by CE Rose
When the day finally arrived, I chose my most bizarre outfit, one I hadn’t dared sport for years, and applied heavy black eyeliner and dark lipstick. In truth, I looked ridiculous, but perhaps that was the point. Almost yawning with disinterest, I tapped my nails on the kitchen table for an hour before finally twigging he wasn’t coming. For the next half hour I cried, exacerbating the goth look, then I guzzled a bottle of cheap wine. I felt much better after that, and by the time the intercom buzzed, I was ready for fisticuffs.
The words, ‘You’ve failed big-style, mate! If you can’t turn up on time, don’t turn up at all!’ died on my lips as I opened the door. Not to Miles, but to a pallid, dark-haired and beautiful woman I just knew was his mum.
Naturally I assumed a mother’s presence at my digs meant bad news – death or at least a coma – and I’m ashamed to say that for a moment, I was relieved. As it happened, Miles wasn’t deceased or even seriously injured. Though he’d written off his Triumph Stag on the way to collect me, he’d miraculously escaped with only whiplash and a broken ankle.
Perhaps I should have learned something from that night. Would any other mother have turned up unannounced in those circumstances? Her doe-eyed attention was embarrassing, let alone strange and surreal. Wouldn’t a telephone call have sufficed? But her charm and intimacy trapped me in a way I hadn’t anticipated; I got caught in her web.
‘Come on darling,’ she said, studying me closely. She tucked my hair behind my ears and swept a finger across my cheek. ‘You’re just perfect. The loo and a coat, then we’ll get you to the Alex.’
I did what I was told: like an obedient child I went to the toilet, donned my jacket and climbed into her car.
We must have looked odd, the two of us gliding into the private hospital reception, arm in arm. Waiting for an operation to pin his fibula, Miles was sitting up in bed, and there was a look between mother and son, an unspoken communication which seemed to say: ‘Here you are, my darling boy; this is what you wanted, so I’ve brought her to you…’
Though we hadn’t even hugged, it felt as though we were betrothed. It was peculiar, ridiculous, but also compulsive. Madeleine hovered, but she eventually left the room with a gracious smile. I almost laughed when Miles tugged me towards him and put his lips to mine. The alcohol had taken the edge off my embarrassment, but the relief was still there. The kiss was nice, very nice, thank God.
After half an hour Madeleine escorted me to her car. I had expected her to drop me home, but instead she drove to her sprawling Cheshire house where I was introduced to Henry. I must have looked a state by then, a combination of messy make-up, excess alcohol and heavy snogging, but he showed no surprise. He was so like Miles I was embarrassed, as though I had been kissing the father, not the son.
Sliding her arm into mine, Madeleine guided me up a sweeping staircase to the guest room. She laid out a silk nightie and smiled. ‘Slip in and go to sleep, darling. I’ll wake you in the morning.’ It was so surreal, so fairytale, so addictive. But now it felt as though it had happened to someone other than me.
‘Ali? Are you still there?’
The sound of my husband’s voice jolted me back to the call. ‘Sorry, Miles, yes I am. I was just thinking about—’
A deep sigh. ‘You’re supposed to say you love me too.’
‘Of course, yes I—’
‘It’s fine, Ali. Forget it. I’ll speak to you tomorrow.’
Chapter Twenty-One
I couldn’t settle in the evening. Sitting in Mum’s armchair, I flicked through the channels on the ancient television, but even with the curtains drawn, the lounge felt too large and breezy for cosiness or comfort. I stood up to call Laura, then realised it would be the middle of the afternoon in Canada. She’d be busy at work, and trying to express my emotions wasn’t something I could wrap up in two minutes. Not that I really knew how I felt. A strange combination of listlessness and anxiety; I was jumpy yet weary; I couldn’t concentrate on anything for long.
Between tending to Joe, I tried re-reading Villette, leafed through the pages of an art magazine and sampled the vinegar cake. It had looked so appealing four hours ago, but tasted of nothing behind the metallic tang of panic which was threatening to appear. Moving to the sofa, I curled up my legs and stared at the walnut sideboard, knowing some of its treasures, but too agitated to open its doors and explore.
