The Perfect Mother

by Margaret Leroy

  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 be the perfect mother, wanting to create a perfect childhood for my child, a safe, encircled place of tenderness and picnics, a childhood that would be 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.

  I have the dream again—the one where I am back at The Poplars, waiting on the broken sofa, smelling the disinfectant and the stale vegetable smell. I wake, or surface a little, at least, into some state between sleep and waking, still with the feeling that I had in the dream, a feeling of being trapped by some great soft heavy weight that presses into me, so I can’t move, can’t even call or cry. Instinctively, I reach out to Richard, but the bed beside me is empty. I hear St Agatha’s striking one o’clock. I turn on the bedside lamp to try and dispel the feeling, and the light falls on the red of the walls, the stiff heavy folds of the curtains, the solitary dancer—but all these things are less real to me than the dream.

  I close my eyes and sink back into sleep, and I am again in the room I shared with Aimee. Now, it’s night in the dream. The edge of the washed-out candlewick bedspread has ridden up over the sheet, it’s crisp against my face, smelling of detergent, and the light from the street lamp filters through the curtains with their patterning of leaves, and falls across my bed and Aimee’s bed and the restless heap of her body under the bedclothes. She’s wide awake; light glints in her open eyes. As I watch, she throws her covers back. She stands, rips off her nightshirt; the orange glow falls across her rangy urgent body and her pale arms with their intricate tattoos. There’s so little flesh on her, I can see the bones through the skin. There’s darkness under her shoulder blades and in the hollows in the small of her back; leaf shadows dapple the white planes of her body. She pulls on her knickers, her sweatshirt, the jeans that have a razor sewn into the hem; she pushes her feet in her trainers, runs her hands through her flame-red hair, in a vain attempt to sort it. From under the bed she pulls out the school bag she never uses because she doesn’t go to school. She flings a few things in: a couple of T-shirts, the Tommy Hilfiger rip-off that she nicked from the Northcote Road market—I was with her, I had to keep the stall-holder talking while she did it—and some greying underwear, KitKats she’s nicked from Woolworths and stashed behind her chest of drawers, a bit of change, cigarettes, a lighter some man gave her, a crumpled dog-eared photo of her mother. She knows I am awake: she turns to me. I see her milk skin, her acute features, the way her flaming hair falls over her face. It’s as if she wants to tell me something, but the dream is soundless, I don’t know what she says. She’s happy, I think, full of hope: her eyes are laughing, eager. She sits down on the bed and ties the laces of her trainers. She’s sharp, alert, relentless: ready to run.

  CHAPTER 34

  It’s a clear bright morning, light splashing around as I push back the bedroom curtains, and the sky is blue and vast and full of promise. I go downstairs; I am all purpose.

  Richard is standing in front of the mirror, smoothing his tie.

  ‘You must have been very late last night,’ I say to his reflection, keeping my voice quite level, behaving absolutely normally, as though this is a perfectly ordinary day. ‘I didn’t even hear you get into bed.’

  His face, the wrong way round, looks subtly different.

  ‘It was a leaving do,’ he says. ‘I told you.’

  He’s defensive, as though I have accused him of something; but really I’m not thinking about him, I just don’t want him here.

  ‘I went to bed early,’ I tell him. ‘It wasn’t a problem.’

  He seems relieved, as though he expected a scene.

  ‘We went to a restaurant,’ he says. ‘Lebanese.’

  ‘Was it good?’

  ‘Very good,’ he says. ‘It’s one of Francine’s discoveries. She’s really into ethnic food.’

  ‘Right,’ I say. I wonder briefly if she wore her backless dress. ‘I’m glad it was a good evening,’ I tell him.

  It’s how we are together now—formal, polite, restrained.

  He picks up his bag, opens the door. Noise from the road surges in; there’s a dustbin lorry outside, holding up the traffic.

  ‘OK, then,’ he says. He doesn’t kiss me.

