by Clare Boyd
‘I know, I spoke to Helen.’
‘Mum called you?’
‘I called the house to check on you.’
‘Oh,’ I said, feeling the shame burning away the words I wanted to say. I wanted to tell him my side of the story, explain how foul Rosie had been, how intransigent, what a brat, how she’d ruined our photo album.
‘What are we going to do?’ he asked.
I laughed without smiling. At least he still believed in me enough to ask me for solutions.
‘That’s why I wanted to meet you here,’ I said, leaning forward on my elbows, trying to be confident about this particular solution. ‘I think it’s best I take myself out of the equation for a bit and spend a few days in London.’
‘Where will you stay?’ There was a hint of panic in his voice.
‘At Mum’s.’
‘Have you asked her?’
‘She won’t mind.’
‘It’s quite drastic.’
‘Honestly, I can’t be around Rosie right now, Peter. Surely you see it’s getting out of hand?’
‘Have you spoken to Philippa Letwin about it?’
‘She says we have to do what’s right for the family as a whole.’
‘How do we know what that is?’
‘As long as we put the children first.’
I wanted him to say that they needed their mother; that I was the one they needed first and foremost. I held my breath, hoping to hear it.
‘It’ll be a clean break from all the fighting I suppose.’
My heart sank. Yes, a clean break. Nice and clean. Just how we liked it.
I sighed. ‘Philippa said the courts won’t look on the move unfavourably at least. If it comes to it.’
‘Will it come to it?’
‘That depends on Rosie.’
We paused. A never-ending reel of worry to unravel every time I thought of what could happen to me, to the baby, to us, if she didn’t change her statement. The unutterable public humiliation of standing in a Magistrate’s Court on 4 December pleading not guilty to the prosecutor’s charges of child abuse; the financial ruin of the legal fees if it went to the Crown Court; and, of course, prison. All of these horror stories flickered through my mind, obscuring the most terrifying of them all: losing Rosie and Noah and the baby. That was literally unimaginable.
As though reading my mind, Peter moved on. ‘Your mum has been amazing with her.’
‘Who’d have thought?’
‘I was staggered by how well she took it all.’
‘Yes,’ I said vaguely, unsure.
‘We can’t make any decisions about what we tell Rosie now anyhow,’ he said.
‘When I’m back home we’ll talk about it.’
I had a panicky flash of never going back home, of weeks away from them. They were everything to me and I was walking away from them, for who knows how long. For their own good, I told myself. I suddenly understood how suicidal women justified driving into a lake to leave their children orphans. If you truly believed they were better off without you, then what else was there to do?
‘Look after Noah, won’t you? He’s getting lost in all this.’
Peter grasped on to my forearms across the linen tablecloth, as though pinning me down. ‘I’ll miss you.’ Tears shone from his eyelashes, framing bloodshot eyes. He looked as frightened as I felt.
‘I’ll miss you too,’ I whispered, recharged by the strength of his hands on my wrists, wondering if I’d care if the whole world crumbled around us, as long as I still had Peter and the children. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘You can get help, you know.’
‘With what?’
‘There are groups you can go to.’
I whipped back my arms from under his and wrung my fingers under the table. I wanted to tie them in knots to stem the fury. I couldn’t believe it. Ten years of sharing the burden of Rosie, gone. All my hope drained away.
‘It was an accident,’ I hissed.
His eyes had deadened, dried as though never wet, and he looked to the waiter to order the bill.
‘Helen said she’s still got a bad headache.’
‘That’s rubbish. She told me it had gone this morning,’ I scoffed.
Peter looked at me coldly. ‘I have to get back.’
‘But we haven’t eaten?’
‘I said I’d take her to the after-hours doctor if she wasn’t better.’
There was no way I could tell him not to worry about Rosie. It would seem callous or irresponsible.
‘Call me to let me know how she is,’ I conceded.
He dropped forty pounds cash on the table and he left me there, alone. For the first time in our marriage.
Just as a drunken kiss or a punch to a stranger’s jaw had the power to destroy lives overnight, my incautious, despairing shove of Rosie had injured her and destroyed us. The terrible thing, the worst thing, was that I could do nothing to take back that split-second switch to rage. Every second since was too late. I didn’t know how I would live with the guilt.
Chapter Fourty-Nine
Dear Rosie Rabbit,
I would like to say sorry for my funny turn the other day. You were very caring and brave.
I spoke of my baby boy, who has been a big secret in my life. You are the only soul in the world who knows (apart from my family of course). Not even my dear darling Barry knows. If I told him, he would think I was a terrible person.
On 7 May 1982, when I was only fifteen years old – not that much older than you! – I gave birth to a beautiful baby boy whom I had to give up for adoption. He would be 34 years old now. There is not a day that goes by when I don’t think of him. Sometimes I wonder if I see him on the street or in the supermarket! Imagine that!