The near silence was oppressive. In my Manchester suburb I was used to a blend of generic noise through the open windows at night: the thud of car doors, a neighbour’s late conversation, the low thrum of traffic, the mating screech of urban foxes. But here it was as though the popping pines slept at night, so when the quietness was punctured, the sound was loud and specific. Each hoot of an owl, every turn of a pebble brought me out in icy goosebumps. And was there a sound of soft wheezing behind me? Well, that was silly mind games. Yet I could still hear something, even when I held my breath.
Feeling a sudden breeze, I snapped my head around. No one and nothing except the black chiffonier. I shook the shiver away. It was an old, creaking property, that was all. Mum had considered adding doors between the lofty foyer and the lounge, but the archway was huge and it would have involved closing it in, which she thought was a shame. She’d spoken about it only at Christmas, when she’d said she had grown to love the feeling of space, that she was used to it these days.
The memory carried me to thoughts of her now, within the small confines of a coffin. Good God, my mother was dead. And yet it still didn’t feel true, I still couldn’t feel it. Rubbing my cold arms, I stepped over to the assortment of framed photos on the mantelpiece. One had fallen down, so I propped it back up and peered at the smiley photograph of two couples. The Bakers and the Hagues, the men sporting long collars, Joan a turtle neck and Mum a stylish jumpsuit. They all looked so young, especially my parents. I guessed it had been taken in the late seventies or early eighties. Goodness, they’d known each other for a very long time; no wonder they’d remained such close friends. The next was the same family portrait as the one I’d hidden in my bookcase, so I quickly moved on to a group photo of Mum’s siblings and their spouses from my wedding. I focused on Auntie Brenda, at the very far end. What on earth had she and Mum argued about? Mum had lived here for seventeen years. How had she felt without her sisters or even immediate neighbours? Yet she’d been deprived of Dad for much longer than that. The loneliness she must have felt struck me for the first time ever. I’d never thought to ask her about it, not even as an adult.
‘Selfish, spoiled, Ali,’ I could hear Laura say.
It was probably true. Though children were programmed to think only of themselves, childhood was long ago. When Dad died, Laura and I were both vehemently against another man in Mum’s life. It was understandable for a while, but now, doing the maths, I realised with a shock that Mum was only forty when she was widowed. Both attractive and wealthy, no wonder there’d been all those damned ‘uncles’.
I groaned at the recollection. Some of the regular visitors had been people we knew – Dad’s clients or friends who paid their respects a little too often. Avuncular with us, solicitous and tactile with her, we hated them even more than the newbies and didn’t hide our disgust. Maybe that was why Mum never encouraged them. Were we responsible? Did Laura and I exacerbate her solitary life?
My stomach rumbled, reminding me to eat, so I slipped on my mules and lifted my chin. Onward to the kitchen, woman; there was nothing to frighten me here; the front and back entrances were locked, every door was shut.
Flicking on lights as I went, I padded down the hallway. At the dining entrance I stopped. Mum had used it as her studio. Should I peep in to see if her canvases and artwork were there? Perhaps sense her warm presence? I debated for a moment, but the child in me won, my old fear of the room making the decision for me. I’d once found a pigeon in the grate. Concerned it was still breathing, I’d stepped closer to look, only to discover the movement was tiny maggots. Convinced the grubs would burst int
o flies before my very eyes, I had screamed the house down. Dad had rushed in and scooped me up, then he’d taken me to a mirror. ‘See, Ali? No insects, just a very pretty frightened girl!’
He’d been right, of course, but the episode had reinforced my certainty that the dining room was haunted: it was colder and danker than any other area of the bungalow and had a dark stain on the parquet that was almost certainly ancient blood. To add to the chills, Laura told me the bird was a sacrifice. I had no idea what that meant, but her wide, spooky eyes told me it was bad.
Bloody Laura! No wonder I’d had nightmares. Laughing to myself, I let out my trapped breath and turned away. White-faced phantoms didn’t exist, but I’d still wait until daylight before venturing into there.
