The Perfect Mother

by Margaret Leroy

Sinead has found the sundews, which have shining wet hairs on their leaves. A fly is stuck to one: it’s still alive, it’s struggling but can’t escape.

  ‘That is gross,’ says Daisy.

  Richard gives the girls a little lecture, explaining about the sticky stuff on the sundew, and how the fly is trapped and all the different ways that plants eat insects. He likes to teach them. Sinead has a special expression, sardonic, long-suffering, for when he tries to explain things. Daisy listens for a moment, briefly attentive, then she’s off along some inner path of her own.

  ‘Natalie’s sister has a friend,’ she says, ‘and she has some voodoo dolls from when she went on holiday.’ Her voice is slightly reverent and hushed. ‘And the girl with the voodoo dolls gave Natalie’s sister one for wealth and after that their father got ten thousand pounds because he was doing a good job at his work.’

  ‘Wow,’ I say. Sinead too is listening, momentarily impressed. She loves this kind of thing; the magazines she reads are full of runes and horoscopes.

  ‘But then Natalie’s sister and the girl with the voodoo dolls broke up.’ Daisy is solemn as she tells her story. ‘And the girl gave Natalie’s sister a doll for hate, and next day Natalie’s sister broke her ankle.’

  ‘Spooky,’ says Sinead.

  ‘You don’t want to listen to that kind of nonsense,’ says Richard briskly.

  Daisy shrugs. ‘I wasn’t scared,’ she says.

  Downstairs there are aquariums. We see black catfish that move through the water like shadows or absences, and a grey spangled piranha, and tiny platys with ripply rainbow tails. Daisy climbs up on the railing. The flickery lights from the tank are in her eyes.

  ‘They’re so gorgeous—the rainbow ones, the platys,’ I say. ‘All their colours.’

  Richard turns to me. His face is close to mine, the smell of the aftershave that I gave him for Christmas, musky, rich, is all round me. I curve in towards him.

  ‘I love it when you get excited about things,’ he says. He pushes his hand through my hair. ‘You look so pretty this afternoon,’ and he kisses me with considerable seriousness, right there by the aquarium in front of several people.

  On the way out we buy ice creams from the kiosk—traditional creamy ones in cones, with no E-numbers.

  ‘This is delicious,’ says Daisy, taking a first lick.

  We wander past the crocus lawn again with our ices, drinking in the lavishness of the flowers.

  Sinead and I have nearly finished, but Daisy has a lot of ice cream left.

  ‘Get a move on, Daisy, or it’s going to melt,’ says Richard.

  A large drip lands on her foot. She holds the ice cream well out in front of her. I wrap a tissue round the cone.

  ‘Actually, Mum, d’you mind if I leave this?’ she says.

  ‘No, of course not, sweetheart.’

  I take the ice cream and drop it in the nearest bin. I glance at Daisy; her face is white as wax.

  We sit quietly in the car going home.

  ‘Well, that was a nice outing, wasn’t it?’ The brightness in my voice sounds forced, even to me.

  No one says anything.

  ‘Mum, Daisy’s retching,’ says Sinead then.

  Dread washes through me. I turn to Daisy, reach back to stroke her knee.

  ‘Maybe the ice cream wasn’t such a clever idea,’ I say.

  My optimism of earlier seems pointless, stupid, worse than stupid, as though with my transient, febrile cheerfulness, like the girl with the voodoo dolls, I have provoked ill fortune.

  CHAPTER 16

  Another postcard comes. It’s Checkpoint Charlie, taken in summer; the sky is wide and clear. There’s a kind of cabin that’s been preserved, presumably for tourists, a notice that says ‘U.S. Army Checkpoint’, a large framed picture of a soldier—Russian, I think, in khaki uniform—stuck up in the street. You can tell from people’s clothes that the photo was taken recently: a woman in jeans and a vest top ambles along the pavement, a man in combat trousers is walking across the road. Beside the hoarding that says ‘You are leaving the American sector’, there’s now a traffic light and a shop selling sunglasses.

  She’s written her address and telephone number at the top.

  Darling, Just in case you lost my address!! I know you must be so busy, with your little girl and everything. And how old is she now, I wonder, your little one.