I try ever so hard to be strong about it, but when his birthdays come up or when something reminds me of him, I am afraid I go to pieces. You see, I was forced to sign the papers by my mother. I thought I would die from heartbreak. I certainly never imagined how I could go on living. It is hard to describe how wild I went when the two ladies took him away from me in the hospital when he was only fifteen days old. There has never been a more devastating moment. I didn’t even care what the nurses and doctors thought of me! It was like having my heart and soul ripped from my chest and honestly, my dear Rosie, I think I still have that hole where my heart was. If I didn’t hear it beating, I don’t think I would know for sure it was still there. They say time is a healer. What a load of codswallop!
He was poorly when he was born. I always wondered whether it was his way of staying with me a little bit longer in the hospital. He needed his mummy’s milk, you see. I still remember every tiny detail of his face because I used to stare at him when he was feeding from me. He had a rather large nose – a bit like mine! – and thick glossy black hair – a bit like his useless father (who was terribly vain about his hair)! His mouth had a dip in the middle, which lined up symmetrically with the deep groove in his chin. I imagine he is a handsome fellow now. But I would say that, wouldn’t I? Every parent is a little biased about their children.
So, it’s not surprising I can be a little strange sometimes. Please forgive me for scaring you. I feel very well again now. And maybe I can show you some photographs of me when I was pregnant, to make you laugh! I was not a pretty sight, let me tell you.
Please don’t be sad when you read of my loss. About sixteen years ago, he would have turned eighteen years old, which means he could have contacted me if he wished. I spent his eighteenth year hiding the post from Barry to check for a letter from him, but I gave up in the end. Deep down, I have always known that he is probably too happy to bother with me.
Please do come by to see me again soon. I very much hope things are easier at home for you.
With much love,
Mrs E (I won’t spell it. I like Mrs E!)
* * *
Mira folded up the letter and slid it carefully into an envelope and wrote Rosie Bradley neatly on the front. To Mira, it was like a delicate relic tha
t even the slightest smear or crinkle could destroy or sully. The weather had been dry over night, but she would find a plastic sandwich bag to wrap it in to prevent the damp from the garden getting to it, and a few sweeties for luck. It was likely Rosie would check the blue bucket straight after school.
For now, she left it in the centre of the bureau and she went upstairs to find her watch for work. The stairs seemed to leave her more breathless than usual. Writing about her son had taken everything out of her, but it had given her a thrill, as though the hope that they would be reunited one day was nearer somehow. As though sixteen years of his silence had not passed.
She heard the front door open.
‘What have you forgotten?’ she called down to Barry.
‘Just those bills with our address on! I need them to collect my rake from the post office!’
‘Okay, love,’ she called back casually, and then with a start, remembered where the bills were kept. She charged downstairs, sick to the stomach with fear. If he saw the letter on the bureau addressed to Rosie, Mira didn’t know how she would explain.
When she arrived at the bureau, she found that Barry was already holding the opened letter in his hand. His eyes behind his darkened lens suggested he had managed to read enough to know everything.
The shame of looking at him was like hot pokers thrust into her eye sockets.
Mira snatched the letter, turned on her heels and skittered out of the house to rapidly wheel the bucket and letter over to Rosie before Barry caught up with her. It was important she explained her behaviour to Rosie, or she risked losing her too. Barry was not going to get in the way of that.
* * *
Every second of her day at school was torture. She tried to keep herself upright.
She was irritable with the children, especially the ones who had forgotten their PE kit, and snappy with Patricia, who seemed to be blaming her for the fact that the children didn’t know the words to their Christmas songs, even though it wasn’t yet December.
At least the pettiness of her school day distracted her from the rift that had split open her home life. Every time she thought of it, she caught her breath. It was unfathomable that Barry now knew about her baby boy, whom she had managed to keep secret for all of their marriage. She couldn’t truly believe it had happened. So she soldiered on, the severed connection between body and mind allowing her to function on a low-level, emergency-only setting.
Barry wasn’t at home when she got back from work. Weary from the pretence of being normal, she plodded up the stairs, desperate to soak in her bath. Thankfully, Barry was bound to be late back from Boscarny House, where the lady of the house would not let him go until every thread of grass and every leaf was where it should be.
But just as her tired limbs were enveloped in the silky warmth of the bath, Barry came into the bathroom, carrying two glasses of red wine and a bowl of cheese puffs, her favourite, on a tray. Aside from everything that he had learnt about her today, he was thoughtful enough to bring her what she needed most: routine, comfort, and a little luxury to remind her that life would carry on. He was telling her that nothing had to change.
He didn’t say anything. He simply sat in the wicker chair. Next door, all was quiet.
They both sipped their wine in the tense, loaded silence. Part of her now wanted Rosie’s screams to fill the emptiness.
She said finally, ‘It was the right thing to do to give him up.’
Little ripples of water were spreading in circles from her heart.
‘Of course it was, love.’
‘I gave him a better life.’
‘You were fifteen years old,’ he murmured, shaking his head slowly back and forth.
‘He was the only man I ever slept with. Until you.’
‘Man?’
‘Boy,’ Mira corrected. She couldn’t tell him everything, not everything. There were some secrets that were worth taking to the grave.
‘Does he know?’
