by Ruth Heald
‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ she asks.
‘Yes, I’m fine now. I’m so sorry.’
‘Please don’t apologise. I was worried about you.’ She puts her arms around me, gives my shoulders a rub.
‘Don’t worry about me,’ I say, slowly getting up from the bench. ‘Let’s get going.’
I look at my watch. If we don’t hurry Emma will be late to collect Lizzie from Dan’s.
‘Are you sure you’ll be OK?’ Emma asks once more, wrapping me in a hug when we reach the gate.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I think I’ll have a walk in the village, distract myself a bit.’
‘I wish I could come with you, but I really need to pick up Lizzie.’
‘It’s OK, really. You’ve got to go.’ She’s been so kind to me already.
She gives me one last squeeze. ‘I’ll call you later, OK?’
‘Sure.’
I watch her walk away and then I spend an hour or so wandering around the village. I go to the post office and browse the cards. I see a comedy card with a picture of a woman berating a man and an awful pun that only Miriam and I would ever find funny. I remember that Miriam’s birthday is next week and for a moment I consider buying it for her. She’d find it hilarious.
I replace it on the shelf with a sense of regret. In the last three years, I’ve sent Miriam cards on every single one of her birthdays, but I’ve never had one back. Maybe it’s time to stop. She clearly hasn’t forgiven me and it’s time for me to move on. I have a new life now. Miriam has chosen not to be part of it.
* * *
I know as soon as I push the door open to the cottage that someone has been in. The air is still and yet it feels disturbed, as if each molecule has repositioned itself.
‘Hello?’ I call out.
The silence is so complete that it feels like it’s lying in wait for the noise that will disturb it. A clatter. A bang.
But there’s nothing.
I carry Olivia through to each room in turn and open the blinds and draw the curtains, letting in the light. There’s no one here.
Upstairs, I sit on my bed and place Olivia on my breast. I rest my head against the pillows. If I can just rest while she feeds, then maybe I’ll feel a little better.
I look around the bedroom. Our toiletries and books and electronics cover every surface. There’s so much clutter that it feels like the room is closing in on me. The wooden cupboards and the dressing table are overflowing with Pamela’s things. Our clothes are relegated to a cheap soft cupboard, which sags in the middle under their weight. Pamela is still at the core of this cottage and our life is just a superficial layer on top.
I frown. Something is wrong. I look round the room again. Matt’s things are everywhere. His deodorant, his aftershave, a vet periodical and paperwork. My books are there too. But my personal items are gone. My hairbrush. My deodorant. The watch I’ve stopped wearing because it scratches the back of Olivia’s head when I’m breastfeeding. They were on the bedside table this morning. I know they were.
My whole body tenses and Olivia pulls away from my breast and starts to whine.
Someone has been in my bedroom.
I get down off the bed and look back at it. It’s neatly made, the duvet folded down a bit. The pillows are fluffed, except for the indent where my head rested a few seconds ago. I didn’t have time to make the bed before I went out to meet Emma. I was rushing around, feeding Olivia, finding the spare nappies. And besides, I never fluff pillows.
Someone’s been here. In my room.
Ruth?
I shiver, imagining Ruth in this room, judging the mess, judging me. I have no privacy. My life isn’t my own any more.
* * *
By the time Matt comes in, I’ve put Olivia to bed and I’ve just started dinner. It’s already past nine o’clock, much later than we used to eat. But I’m determined to cook. I want to have accomplished something today aside from changing nappies. And I want us to sit down at the table together, eat homemade food and talk to each other for once. We never spend any time just the two of us any more.
Matt comes into the kitchen and gives me a kiss on the cheek as I cut up the chicken. He washes his hands and starts on the vegetables.
I pour oil into the wok and turn on the heat.
‘Your mother’s been round today,’ I say, unable to hold it in.
‘Sorry?’
‘It’s got to stop, Matt.’
‘When?’
