by Ruth Heald
But not right now. Right now I just want to sleep. I roll away from Matt. If I can get just half an hour’s rest, then I’ll feel so much better.
Matt ignores my signals, snuggling close to me, his fingers stroking the nape of my neck. I feel my body awakening, but I don’t want it to. I want to drift back into the soft cocoon of sleep.
‘Not now, Matt,’ I murmur.
He moves away from me, turns the other way and I hear his grumble of frustration.
‘I thought this was what you wanted,’ he whispers.
‘It is, just not now.’
‘Then when?’
‘Later,’ I mumble, trying to switch my brain back off, to let myself drift away.
Then Olivia groans and every muscle in my body tenses.
Stay asleep. Please stay asleep.
Another groan. Followed by a full-blown scream.
I put the pillow over my head.
At least it’s Saturday. Matt can do some of the childcare.
‘Can you pick her up?’ I ask.
He moves closer to me again, his arm encircling my body, wanting me to respond.
‘I can’t do it while she’s screaming,’ I mumble.
‘She’ll calm down.’
‘Can you pick her up, Matt?’
I feel the bed shift and hear his footsteps on the carpet as he heads into Olivia’s room.
He picks her up without speaking and brings her back into the bedroom.
I reach for her drowsily, placing her on my breast.
Matt slips back into bed beside me.
‘What shall we do today?’ I ask. It’s the first day we’ve had together as a family in such a long time. I wonder if Matt will help me catch up on the housework. Maybe we could do a bit more of the unpacking and then go out for lunch. It would be nice to get out of the house.
‘Mum wants us to go to the Winter Fair with her.’
I turn my head towards him. ‘You did say no, didn’t you?’
He sighs. ‘It will be nice, Claire. She only wants to get to know you a bit better.’
‘But I haven’t seen you all week.’ Even as I hear myself speak I know it sounds selfish. But I had hoped Matt and I could talk some more today. About his past. About Sarah. About our relationship. All the unanswered questions that keep me up at night. We can’t do that with Ruth there.
‘Try and be nice to her,’ Matt says. He leans over and kisses my cheek, before getting out of bed and going to the bathroom.
As I hear him turn on the shower, I lie as still as I can. With my eyes closed, I listen to the rush of the water, as Olivia feeds from me vigorously.
This is my life. A wonderful husband. A beautiful baby daughter. A cottage in the country. I should be happy. What’s wrong with me?
* * *
The fair is at the garden centre where Sarah and I had lunch the other day. Ruth insists Matt drives and Jack sits in the front while Ruth and I squeeze into the back next to Olivia’s car seat. Throughout the journey, Ruth chats to Olivia as if she’s an adult, telling her all about the other women at the tennis club; who’s having an affair, who’s had a breakdown. Matt stares straight ahead at the road, oblivious.
The garden centre café is covered in garish multicoloured lights and as we approach, a man in a high-vis jacket directs us towards parking in a field. In the time it takes to park and get Olivia and the buggy from the car, we could have easily walked. I pull my hood up over my head against the wind and walk through the muddy field a little ahead of Matt, Ruth and Jack, enjoying imagining, just for a moment, that I am completely alone.
Inside the entrance, curry and pizza food stalls sit uncomfortably beside the local craft displays where men and women in eighteenth-century clothing demonstrate everything from blacksmithing to basket making.
I watch as a man puts an iron rod in a fire to heat it and then attacks it with a hammer to bend it into shape. I’m glad Olivia is safe in the buggy, unable to reach out and burn herself. I don’t know how parents with older children cope. They must have to be constantly vigilant to keep their children from harm.
Jack wanders off to look at the farmers’ market and Ruth falls into step beside me. ‘We haven’t seen much of you lately,’ she says. ‘It’s good we’re getting some time together today. It’s nice to have you so close.’
I look at her, surprised.
‘It’s what I wanted,’ I say. ‘Family nearby.’ I leave the rest of my thoughts unsaid. That it hasn’t worked out as planned. That I regret moving.