  I take Daisy some toast. She scarcely looks at me; she’s lying on her pillows, watching a weather forecast. I kiss the top of her head, breathe in her smell of mangoes and warm skin.

  ‘I thought we’d give school a miss today,’ I tell her.

  ‘I couldn’t manage it anyway, Mum,’ she says. ‘I can’t do my work when I feel sick.’

  I go back to the kitchen to make coffee. Sinead is in front of the mirror, doing something complex with her hair, involving several scrunchies. She has her weekend case with her: it’s half-term tomorrow, and Sara will pick her up from school.

  ‘Cat,’ she says, her head on one side, wheedling.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Is Daisy going to school?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, you wouldn’t take me in, would you?’ She puts in the final scrunchie and looks at herself appraisingly in the mirror. ‘I’m so-o-o late, and we’ve got a maths test. And I’ve got my bags.’

  ‘I can’t, Sinead, I’m sorry. Not today.’

  ‘Oh,’ she says. She’s surprised—I usually do what she asks. She waits a moment, hoping I’ll change my mind, then shrugs, puts on her jacket. ‘OK. Is everything all right?’

  ‘Yes. Why?’

  ‘Your voice sounds kind of weird.’ She hauls her bags up, one over each shoulder. ‘Bye, then.’

  I reach out and wrap my arms around her; it’s awkward, because of the bags. She hugs me back briefly, colouring a little.

  ‘I hope today goes really really well,’ I tell her.

  ‘Cat, don’t overdo it,’ she says. ‘It’s only an algebra test. I’m not, like, having major surgery.’

  She slips away from me.

  Once the door closes behind her, I go straight to her room, feeling strangely weightless, as if gravity doesn’t pull on me. I rifle around on her desk, through all the rainbow clutter—pages about popstars, a scrumpled Julius Caesar essay, Korean notepaper, astrological supplements. The Weimar Republic project is hidden inside a copy of Heat; the postcard showing the Schiller monument has been stuck to the cover with Prittstick. I ease up one corner of the postcard. I can see all the digits of the number except one. I try to lift it off the page, but it’s comprehensively stuck, I have to tear it. A bit of paper is still stuck down, obscuring the number; it flakes off when I scratch at it.

  I use the phone in the living room, shutting the door so Daisy won’t be able to hear. I put the postcard down on the phone table, where there’s a vase of paeonies. I sit there for a moment, tracing a path with my finger through the fallen paeony petals. I feel quite cool as I dial, but I see that my hand is shaking. It seems to ring for ages. I hear the thud of my heart and the sound of the phone at the other end of the line.

  She gives the number in German, but I know her voice the way I know my own.

  �
��It’s me.’ It’s hard to form the words: my mouth is stiff and dry. ‘It’s Catriona. I’m ringing from London.’

  There’s a pause.

  ‘Who is this?’ she says.

  ‘Catriona.’

  ‘Catriona?’ Her voice is tight with suspicion.

  ‘It’s me,’ I say again. ‘I want to come and see you like you said.’

  ‘Oh,’ she says. ‘Oh. Trina. Oh, I’m sorry, darling—it’s just that I wasn’t expecting this. Darling, that’s wonderful.’ The words tumbling out now. ‘You don’t sound like you used to—well, of course you wouldn’t, how silly of me, you’ll be much bigger now. I don’t know what to say. It’s just so sudden. And when were you thinking of?’

  ‘I want to come today.’

  Another little silence, like an intake of breath.

  ‘Today?’

  I sense her hesitation and feel a quick flicker of anger: that she’s pleaded with me to visit her, and now I’ve said I’m coming, and suddenly it’s all too much and yet again she’s pushing me away.

  ‘Yes. Today. It has to be today.’

  Another pause.

  ‘That will be wonderful, darling,’ she says then. ‘Wonderful.’

  ‘It’ll probably be late afternoon. I don’t know when exactly. I’ve got to book the flight. You’ll just have to expect us when you see us.’