‘While I was out. She let herself in and went through our things in the bedroom.’
‘Why would she do that?’ Matt looks puzzled.
I finish cutting up the chicken and chuck it into the pan, followed by the vegetables.
‘I don’t know. She’d moved my hairbrush, my deodorant and my watch. You’ve got to talk to her. I thought you had already? Why won’t she listen?’ I glare at Matt. He always tiptoes around his mother. He doesn’t seem to be able to stick up for himself with her.
‘Are you sure you didn’t move them yourself?’ Matt asks, doubtfully.
‘Of course I’m sure.’
But then I pause and reconsider. I’d found the hairbrush and the deodorant wedged between the bed and the table. The watch was on the floor. It’s possible I’d knocked them off and they fell there. But that doesn’t explain the neatly aligned duvet and the fluffed pillows.
‘The bed was made too.’
‘You didn’t do it before you left?’
I hate the doubtful expression on his face. ‘No, I was in a rush. I think I would remember. You need to speak to your mother. This has got to stop.’ But as I say the words, they sound wrong. Could I have forgotten?
We pick at our food. Neither of us seems hungry.
‘I’m worried about you, Claire,’ Matt says eventually.
I can’t look at him. I think that if I meet his eyes, he might be able to see through me, to see I’m not coping.
I want to hide away, but at the same time I have a desire to let him take me in his arms and fix everything. I’m so torn.
‘I’m not getting any sleep,’ I admit. I think of how he lies there each night fast asleep, while I breastfeed Olivia. He’s even bought earplugs so he’s not disturbed when she cries.
‘I don’t think you’re well.’
‘I’m fine,’ I lie. ‘It’s just the sleep, honestly. Maybe if you got up and helped in the night, I’d be less tired.’
‘This reminds me of before.’
‘Before what?’
‘When you were ill before. You said some crazy things back then too.’
I pick up my plate and scrape most of my dinner into the bin. I don’t want to have this conversation. I thought we’d moved on from the past. I don’t know why Matt’s brought it up.
‘I’m going to bed.’
‘We need to talk,’ Matt says. ‘You can’t blame my mother for everything.’
I walk away from his voice, up the stairs.
I hear his chair scrape back and within moments he’s on the stairs behind me.
‘Claire!’ He raises his voice. ‘Don’t walk away from me.’
I reach the top of the stairs and he grabs my shoulder. I shake him off.
‘Not now, Matt.’
I go into the bathroom, lock the door behind me, and sit down on the lid of the toilet, my head in my hands. I just need some time on my own. Without anyone watching or judging.
Matt pounds on the door.
‘Claire! Claire!’
Olivia wakes and starts screaming.
‘Claire! Open the door. I just want to help you.’
‘You’ve woken her up now,’ I shout through the door. ‘It took ages to get her to sleep.’
‘Open the door, Claire!’
‘No. You can deal with her. You woke her up.’
My baby’s screams get louder.
There’s a thud and then the bathroom door bursts open. The loose screw in the bolt bounces across the bathroom floor.
> Suddenly Matt is in the room.
I stare up at him from the toilet.
‘Claire. You can’t behave like this. You need to see a doctor. You need help.’
‘What about you? What about your mother? She can’t do this. She can’t keep coming in, moving things around, making me think I’m going crazy.’
I stop, realising what I’ve just said. I’m not going crazy, am I? This isn’t like last time. Suddenly I’m filled with self-doubt.
Matt stares at me. ‘Maybe something is wrong with you, Claire. Maybe you’re not well.’
I burst into tears.
‘I can’t do this again, Claire. The practice is taking every ounce of my energy. I need to make it work otherwise we’ll be financially ruined. I can’t be around 24/7 to look after you too. It’s not like last time you were ill. We both have responsibilities now.’
I know he’s right. I need to pull myself together. Put Olivia first.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry.’
He paces up and down the tiny bathroom as Olivia’s screams increase to a volume that seems impossible. I hold my hands against my ears, trying to block them out. I can’t deal with her right now.
