new mother in her kicked in over the top of this wave. She breathed deeply, willing calm into the physical environment around her baby, projecting comfort and reassurance beyond her fear.

  What if Paul came back and the baby was gone? Would he be pleased or disappointed? Inhale, exhale, concentrate now on the baby, just the baby now, just the ba… Slowly, slowly, her mother’s body rescued her with woozy sleep.

  When the phone rang, it came from far away and it rang and rang before she came to and picked it up from the bedside table.

  ‘Hello?’ Her voice was full of sleep.

  ‘Che? Were you asleep?’

  ‘Paul?’ My God, Paul. ‘Paul, how are you?’

  ‘I’m good.’ There was the fraction of a pause which seemed to last for ever. ‘Listen, I want to come home. Is that still what you want?’

  ‘Yes, yes, please come.’ The snail doing yoga had just learnt to do a backward flip.

  ‘OK, I’ll be there later today. Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I’m fine. Paul? I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about, but I’ve started bleeding. The nurse told me I needed to rest, that’s why I’m in bed—’

  ‘I’m coming now. Don’t move.’

  Was it just coincidence? Chala lay back against the pillow and smiled through her tears. He had called at exactly the right moment. He wanted her back, he was coming ‘home’ – the euphemism they had used while she’d been in Kenya was still there – he was coming back to her. Only one other thing mattered now: the little life inside her, the last vital piece in the jigsaw of home.

  CHAPTER 50

  She heard the door open downstairs and then nothing until he was suddenly in the room. Paul looked at her for a moment before either of them spoke and Chala took in the bags under his eyes and the ever-present frown.

  ‘Che, are you OK?’ He sat on the edge of the bed and pulled her gently towards him. ‘Tell me what happened.’

  She spoke slowly to keep herself in check. ‘It started about five hours ago. It could be nothi… or it could mean I’m going to lose it.’

  ‘Shh-shh,’ Paul reached beneath the duvet and placed a hand gently on her stomach. It was the first time he had done that and she looked straight at him. ‘Has the bleeding stopped?’

  ‘No, it’s not very strong, but it hasn’t stopped yet. I checked just after your call.’

  ‘Oh Che, try not to worry.’ He didn’t tell her it would all be OK, but his next words were momentous. ‘We’re in this together now.’

  She pulled him closer and they held each other and she wondered if it was too much to ask to be spared two losses in one go, if it was more than she deserved. And then she remembered that she wasn’t responsible for baby Emma’s death. It wasn’t her fault.

  ‘Is that all you’ve eaten?’ Paul pointed at the open packet of digestives.

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Right, then I’m going to make something decent for that baby of yours.’

  ‘Ours.’ She said it almost in a whisper.

  ‘Ours.’ Paul said it quickly and got up and disappeared downstairs.

  She waited quietly, a newfound calm inside her – together, they were in this together now. He returned after a while carrying a tray with two plates of spaghetti and salad, and went back down to bring up two glasses and a bottle of red wine.

  ‘But I can’t drink, Paul.’

  ‘One glass will do you good. It’ll relax you, and that’s just what you need right now.’ That unequivocal optimism she loved in him. ‘Here’s to us.’ Paul looked relieved, and she recognised that feeling of relief, of having chosen to do the right thing.

  ‘To all of us.’ It was a silent prayer to a God she didn’t believe in. ‘Thank you, Paul. I love you.’

  They ate awkwardly, concentrating on not making a mess, propped up on the bed and pausing between mouthfuls to reach over to the bedside tables for their wine. Afterwards, Paul cleared the trays and returned with two mugs of hot chocolate. He stretched out beside Chala under the duvet and stroked her hair.

  ‘I missed you, you know. I was angry with you, but I missed you too. A couple of times I wanted to phone, but I wasn’t ready.’

  ‘Where did you go?’ The question was gentle, an easy way into a subject that she had no idea how to broach.