* * *
As the night drew in, Joe seemed to sense my unease. I’d put him in his travel cot at the usual bedtime, but after an hour or two he woke up and wouldn’t calm. The health visitor had advised a little grumbling wouldn’t hurt, saying that in the long run it was better for babies to settle by themselves, but I couldn’t bear the sound of his unhappiness. So each time he called, I picked him out for a cuddle. But he nuzzled against my breast, asking for milk.
By midnight, it felt as though I had fed him for hours. Thirsty for water, I carried him to the kitchen, slugged down a glassful, then sat at the table and cried. I was shaking with fatigue, but Joe was completely awake, gazing at me with big, luminous eyes.
‘Go to sleep, Joe. Please go to sleep,’ I pleaded between sobs. Then, louder, ‘I can’t do this any longer. For God’s sake, just bloody well sleep!’
Alarm spread through my body. What the hell was I doing? Swearing, almost shouting at my vulnerable son. Picturing that ashen-faced mother in court, the terror burned in my chest. People harmed their babies all the time; I could hurt mine. After all, I had slapped Madeleine hard that day. It had been on impulse, but I’d lost control so easily; did that make me capable of anything?
Keep an eye on Alison; Ali’s not Ali.
The panic overwhelming, I lowered my head. That was what she was suggesting, wasn’t it? I wasn’t normal; I was a liability, even dangerous. And a psychiatrist would know.
As I struggled to breathe, my heart thrashed. Oh God. What if I shook Joe, if I hurled him to the ground? I could visualise myself doing it, catapulting him from my arms, watching his head smash against the hard floor, then crack like an egg into a hundred tiny fragments.
But I held onto him gently, knowing I wouldn’t hurt him, hoping I wouldn’t hurt him, scaring myself. ‘I’m just tired,’ I repeated. ‘I’ll be fine in the morning.’
Eventually crouching to the floor, I managed to slip Joe into his bouncy chair. He was safe, I wouldn’t drop him, so that was good. I just needed to inhale deeply from my diaphragm, then everything would be—
My ears pricked at a sound; my hairs stood erect. What the hell was that? Stilling, I listened. Oh my God, definite rustling, movement. This wasn’t my imagination; someone or something was directly behind me…
My heart in my mouth, I snapped around and stared. Empty. A silent room. The black night through the window. A dripping tap. Nothing and no one was there. No phantom, no burglar. I was being ridiculous; I had to get a grip.
Trying to control the absurd fear, I picked up my tumbler and made for the sink, but a dark shape in my peripheral vision made me freeze. I could hear scraping noises too. My pulse thumping loud in my ears, I forced myself to look. Not just sound, but there was – there really was a silhouette beyond the panelled side door. And… Oh my God, fingers scratching at the glass and a distorted face peering in.
My scream pierced the quietness, startling poor Joe who started to wail. Though my instinct was to grab his chair and hide or even run, I was frozen to the spot and couldn’t move. But after a second or two had passed, I realised the shadow was tapping at the door. What the…? Who the hell would be here at this time?
My voice quavery, I shouted, ‘It’s late. Whoever you are, go away.’
A muffled reply filtered through. ‘It’s George. The gardener.’
‘Go away,’ I tried again, but I was struggling to suck in any air. Joe was still bawling but my heart was racing so badly, I couldn’t trust myself to pick him up.
‘It’s Ali, isn’t it?’ The voice persisted. ‘Can I come in and explain?’
At that moment I would have let in Jack the Ripper for medical assistance. My tongue felt thick, my legs feeble and my lungs filled with sand. I tried to move forward, but my sight was narrowing, becoming darker and darker, then suddenly the world was black.
* * *
‘You’re all right. Inhale slowly and deeply. Everything is fine.’
Sound returned before vision. The man’s deep enunciation seemed out of place. I tried to focus: the gardener? Really? Mum’s old gardener had been local, but this person had a strong northern accent.