‘Go and see your daughter.’ I can only just get the words out through tears.
He grits his teeth, and reluctantly goes towards the bedroom, leaving me sitting in the bathroom on my own, shaking with sobs.
Is fear a feeling or a way of being?
The car has been parked outside my house for two weeks now. Every day for two weeks. I don’t know how they sit out there in the heat, without the engine on for air conditioning, the hot sun glaring through the car windows. They hardly take a break. These days I keep the curtains shut, twitching them open in the dead of night, when I think they might be gone. But even after dark, they wait.
There are shadier places to park. But that spot has the best view of my house. Two huge conifers mark the entrance, and there’s a high hedge between them. You can only see the house if you park opposite the gap. My husband chose this place for its privacy, but the reality is the trees block the light all year round, casting the house in shadow.
When we go to bed, I check the street once more. Still there. I get changed into my pyjamas and lie beside my husband. I feel the tension all the way through my body. He snores peacefully but I can’t relax, not when I know there’s someone still out there, patiently waiting. But for what? I resist the temptation to go to the window and peer out once more.
Instead I lie completely still, on my back. I’ve learnt to sleep this way. If I move in the bed, some unknown part of my body protests, a forgotten bruise.
I sleep fitfully and then wake with a jolt. Something’s wrong.
I hear a sound. It’s very faint but I’m sure of it. Footsteps.
I go to the window. The car is there but it’s empty.
Where are they?
Are they in our garden? Or already in the house?
What do they want from us?
I shiver with fear.
I should wake my husband. But I can’t. He’ll be furious at being disturbed.
I stand stock-still, listening for noise. There’s nothing but the rustle of the wind through the trees.
I need to check on my daughter. Just in case.
She’s sleeping peacefully.
I lean over to kiss her cheek. I want to hold her close to me, take comfort in her small, warm body. I resist the urge, not wanting to wake her.
‘Everything’s going to be all right,’ I whisper, to reassure myself more than her.
I go to the window and look out at the car. I see movement on the path that leads from our house to the road. Light, fluid footsteps, carefully avoiding the sensors of our security lights.
I let out the breath I didn’t realise I’d been holding.
I watch the figure get in the car and I blink as the headlights flicker on, illuminating the shadowy street. The engine starts and I stay at the window until the car has pulled away and disappeared around the corner, out of sight.
Ten
Olivia watches me as I go through the bathroom cupboard, pulling out toiletries and putting them on the tiled floor. Old face creams. Hardened tubes of medicinal toothpastes. Lavender scented bath and shower gels. Bottles and bottles of talcum powder. Make-up remover. Toothpicks. Old, dried nail varnishes.
Since my argument with Matt, I haven’t been able to calm down. I didn’t sleep at all last night. I tossed and turned, going over and over our argument again and again. I don’t want to think about what he said to me. I’m sure he’s wrong. I’m not ill. It’s not like last time.
I’ve told myself that if I just sort out the house Matt and I will be happier. I’ll tackle it myself, one room at a time.
I won’t throw away anything that might have meaning for Ruth. I know from clearing out my own mother’s house that that would be unforgivable. I don’t think there’ll be anything sentimental in the bathroom, but I’m still careful as I go through the cupboard. I know how unexpected items can bring back memories. People say you can always look at photos, but images are static. Scents, sounds and sensations bring everything back, clearer than any picture. Just the smell of my mother’s perfume on a stranger’s coat used to bring her back in full Technicolor.
They discontinued my mother’s scent five years ago. I wish I’d kept just one bottle of her perfume. I hadn’t liked the way the smell of it would jar me back into my grief, but those moments, sprinkled unexpectedly amongst the everyday, gave me another path to my memories. As time goes by, it feels like the roads to those memories are closing off, the paths overgrown and inaccessible.