‘I saw my mother’s walkers by the pond the other day.’
I look at her guiltily. The mobility aids had sat by the pond for five days in full view of Ruth’s house, before Matt had taken them away.
‘I just wanted them out of the house. They were getting in the way.’
‘I’m sure they were.’ She laughs. ‘I bet you were tempted to throw them into the pond. They’d disappear then. It’s very deep.’
‘No, of course not,’ I say. But she’s reminded me of another thing I need to worry about, another hazard for Olivia. ‘We’ll need to drain the pond,’ I continue, ‘if Olivia’s going to play outside in the summer.’
‘Yes. It’s very dangerous otherwise. Jack and I can help you dig it out. And I must clear out the house soon,’ she says, unprompted. ‘I just want to do it properly. Make sure I’m not throwing away anything sentimental.’
‘Thank you,’ I say, swallowing my guilt about the things I took to the charity shop the other day.
I smile at Matt as he catches us up. ‘Your mother’s going to help us drain the pond. And start clearing out the house.’
‘That’s great,’ he says. ‘Have you seen what’s over there?’
He points to a fairground ride, rows of chairs hanging from the rotating top of the carousel. Loud nineties music bursts out from its speakers, asserting its presence. They’ve put it at the edge of the field, far away from the farmers’ market stalls selling expensive cheeses, artisan bread and sausages. It’s the kind of ride where you feel like you’re flying. I remember going on something similar when I was a teenager, the sense of being on top of the world, adrenalin coursing through me, butterflies in my stomach. This one’s probably older than me. It’s rickety and doesn’t seem to be attracting many customers. A man sits smoking next to the booth which announces it’s £3 a ride.
Matt turns to me and grins. ‘Do you want a go?’ he asks. For a moment, I want to say yes. I want to be free again, childlike, just focusing on the sensation of the wind through my hair, my feet dangling below me. I look down at the buggy.
‘No,’ I say. ‘I can look after Olivia.’
And he’s off without a backward glance, over to the ride. His boyish impulsivity was something I fell in love with. I smile. I’m glad he’s enjoying himself for once. He’s seemed so down lately, worrying about the practice.
Ruth turns to me and laughs. ‘He never changes.’
I watch as he hands over his money to the operative.
‘One of us will always have to look after Olivia,’ I say. ‘It will be a long time before we do that kind of thing together.’
‘Oh. Did you want a go too?’ Ruth says. ‘I can stay with the buggy.’
That’s not what I’d meant, not really, but I grab my chance at freedom.
‘Are you sure?’ I reply. ‘Thanks.’
I run after Matt, paying my money and pushing myself up into the swing beside him.
‘You’re joining me?’ he asks with a grin.
‘Yep,’ I say, laughing and looking around. As an adult I notice things I’d have never paid attention to as a teenager. The rusty cogs in the rotating wheel on top of the ride, the way the swings sway in the slightest wind, the fact that the guy who comes to lower the bars across us is no more than eighteen. My heart thumps loudly in my chest.
The ride starts to turn, slowly at first and then faster. I try not to think about the fact that it has only been assembled today. I look back towards th
e ground, seeking out Ruth and Olivia. I can’t see them at first. The chairs gather speed and it’s hard to pick them out in the blur.
We start to rise high in the sky as the ride goes faster and faster. I feel the breeze in my hair. Matt laughs. I spot Ruth’s purple coat in the crowd. But I can’t see Olivia, my eyes searching desperately for her. Then I see something. A pram zigzagging across the field, away from me and into the distance. A grey and blue pram. My pram. Being wheeled away by a woman in a long, dark coat.
I feel sick as the ride spins and I try to turn my head to follow the pram.
‘Olivia!’ I scream. ‘Olivia!’
But no one can hear me. The wind is too loud. Beside me, Matt hasn’t turned his head.
‘Matt!’ I crane my neck, but the g-force works against me and it’s a struggle to keep looking at him. ‘Matt!’ I wave my arm, reaching out to hit him, gripping the metal chain with my other hand.