My head between my knees, I was now sitting on the floor. When I finally lifted my chin, I saw a huge man crouched in front of me, my son cradled in the crook of his elbow. I wanted to pull Joe to safety, but I knew my limbs weren’t safe; my whole body felt so heavy I could barely move. A wave of self-pity overwhelmed me. There was my baby, sleepy and content in yet another stranger’s arms. What the hell was wrong with me?
I tried to stand.
‘You’ve had a shock. Maybe give it a minute,’ the man said.
A flaming shock? He’d bloody petrified me. Swallowing, I found my voice. ‘I need to put Joe…’
‘Put him in his cot?’ He stood up. ‘Is it in your bedroom?’
‘Yes. It’s the one…’
But he’d already disappeared. Tears threatening, I pulled up my knees and tried to steady my thrashing heart. He returned shortly afterwards. ‘He’s sleeping now,’ he said. ‘You should be, too.’
‘Right. I’ll go in a bit. I’m fine now, so if you could…’
But instead of taking the hint, he hauled me to my feet. Though deeply embarrassed, my legs were jelly-like, so instead of protesting, I went with the moment, allowing him to half carry me to my door.
Perching on my bed, I took a shuddery breath to say something. I should have asked who he really was and what the hell he was doing here at midnight, but I was too winded – and exhausted – to shape words.
As though reading my mind, he nodded. ‘Night, then,’ he said, before striding off.
Anticipating an avalanche of introspection, self-recrimination and guilt for my inadequacies as usual, I pulled back the duvet and flopped down onto the cold mattress. Moments later, I was asleep.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Tuesday
The bright August sunshine beyond the curtains awoke me. Confused by my surroundings, it took me a few moments to work out where I was, more to realise I hadn’t woken in the early hours to feed Joe. Oh God, was he OK? Stumbling from the bed, I lurched to his cot and stared, disbelieving. He wasn’t there. I frantically lifted his bedding. What the hell? What the bloody hell…? It was empty; he’d gone. I tried to focus through the dizziness and need to vomit my panic induced. This couldn’t be happening. Then the memory of last night came roaring back. Oh my God, what a stupid, irresponsible woman. I had let a total stranger into the house.
My soles slapping the parquet, I hurtled to the kitchen and looked in. No one was there; Joe wasn’t there. My stomach churning, I lowered my head and willed the nausea to pass. Terrifying images swamped my mind, so graphic I could feel them. My son was hidden beneath a coat. He was whimpering with fear. He knew the person carrying him wasn’t his mummy. He’d been stolen by the man in the night, I was sure of it. What now? I had to calm down and concentrate, search for my boy. No, time was of the essence, a call to the police should come first. Oh God, what to say? Could I even describe the kidnapper? Tall and dark with a northern accent was as far as it went.
A thin breeze on my cheeks pierced the panic. The side door was open a crack, gently tapping against the jamb. Rushing forward, I s
hoved it open and gaped out. A man was strolling around the sunken garden. Not a man, but the man who’d said he was the gardener. Holding Joe in one arm, he was talking. Whether to my son or to himself, I couldn’t tell, but he looked up as I approached, then passed Joe to me.
Both anger and relief screamed to burst out, but my throat was too constricted to speak, let alone shout. Taking a gulp of morning air, I prepared to challenge him: ‘Who the hell do you think you are? Coming into the house – not just the house but my bedroom, then taking my baby? You can’t just do that! I’ll report you to the police, I’ll—’
But he didn’t give me a chance. ‘I’ll be off then,’ he said, already turning away.
Stunned and shaky, I watched him stride off, stop at a rose bed and blithely pluck out a clump of weeds. Stupidly wondering what he’d do with the bloody things, I gazed until he’d disappeared beyond the poplars.
The sheer alleviation was such that sudden mirth popped out. I peered at my son. ‘What the hell, Joe?’ I asked. ‘Another character from an old British horror movie or what?’
But when I looked at my bare feet, it was me who appeared demented. My hair knotted with sweat and wearing the long nightdress I had found in Mum’s drawer, I looked like Bertha Rochester escaped from her attic. Not sure whether to laugh or to cry, I buried my face in Joe’s hair. He replied with a whimper.