  ‘Us, darling?’

  ‘I’m bringing my little girl. Daisy.’

  ‘Daisy,’ she repeats. ‘How wonderful to see her. Tell me, how old is Daisy?’

  ‘She’s eight.’

  ‘How lovely. Eight. It’s such a lovely age. And you’ll be staying over?’

  ‘If we may.’

  ‘Karl’s away,’ she says. ‘A business trip. So that’s really very convenient. Sometimes you feel that things are just meant to happen.’ As though her moment of reluctance had never been. ‘The only thing is, darling, there are just two bedrooms…’

  ‘D’you have a sofa? Daisy could sleep on a sofa.’

  ‘Well, if you’re sure,’ she says. ‘I’ll make her nice and comfortable. Don’t you worry, Trina, I’ll get something sorted. You’ve got my address, have you, darling? You got my postcards?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Now, listen carefully, darling. You need to get the bus to Charlottenburg. They might try to tell you Zoo—but Zoo station isn’t very nice, darling, there are lots of drug pushers there. Go to Charlottenburg, and take the S-Bahn to Hackescher Markt—and then you take the tram up Prenzlauer Allee…’

  I write it down.

  ‘We live on the fifth floor,’ she says. ‘The name is Mueller. You have to ring the bell and there’s an intercom thing.’

  ‘Don’t worry. We’ll manage.’

  ‘Now, the airport’s very busy, Trina. Keep an eye on your bags. You can’t trust anyone nowadays.’

  ‘We’ll be all right.’

  ‘And, Trina, look, where I live, it used to be the East, of course, but you mustn’t let that worry you. We’re really coming up in the world here now. It’s not at all like you’d think. This afternoon, then?’

  ‘Yes. This afternoon.’

  I put down the phone. My whole body is trembling.

  I fetch my credit card and go on the computer. I’ve never done this before: Richard’s always made our travel arrangements and I’ve never flown without him. But it’s all so easy. There are still seats on the afternoon flight to Berlin. It lands at Tegel Airport. I can check in online, and I’ll have to pick up our boarding passes once we get to Heathrow.

  I get the Yellow Pages and look for a taxi firm. There’s a name I recognise, from when we last went to Tuscany. I ring; this too is easy. I have an hour and a half before the taxi comes.

  I have a sense of triumph: I am high, pure, clear; I can do anything. I pack my hand luggage first: credit card, money, passports. I take some phone numbers—Nicky, Fergal. Then I find a bag, start flinging things in. I don’t know what to expect, how hot it will be or whether it might rain. I just throw in whatever comes to hand—two skirts of mine, not bothering to fold them, some T-shirts of Daisy’s from the tumble-dryer; and I put on a brown silk dress I have that works for any occasion.

  And then I can’t postpone it any longer—the thing that I am dreading. I go to Daisy’s bedroom.

  She’s slumped in her bed. Jeremy Kyle is on, but she’s playing with her Nintendo. I take her cut-off jeans and a polo shirt from her wardrobe and put them out on her bed. Her eyes are on me, dull, a little suspicious. Suddenly I can’t believe what I’m doing: it seems delinquent, wild.

  ‘Why am I getting dressed?’ she says.

  ‘Because you and I are going on a trip.’

  She frowns. ‘What sort of a trip?’ She’s wary. I know she thinks this is cheery adult-speak for something unpleasant—a doctor, clinic, blood test.

  ‘Not what you think. We’re going to the airport.’

  At once she sits upright. Her eyes are wide.

  ‘We’re going to fly to Berlin,’ I tell her. ‘D’you think you can manage that?’

  Her eyes hold me; her whole face gleams.

  ‘Berlin,’ she says. The word is like a sweet she’s rolling round her mouth.

  For a moment I think that she will accept it and I won’t have to explain. But then a shadow moves across her face.

  ‘Why are we going now?’ she says. ‘Is it because I’m ill?’

  ‘Kind of. Dr McGuire and Dr Watson want you to go into a hospital.’