There are some things I’ll never throw away. My mother’s red, dangly, fake feather earrings. She wore the same ones every day. Cheap ones from the supermarket. I’ll always remember the feel of her earring brushing my face as she hugged me. Sometimes, when I’m feeling lost, I take them out and hold the fake feathers against my cheek, remembering her. If someone else had been sorting through her house, they would have thrown them out. A ball of anxiety forms in my stomach. Like most of my things, my mother’s earrings are in a box somewhere, waiting to be unpacked.
At the bottom of the cupboard there are boxes and boxes of unopened tights. I feel moisture at the corner of my eye as a tear forms and drops down onto my cheek. I wish my mother was still alive. I wipe the tear away and think of Pamela, and that expectation we all have that our lives will continue indefinitely. Pamela would have anticipated walks that she never took, chatting to friends she never saw again. I hardly knew her, but as I pull out the boxes of unopened tights and put them into bin bags for the charity shop, I feel like she’s with me, watching.
Olivia stares at me as tears run down my cheeks. I thought babies were supposed to sense your emotions and respond, but Olivia just watches as my face goes blotchy and my eyes redden. I stand and grab the toilet paper. I blow my nose aggressively, letting the noise fill the silent room.
Looking in the mirror, I wipe my eyes. Sometimes I don’t recognise myself any more. I wanted to change, to be someone different. I needed to leave the woman I’d become behind in London. The city had hardened me. All I cared about was my career, getting the front-page scoop. But it got out of hand.
I’ve tried so hard to change. But who I am now? My eyes search my face for meaning, but there’s none. I’m lost.
I look down at Olivia and see she’s fallen asleep. My sobs had no impact on her. I wonder if she’s learnt to block out my despair. I wonder if she’ll grow into an emotionless child, out of tune with the world around her. Perhaps she takes after me. These days I always feel out of sync. Misaligned.
Going back to the cupboard, my vision blurs through tears. I speed up the sorting process, grabbing handfuls of toiletries and shoving them in the bin bag. I no longer go through each item in turn. I no longer let myself feel that stab of disappointment that Pamela never got to use these things.
Soon I have four full bin
bags. Three are just rubbish, but one is suitable for the charity shop.
I carefully lift each bag over Olivia’s head. I’ll wait until Thursday, when the bins are taken, before I put them out. I don’t want Ruth to think that I’ve thrown out any of her mother’s things. Although she might see the bags in the hallway if she lets herself in. I take them to the study and shove them in there, on top of a pile of our boxes.
I go back into the bathroom and look at the cupboard. The bottom three shelves are completely empty. I smile. I’m making progress.
As I’m surveying my work, Olivia wakes and I realise she was due a feed two hours ago. I frown, frustrated with myself. What kind of mother forgets that?
* * *
After Olivia is fed and changed, and has spat up milk over my shoulder, I shove the bin bag of toiletries in the bottom of the buggy, strap Olivia in and make my way to the charity shop in the village.
There’s a woman in front of the till, a collection of overflowing bags of donations at her feet. She picks them up two at a time and hands them over the counter to the volunteer. As she picks up the final bags, one bursts open and baby clothes spill out over the desk and drop to the floor.
‘Sorry, sorry,’ she says, gathering them up with her hands.
I reach down to pick a baby grow up off the floor. It’s tiny, with delicate embroidered blue hearts dotted over white cotton. It would just about fit Olivia.
‘It’s beautiful,’ I say. ‘Must be hard to part with it.’
The woman turns and her face reddens.
‘Sarah?’
She looks up and I see the tears in her eyes.
We both stare down at the baby grow.
‘I didn’t realise…’ I start, unsure how to finish the sentence. ‘Are you all right?’
‘I’m fine,’ she says, wiping her eyes. She quickly gathers up the baby clothes and shoves them back in the bag, hurrying away before the volunteer has the chance to thank her.
My eyes follow Sarah and it takes a moment for me to realise I’m next in line. ‘Do you accept unopened toiletries?’ I ask.