‘He didn’t want anything to do with it.’
‘That’s probably a blessing.’
‘He’ll have a proper father who loves him now.’
‘And a mother,’ Barry added.
Mira swallowed hard, but she could not bring herself to talk of another ‘proper’ mother. She was his mother.
‘I put my name on the register but he never got in contact, so that’s that.’
Barry reached for some crisps and stuffed a large handful into his mouth from his palm.
‘So he must be happy,’ Mira added.
‘And you’re happy too,’ Barry stated, as though he needed it to be so.
Mira hesitated. ‘Sometimes I look at a man’s features on the street or in cars or in the supermarket and wonder if it could be him.’
‘Your paths would never cross.’
‘How do you know?’
‘That stuff only happens in films.’
‘Life is stranger than the films sometimes.’
‘Anyhow, it wouldn’t matter either way.’
‘But what if I want to see him?’ she said quietly.
Barry crashed his glass down on the basin side. ‘That’s not your right!’
Her mouth fell open. Wide-eyed, she said calmly, ‘Careful, that’s our wedding crystal.’
‘He has his own life and you have yours and don’t you forget it,’ Barry said, pointing his finger aggressively.
Over twenty-five years of marriage and she had never seen him lose his temper. It was shocking, riling even. How dare he?
‘His life came from my body. He is my life.’
‘How can you say that?’ Barry yelled, standing up. ‘I’m your life!’
The bath water fell stony cold. There was something frightening in Barry’s eyes and she wanted to get out of the bath, get out of his confined space, but she did not want to be vulnerable and naked in front of him. She did not want him to sneer at her used-up belly, which had once held that baby boy.
‘Keep your voice down,’ Mira said, glancing over at the window, fearful that the Bradleys would hear. The irony of that.
‘This is my house, I can shout all I like!’ He was taut with anger, rooted to the spot with it. Mira imagined a wind blowing, turning him to stone. His finger pointed at her in accusation.
Mira held her nose and sank down into the bathwater, covering her head, holding her breath. She would stay there until he was gone. One, two, three, four, she counted. Thirty-three, thirty-four.
A deadened flow of Barry’s ranting reached her from the outside.
Then silence. She couldn’t hold her breath much longer, but she would. Sixty-one, sixty-two. If she died here, she didn’t care. It was pleasant to be away from it all. It was easier; though she wondered how she could anchor her head under when her instinct would be to gasp for air. She imagined Barry’s merciful fingers as a bracelet around her neck, pinning her to the bottom.
Then two arms shot down into the water and pulled her body out. She spluttered into Barry’s chest, her body soaking his jumper. ‘Mira, my Mira, oh my love, don’t do that, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,’ he sobbed.
‘Let’s never talk about it again,’ Mira said, cold flesh in his arms.
‘Never, never,’ he agreed, kissing her head.
Chapter Fifty
Dear Mrs E,
* * *
Thank you very much for your letter. I feel very sad for you. When my dwarf rabbit ran away from us I cried all night. He was black with a white ear. Mummy hated him. She probably killed him. She hates everything that I like best. I think she has finally got sick of me now. She even moved to London because she hurt my head. When Daddy took me to the doctor he wanted me to tell him all about when Mummy slapped me. It was really difficult. What I had said to Miss Miles was more like a story and it is hard to remember a story I made up from like ages and ages ago. It was like three weeks ago. I make up gazillions of stories every day in my head. Do you think it is hard to remember stuff too? Please could you help me to
remember what I said to Miss Miles?
* * *
Don’t be sad about your baby. Unicorns are magic and if they know you are sad they will bring your baby to you on a rainbow. But Granny Helen thinks I have an active imagination because she told me that I was not one of those adopted children.
* * *
Please can I come to see you if you are there?
* * *
Love,
Rosie
Chapter Fifty-One
‘You moved back home, have you?’ John said grinning, handing me my mother’s house keys.
John wore the same circular wire spectacles that he had worn for twenty years. They were still trying to sit on the top of a nose that was not designed for spectacles.
‘Thanks,’ I said, taking the keys. ‘Only for a few days.’
As teenagers, my sister and I had often knocked on his door when we were locked out. My situation now had strange echoes of those teenage mishaps, when I’d had dramatic imaginings of being stuck outside in the cold all night. But John or Sarah had rescued us. Just as they had done in the early days of my mother’s single-parent status, when they had taken us in on the afternoons she worked late.
‘What’s it like having your mum living with you again?’ He pushed the bridge of his glasses up and I watched them slip down again.
‘Not as bad as I expected,’ I beamed.
‘Another one on the way, I hear.’
‘Three months gone.’ I looked down at my belly covered by my suit jacket, wondering when the jacket button would have to be left open.
‘And I hear Noah likes chocolate muffins and Rosie never wants her hair cut.’
‘Mum’s informed you well,’ I laughed, remembering that Imogen’s friend had had such a terrible time with Social Services. I wondered how much he knew about my situation now. ‘Imogen still in New Zealand?’
He nodded with a glum smile. ‘It’s a long way for a cup of tea.’