  Hope you like the picture and that all is going well! Perhaps you could lift the phone? My number is as above. Just whenever you can, my darling, in one of those spare moments! Well, I’m sure you don’t have many of those! But I’d be so happy to hear from you. This comes with all my love.

  CHAPTER 17

  Daisy and I sit by the pile of board books in the clinic. Daisy is afraid.

  ‘What will he say about the medicines, Mum? Will he tell me off?’

  ‘Of course he won’t. You really tried to take them.’

  But now we’re here, waiting to see him, I wish we’d tried again.

  It’s clear but cold. Through the glass doors the playground is full of light, so the colours of the plastic toys look pallid, faded. There’s no one on the GameCube, but Daisy isn’t interested today.

  The nurse with the gentle face is weighing a teenage girl, saying how much weight she’s put on, and how fantastic this is. Everyone glows—the nurse, the girl, the mother. I feel so envious of them.

  ‘I wish Dad would come,’ says Daisy.

  ‘Me, too.’

  Richard is meant to be joining us, coming from a meeting somewhere in Surrey. I look at my watch; our appointment is in two minutes. The clinic door bangs back and we look up, full of hope. It’s a woman with a frayed face who’s pushing a child in a buggy.

  And then Dr McGuire comes to his door and Daisy’s name is called and we have to go in.

  Some X-rays are displayed with the light behind them.

  ‘I think those are your legs,’ I say to Daisy.

  ‘Come and have a look,’ says Dr McGuire. She goes to stand beside him. Half of his face is bright and half in shadow; his hair is whitened, his profile sharp in the light. He names the bones for her. Daisy smiles, enjoying this.

  ‘There’s no arthritis. Your legs are fine,’ he says. He points to another X-ray. ‘And this one is the barium meal,’ he says. ‘Now, this shows how your stomach contents come back up the oesophagus. What it doesn’t tell us, though, is why that should be happening.’

  He switches off the light behind the X-rays.

  She comes to sit beside me on the sofa; he’s in an upright chair at his desk. Behind him there’s the window, and you can see out over the hospital, the faceless windows of the wards, their bedheads and floral curtains, and the stains of damp on the concrete.

  ‘So, Daisy, how are you now?’

  ‘All right,’ she says.

  This time I know I mustn’t interrupt.

  ‘Now, I sent you home with some medicines,’ he says. ‘How did you get on with those?’

  She turns to me. I can feel her leg shaking a little against me. She doesn’t say anything. I put my arm around her.

  I wish Richard were here; I long for him to be here, to handle this for us.

  ‘I’m afraid she didn’t manage to take them,’ I tell him.

  ‘Most children of eight can take medicines,’ he says.

  ‘But I think it’s part of her illness,’ I say. ‘It’s because she feels so sick.’

  ‘She managed to swallow the barium,’ he says.

  ‘Yes, in the end. Though they were about to give up. But barium’s easier, isn’t it? It kind of coats your throat, it doesn’t have a bitter taste…’

  He’s writing in her folder. He doesn’t look at me.

  The door bursts open and Richard comes in. Relief washes through me.

  ‘Sorry I’m late.’ His face is flushed and his voice is loud; he’s been rushing and breathing heavily. ‘I got stuck in this massive tailback. It’s one of those days when the system seizes up.’
/>   ‘Don’t worry, Mr Lydgate,’ says Dr McGuire. ‘I’m grateful to you for making the effort. Too many fathers simply wouldn’t bother.’

  Richard sits beside us. I sense his warmth, his solidity; the opulent smell of his aftershave wraps round me. I’m so glad he is here.

  ‘Now, what have I missed?’ he says.

  He’s brisk but genial; he’s brought a kind of urgency, a sense of the busy adult world, in with him. Briefly, I feel an envy I rarely feel: I long for a proper job, for an office like Richard’s, for those crisp tailored suits that people wear for meetings, and a glamorous PA to keep you organised, and phones all ringing at once, and being taken seriously.

  Dr McGuire explains about the X-rays. Richard stretches out his legs and reaches an arm along the back of the sofa.

  ‘And we also have the results of your blood tests, Daisy,’ says Dr McGuire. ‘And the good news is that everything is absolutely normal. Except the test for allergy. And that is a bit on the high side, but I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about.’

  I ask if it shows what she’s allergic to.