  ‘I booked myself in to a cruddy B & B on the seafront in Hove. Can you believe it? The one we used to run past, with old people behind the windows, sipping tea.’ Paul was laughing mildly at what was already a memory. ‘It felt a bit like an institution.’ He laughed again. ‘But I hardly spent any time there – too many old dears wanting to talk to me!’

  ‘So,’ Chala hesitated, wanting to know more, wanting to understand, but also wary. ‘Was it just too much too quickly? I mean the shock of me being pregnant after everything that had happened and not saying anything to you from Kenya? I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, I really am. It just felt too big to do on the phone or by email and I didn’t think it was fair to tell you unless I was sure I wanted to keep it.’

  Rosie was there, shaking her head suddenly. Maybe you won’t be able to keep it now. Maybe it’s too la… She grappled with the ghost of her resolve, yearning for the painter to wash away one more gash of guilt.

  ‘Paul?’ The ghost moved round and round inside her. She looked at his face, at the tiredness beneath his eyes. In her mind’s eye, she saw the look of concentration on Philip’s face all those years ago, when he had tried and failed to tell her his own secret.

  ‘What?’ There was an edge in Paul’s voice, and he stopped stroking her suddenly.

  ‘What I said before about what matters, when you asked how you could even know if the baby was you…’ She floundered.

  ‘Look,’ he interrupted. ‘I had to go through it all in my own head, everything it meant – you going away, you coming back, the baby. There’s been so much—’

  ‘Sh… I know.’

  ‘Yeah, so much shit in the past few months and it all came to a head with your little bombshell.’ He stopped and Chala opened her mouth to speak, but he cut in again. ‘Listen, I feel a bit like I’ve been to hell and back, but I am back and that’s what’s important. I don’t want to talk about it anymore. All that matters now is the future.’ And he started stroking her hair again, as if it helped him concentrate. ‘And the present,’ he said then, still stroking and looking straight at her.

  She waggled a finger at him gently. ‘Bed rest means no exercise,’ she smiled and put a hand to his face. In the distance of her childhood, she could see Rusty, rolling on the ground, and Philip released from a moment that might have changed their lives. Philip had started to try and tell her something and she had felt sorry for him, misunderstanding his anguish, and changed the subject. He had wanted to tell her his secret, she could see that now. She thought of Paul’s painting, his hall of mirrors, and the events in her own life felt like mirrors receding backwards.

  ‘Just my luck!’ Paul laughed her back to the present and pul
led her to him. She stroked his face and her eyes thanked his for ever. ‘So, what about you? How have you been?’ Paul dropped her gently back against the pillow.

  ‘Very focused on the past.’ And she told him about meeting Denise and Philip’s letter with its strange revelation after so many years.

  ‘Jesus, Che!’ She looked at his face. She knew he was grappling with what it meant, rewinding the story of their lives together, rewinding the story of who she was, trying to catch the ball that had been thrown at him from nowhere. ‘So, you grew up thinking it was you for fucking nothing,’ he said slowly.

  And she took a deep breath and braced herself for the reaction against Philip, for the anger to start, but it didn’t come.

  ‘Well,’ he spoke in a way that was uncharacteristically measured, and she wondered whether he was just tempering his words for the situation or whether the time apart had changed him. ‘I guess we can’t be too hard on Philip. Who knows what Pandora’s box he might have unleashed if he’d come clean all the way back then? He might not have had the chance to be there for you at all. And anyway,’ he looked as though he was speaking from somewhere far away, ‘he must have paid the price, living with a skeleton like that all those years.’

  ‘But why do you think he didn’t say anything later, when I was older? I think he tried to once or twice when I was still a teenager, but even if he couldn’t then, why not later, when I had grown up?’

  ‘What would be the point in that? After so long. He probably only thought it would do more damage.’

  ‘Yes, I know, that’s kind of what I thought too.’ Chala was oblivious to the irony of their exchange, her faculties numbed by the strange mixture of relief and dread that swam inside her.

  ‘Try not to worry, Che.’ He said it again and she smiled weakly, acknowledging his understanding of her, his sensitivity to the edge that accompanied the joy of their reunion. He didn’t say it would all be fine.