I make contact with his elbow and he turns.
‘What?’ I see him mouth the words, but I can’t hear the sound.
We’re going even faster now, the wind blowing into us. As I turn to Matt, my swing loses its straight trajectory and veers from side to side.
‘Olivia!’ I shout.
I try to point, but we’re moving so fast that I can’t identify the woman with the pram any more. She’s merged into the blur of the crowd.
‘Olivia?’ Matt mouths.
‘We need to stop the ride!’
‘What?’
But there’s no button to press. Nothing I can do. My heart beats faster and faster.
Right at this moment, my daughter is being taken away from me. Right now. I’m blinded by panic.
‘Stop the ride!’ I shout.
No response. No one can hear me.
‘Stop the ride!’
It’s slowing of its own accord now, the beat of the music slowing with it, and I can see Ruth in the crowd again, looking at her phone, oblivious to the absence of the buggy beside her.
‘What’s wrong?’ Matt shouts and now I can hear him.
‘Olivia. I left her with your mum. But now the buggy’s gone.’
The ride’s still spinning, but I’m close enough to the ground to release the bar across my chair and jump down. I fall, banging my knee on the metal floor.
Matt jumps down beside me. I run, pushing aside spinning chairs. I get to the small gate and run down the steps, dizzy and unsure of my footing. I rush over to Ruth.
‘Where’s Olivia?’ I ask, breathless.
She looks up from her phone. ‘Good ride?’
‘Where’s Olivia, Mum?’ Matt says, catching up.
‘Oh, Sarah took her. She needed a nappy change.’
I burst into tears. She’s safe.
‘Mum,’ Matt says. ‘You need to tell us before you hand her over to someone else. Claire was worried.’
‘I could hardly tell you, could I?’ Ruth looks perplexed, her eyes flicking back to her phone. ‘You were on the ride.’
‘She’s OK then?’ I ask, struggling to get the words out through the wall of relief.
‘Of course she’s OK.’
I see Sarah coming towards us with the buggy. I break into a run towards my baby.
Sarah’s smile turns into a frown when she sees my face.
‘What’s wrong?’
But I already have my arms in the buggy, desperately undoing the buckle and pulling my daughter out into my arms.
‘Olivia,’ I whisper into her hair. ‘Olivia.’
I never thought I’d ring a helpline, but I don’t know what else to do. My birthday was a one-off event, a taste of how family life could be if things were different.
Now everything’s returned to normal. I’m trapped inside the four walls of this house, trying to entertain my daughter all day, every day. Trying to convince myself I’m OK. I know I shouldn’t feel this way. I’m lucky. I have a successful husband, a big house, a beautiful daughter.
A leaflet for a helpline for mothers dropped through my door a few days ago. Since then I’ve been reading and rereading it, turning it over in my hands until the edges are worn. I just want someone to talk to.
My daughter is asleep upstairs. This is my chance. I type the number into my phone and then stare at the digits.
I swallow and then, without letting myself think, I click the call button.
The phone rings and rings before it connects.
‘Hello?’ The voice on the other end sounds harassed, as if I might have interrupted something.
‘Hi,’ I say. ‘Umm… have I got the right number? Is this the helpline for mothers?’
‘Yes,’ she says, her voice softer now. ‘How can I help you?’
‘I don’t know really.’ I laugh. ‘I’m not the kind of person who rings helplines. I normally have it all together…’ This whole thing’s a mistake. I shouldn’t have rung. I consider hanging up, but something makes me hold on.
‘What kind of person rings helplines?’
‘I don’t know. Lonely people.’
‘Are you lonely?’
I swallow. ‘Perhaps a bit. I don’t go out that much.’
I run my hands over the bruises on my arms, pressing each in turn and flinching at the pain.
‘You don’t go out?’
‘No, I… I don’t like to.’
‘Why not?’
Can I tell her? I’d be too ashamed to tell a friend. And besides, I have no friends to tell any more.