  He shakes his head. ‘It doesn’t test for particular foods—we can’t do that unfortunately.’

  ‘Perhaps we should try one of those diets,’ I say. ‘When you leave out different things.’ I don’t tell him about the diet we’ve tried: I can too vividly imagine what he’d think of Helmut Wolf.

  He shrugs. ‘Those diets can be very tedious,’ he says. ‘Children generally know what’s good for them. We have to trust our children.’

  Warring ideas mill around in my mind. What if Helmut Wolf was right? Yet the diet was so difficult. But if she’s so allergic, perhaps we should try it again? I don’t know who to believe now.

  There’s a little silence. I hear a baby crying the other side of the door—a strange, disturbing cry, too rhythmic, not quite natural. I think how all these tests have been done, yet we’re no further on.

  ‘So what happens now?’ I say. ‘We still don’t know what’s wrong.’

  ‘That’s what we need to talk about,’ he says. ‘Whether we ought to be taking a different route. But for now she really must take her medicines.’

  ‘But she can’t…’

  He holds his hand up, silencing me: that gesture that I hate.

  ‘I know your position on this, Mrs Lydgate,’ he says. ‘You’ve made that abundantly clear. In fact I’m sure she can take them. But it’s so important to have the right attitude. Sometimes parents can convey a kind of uncertainty to a child, and children pick up on that. Children are very sensitive to what their parents are thinking. Daisy, you’ll promise me you’ll take your medicine, won’t you?’

  She nods, eager to please.

  ‘And now, Daisy,’ he says, ‘would you mind leaving us for a moment? I’d like to speak to your mum and dad on their own.’

  I take her hand and we go back to the waiting room. I find her a worn copy of The Worst Witch, that she loved when she was younger. She opens it at random.

  ‘Is he going to talk about the medicine, Mum?’

  ‘Don’t worry, sweetheart, it’s not your fault,’ I tell her.

  In the consulting room, Richard and Dr McGuire are talking amiably together, about the M25, and how the government really will have to get to grips with our antediluvian transport system. As I sit, they stop smiling.

  ‘Right then,’ says Dr McGuire. He leans back in his chair, his fingertips touched together. A new seriousness darkens his face. ‘Do you have anything else you want to tell me?’

  I shake my head.

  He doesn’t respond; he’s waiting.

  ‘Not really,’ I say. ‘No. Nothing else.’

  The silence between us is tense, charged. I know what he’s expecting, what he’s wanting. She’s being bullied at school…There was this paedophile…To be honest, my husband and I do have our difficulties, Doctor…But there’s nothing to say. The silence stretches on, constraining me.

  ‘Well, I don’t think it’s psychological, if that’s what you mean,’ I tell him.

  ‘I think it is,’ he says.

  I feel a hot spurt of fury. ‘How can it be? She’s got lots of friends, and no one’s died or anything. There’s nothing to bring this on.’

  ‘Children see things differently,’ he says. ‘Something that seems unimportant to an adult can seem major to a child.’

  ‘But there isn’t anything. It started when she got flu. And she was always such a happy child.’

  ‘She’s also a child who’s quite old enough to speak for herself,’ he says. His pale eyes flick across my face. ‘And somehow you won’t let her. When she tries to tell me something, you keep on interrupting.’

  Richard doesn’t protest. Why doesn’t he intervene, defend me? I turn to him, but I can’t read his expression; he’s looking at Dr McGuire.

  ‘Daisy was nervous about coming,’ I say. ‘I could feel her shaking. Because she hadn’t taken the medicine. Sometimes you have to speak for your child. It’s an intimidating situation for a child.’

  ‘Intimidating?’ he says. ‘I really think that’s overstating the case. In my experience, most children don’t find it remotely alarming to come here. They know about hospitals, they watch Casualty. Today’s children are very sophisticated, Mrs Lydgate.’

  I shake my head. ‘I just can’t accept that her illness has a psychological cause.’

  He leans towards me, his face sharp, intense.

  ‘I’m very struck by the fact that you seem so reluctant to consider that Daisy’s problem might have a psychological explanation. This convinces me that this is something we have to look at,’ he says.

  I’m reaching around for things to defend ourselves with, to defend Daisy.

  ‘But we’re a perfectly normal family. Her older sister’s never had anything wrong. She’s scarcely ever had a day off school.’