  ‘To stay?’ she says.

  I nod. ‘It’s a place for children with psychological problems.’

  ‘I’m not making it up, Mum,’ she says.

  ‘Of course you’re not. But anyway I don’t think that place is right for you. I don’t want you to go there.’

  She looks at me, accusingly. ‘So are we running away?’

  ‘No. We’re going to see your grandmother.’

  A stern frown creases her forehead.

  ‘But she was horrid to you. You keep on telling me.’

  ‘Yes. But people change. Maybe we’ll find we get on better now. And she really wants to see you. I rang her just now and she said how very much she wants to see you.’

  There’s light in her face: this pleases her. ‘Really?’

  ‘Really.’

  ‘D’you think she’d like it if I wore my red denim jacket?’

  ‘I’m sure she would,’ I tell her.

  Her school bag is on the floor by her bed. I tip everything out of it.

  ‘You can take this bag to keep with you on the plane, for Hannibal and some books. D’you want to pack it yourself?’

  She nods, gets out of bed. She starts to choose books from her bookshelves, her book of Celtic tales, two books about cats. The bag will be heavy, but I just let her take them; I can carry it for her. Hannibal goes in the top.

  And then she turns to me; her face is dark with worry.

  ‘But what about Sinead?’

  ‘Sinead will be at Sara’s.’

  She zips up her bag. ‘I wish Sinead was coming,’ she says. ‘And Dad. I wish they were coming with us. It won’t be fun without them.’

  Guilt washes through me.

  ‘I know, sweetheart. But if we’re going to go, we have to go today.’

  ‘Dad and Sinead will miss us, won’t they?’

  ‘Yes, they probably will.’

  She looks at me for a moment, an intent, questioning look. Then she shrugs a little.

  ‘OK,’ she says. ‘Well, don’t just stand there, Mum. I’m going to get dressed.’

  When the taxi comes, we’re waiting in the hall. The driver is a woman, scrubbed and genial.

  ‘You’re certainly travelling light,’ she says as she carries our bags to the car. ‘I wish they were all like you, I must say. So where are you going?’

  ‘Berlin.’

  ‘Oh. Berlin.’ Suddenly, she is serious. ‘My cousin was there in the forces, before the Wall came down. It freaked him out,
he said. If you went to the East in the train, they locked you in.’

  ‘Yes, I’d heard that,’ I tell her.

  She checks we have fastened our seat belts.

  ‘It must have been so weird,’ she says. ‘Before the Wall came down.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘It must have been.’

  ‘It’s the families I feel sorry for,’ she says. ‘All the parents and children. All those poor people who lived there, who couldn’t visit their families.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘That must have been hard for people.’

  She starts up the engine.

  Daisy loves the glamour of airports: the glittery shops selling suntan oil and sarongs that are patterned with pictures of tropical islands, the computer screens with their lists of resonant destinations. We wander round the shops, and I buy her a Pokémon magazine, and we go to a café and toy with some tough chocolate croissants. People look at us benignly—anxious mother and pale fragile child. They don’t know about us.

  As we go through passport control I am seized by a sudden fear, that I am being watched or followed, that somebody will stop us, that this man will not let us through. I see it all so vividly—how he takes our passports away while the other passengers stare at us, quite openly and curious, for now we are not like them, we have crossed to the other side. How he leads us off to a small bleak room, and asks me questions to which there are no good answers. But none of this happens; he grins at Daisy, says how he likes her jacket, waves us cheerily through.

  Daisy has a window seat. As the plane taxies we watch the film about what to do in emergencies. Daisy is conscientious, and pulls out the card of instructions from the net pocket in front of her.

  ‘Look,’ she says, waving it at me, gleeful. ‘They made a mistake here, Mum.’ She’s pleased with herself: she loves to come across misprints in anything official. ‘It says that if there’s a person with a child, they need to fix their oxygen mask before they fix the child’s.’