‘I have a lot of bruises. And I don’t like to go out in public.’
It sounds so pathetic, so impossibly vain.
‘How did you get the bruises?’
‘My husband… he has a difficult job. He gets stressed…’
‘Are you saying he hits you?’
I feel uncertain now, as if I might be making a huge mistake, to reveal the part of our marriage that’s just between me and my husband. The part I’m ashamed of. But I desperately need to talk to someone.
‘Is this conversation confidential?’ I ask.
‘Of course.’
‘Yes, he hits me.’ I say it so quietly I think she might not hear.
But she does. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she says.
My stomach knots and I instantly regret saying anything. I’m not a victim. I don’t need her pity. Calling the helpline was a mistake. I need to get off the phone before I tell her anything else.
‘Gosh,’ I say, trying to smile, so my voice sounds more upbeat. ‘I didn’t realise the time. I really have to go. My daughter will be waking up from her nap.’
‘Sure,’ the woman says, but I don’t think she really believes me.
‘I never got to ask your advice on activities to do with my daughter in the house,’ I say, trying to convince her that I called for a practical reason. But my voice cracks as I speak. We both know that’s not what I really called about.
‘Well, you can call back anytime. We’re open twenty-four hours a day. Seven days a week.’
Fourteen
When Emma arrives at our door, I wrap my arms around her in a bear hug. I’m so grateful she’s offered to babysit.
She steps over the threshold into our house and I take her coat and hang it on the rack.
‘I know I’m a bit early,’ Emma says, ‘but I didn’t know what to do with myself at home without Lizzie. Dan’s looking after her. So I thought I’d come and help you get ready.’
I take her through to the living room where Olivia lies on her playmat. She starts to whine and Emma leans over her. ‘Hello, Olivia,’ she says. ‘Hello, hello, hello.’ She tickles her feet and Olivia manages a smile.
I escape to the kitchen to make tea, snatching a precious break away from my daughter. When I take Emma her tea, she holds out a wrapped gift towards me. ‘I have a present for you,’ she announces, smiling.
‘Oh,’ I say, embarrassed. ‘There’s really no need.’ She’s the one doing us the favour.
‘Well, it’s really more for Olivia than y
ou. I couldn’t resist spoiling her.’ Emma watches intently as I tear open the wrapping paper.
Inside is a picture. It’s a drawing of children playing on a bridge over a river, dropping sticks into the water.
‘I found it in a charity shop,’ she says.
‘Oh.’ Just like that I’m back in my nightmare from the other night. The river. Matt holding Olivia below the surface of the water. I feel the fear rise up inside me and try to swallow it back down. It was only a dream.
Emma sees my expression.
‘Don’t you like it?’ she asks, her voice filled with concern.
‘I do. It was just unexpected. Thank you.’ I give her a hug and hold her for a couple of seconds, allowing myself a moment to calm my nerves.
‘Let’s go and hang it up,’ she says. ‘It’ll cover the wallpaper I know you hate. Make Olivia’s room into a proper nursery.’
‘Don’t worry, I can do it later.’
‘No, let’s do it now. We’ll never get round to it otherwise.’
At her insistence, we go upstairs and I try to push the memory of the dream out of my mind.
In Olivia’s room there’s a hook above the cot. Emma hangs the picture, while Olivia wriggles in my arms. Emma stands back to appreciate it.
‘There!’ she says. ‘It really works in the space.’
I stare at it.
I hate it. I want to tear it straight down.
Tears start to well up as we leave the room.
I can take it down later, I tell myself. I can’t say anything to Emma now. I can’t be ungrateful.
Emma is already onto the next thing. ‘What are you going to wear?’ she asks.
‘I don’t know.’ I haven’t had time to think about it. Olivia has been restless all day and I’ve been counting down the hours until tonight.
‘Let me help you,’ Emma says.
She heads towards our bedroom and for a moment I hesitate. I don’t want her in my personal space. I haven’t cleared away the nappy bags from earlier and the washing basket is overflowing.