  ‘She has an older sister?’ He looks at the notes, frowns. ‘According to what we have here, Daisy is your first child.’

  ‘Catriona means Sinead,’ says Richard. ‘My daughter by my first wife.’

  ‘Ah,’ says Dr McGuire. ‘I understand.’

  His eyes glitter. He makes a note in the file.

  ‘This happened before,’ I tell him. ‘It happened at the surgery. Daisy was hardly eating, and the doctor said it was because she was unhappy, and wouldn’t have done any tests at all if I hadn’t insisted.’ I’m trying to explain, but anger sharpens my voice. I know how he sees me, a harridan, a shrill, insistent woman. ‘If people decide she’s ill because she’s worried about something, they stop trying to find what’s wrong, and that panics me.’

  ‘But you see,’ he says, ‘you seem so sure about this, and you get so cross when I suggest it’s psychological, and that makes me think it is.’

  There’s an image in my head—vivid, exact. I walk across the floor to him, see him flinch away from me, hear the crack of my fist on his face.

  Richard senses this perhaps. He puts his hand on my arm.

  ‘Darling, don’t get too upset. Dr McGuire’s just trying to cover all the bases. I mean, don’t you think we ought to give every suggestion serious consideration? For Daisy’s sake,’ he says.

  My throat is tight: I can’t speak.

  ‘The fact is, this illness of Daisy’s is really very perplexing,’ says Richard. ‘He doesn’t mean she’s making it up.’ He turns to Dr McGuire. ‘You don’t mean that, do you?’ he says.

  ‘Not at all,’ says Dr McGuire.

  ‘Do you have any theory?’ says Richard. ‘Anything in mind that might be causing Daisy’s illness?’

  ‘Obviously we need to investigate properly.’ He’s looking at Richard again. ‘I’m fortunate to work very closely with an excellent psychiatrist. I’m sure you’ll find her extremely approachable—’

  Panic rises in me like nausea.

  ‘No.’ My voice is too loud for the room. ‘I just don’t see that it’s right. I don’t see that it’s necessary.’

&n
bsp; ‘You see?’ He’s speaking quite mildly, as though to a recalcitrant child. ‘You’re doing it again. You’re interrupting.’

  CHAPTER 18

  It’s mufti day at Sinead’s school, in aid of science textbooks, and she has a flower scrunchie in her hair. But her forehead is creased in a frown as she packs her bag.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘I’ve got a French test,’ she says.

  ‘You’ll be all right,’ I tell her. ‘I know you will. French is your thing.’

  ‘No, I won’t. It’s Miss Premenstrual Johns.’

  ‘But you’re brilliant at French, Sinead.’

  She pushes a hand through her dark abundant hair. Her brown eyes harden as she looks at me.

  ‘I wanted you to test me on my verbs,’ she says. ‘But you were so stressed last night—I thought you’d be cross if I asked.’

  Penitence washes through me.

  ‘I’m sorry, my love. I’m always so busy with Daisy.’

  ‘Yes, you are,’ she says. There’s a splinter of bitterness in her voice that’s new to me.

  She opens the door and cold air rushes in. Her face is set. She goes without saying goodbye.

  Daisy is dressed for school. She looks fragile, shrunken, inside the formal clothes, and there are pastelpencil smudges round her eyes. She hasn’t eaten anything.

  I pack her bag for her.

  ‘You have to take in your matchbox today, remember? For the sponsorship thing. They’re collecting them in. You don’t want to miss that, do you?’

  ‘I don’t care.’

  ‘But you worked so hard on it.’

  Ridiculously, this matters terribly to me—that she is part of this charming quixotic project, just like the other children.

  The matchbox is on the dresser. I open it up for her, to see where all the things we have collected nestle together; the paperclip, the broken-off lead from a pencil, the sunflower seed, the feather, grey as a pearl, that we found on the grass at Kew; this tiny box of clustered treasures.

  ‘Look. Doesn’t that look wonderful?’

  ‘I don’t care,’ she says again.

  There’s a vase of yellow tulips on the table, their colour rich as butter. They’re starting to ease apart, to sag a little; a single petal has fallen. I pick it up—it’s firm, cool, soft as vellum. I tuck it on top and close the matchbox up. She shrugs and turns away.