by Ruth Heald
But it’s not mine. It’s Matt’s. Another text message from Sarah. His phone is locked so yet again I can’t see what it says. I swallow, feeling slightly sick. Why is she texting him on Friday night?
Matt appears behind me, the threadbare towel wrapped around his waist and I quickly drop the phone back onto the bed.
‘We need to get back,’ I say. ‘Hurry up and get dressed,’ I hand him his clothes one item at a time, wishing he’d speed up.
I still can’t lose the sense of panic I feel. The sense that something awful is about to happen to Olivia. That something’s going to tear my family apart.
There’s not enough time.
I have to get home.
I need to make sure my daughter is safe.
Fifteen
My hands tingle in the bitterly cold air. The grass is hard with frost, but Ruth has arrived with Jack and Sarah in tow, determined to fulfil her promise to dig out our pond. In wellington boots, she issues instructions to Jack and Matt, telling them how to get leverage as they dig out underneath the frozen reeds. Emma is here too, pulling on gardening gloves, ready to help.
Sarah has the shears in her hands and is cutting back the plants that grow round the edges to make it easier for the others. She looks like an advert for the fresh country air, her auburn hair barely contained by a neat ponytail, her freckles still present even though the summer is long gone. She has a silk scarf wrapped tightly around her neck; yellow and orange and entirely inappropriate for outdoor work. I think of the text messages she’s been sending Matt late at night and wonder what they’re about. I bet Ruth would have preferred Matt to marry her. Homely, comforting and seemingly with no desire to move from the place where she grew up. She’s the ideal match.
I park Olivia’s buggy by the back door. She’s wrapped up warm in her winter snow suit, hat and mittens. She stares out at the pond, fascinated by everything going on around her.
I can feel my wellington boots chafing the back of my ankles as I bend over my baby. Ruth has found them for me in the shed and they are slightly too small, digging into me.
‘She’s beautiful.’ Sarah is beside me, cooing into the buggy.
‘Thanks.’
Olivia manages a smile for her before she twists her head round, trying to get comfortable.
Sarah puts her hand on my arm. ‘I’m so sorry about the fair,’ she says. ‘I didn’t realise you’d notice Olivia was gone while you were on the ride. I thought I was being helpful, changing her nappy.’
What does she mean, she didn’t think I’d notice? I wonder for a moment if she was testing me, seeing if I’d miss my own daughter. I dismiss the thought. It’s just paranoia.
Instead I smile at her. ‘It’s OK,’ I say. ‘Next time, just ask me first.’
‘Of course,’ Sarah says. ‘Honestly, I’m sorry.’
Ruth interrupts us with a shout. ‘Bring Olivia over here.’ She points to the path leading to the pond. ‘She can watch the action.’
I hesitate for a second and then remind myself that I can’t let my fear of water define my life. Olivia will be fine. She’ll be right next to Ruth.
I wheel the buggy over, making sure it’s not too close to the pond’s edge. As I park it next to Ruth, in a shady spot on the concrete path, it feels like a relief to hand responsibility for Olivia over to someone else.
Ruth looks down at Olivia and waves at her, before turning back to issue instructions to Matt, who is now calf deep in the pond, tugging at the reeds. An image enters my head, uninvited. A tiny arm tangled in the reeds. I push the thought away.
‘I expect we’ll all want a cup of tea soon,’ Ruth says to me and I gladly retreat to the kitchen, away from the pond. I’ll be pleased when it’s empty, and I no longer see the light reflecting on the water when I look out into the garden, taunting me.
I turn on the kettle and get out the mugs. For a moment I observe the scene outside. A harmonious family, working together. It feels good, like a warm embrace. Maybe I can learn to like Ruth, or if not, then at least understand her. They are the only family I have, after all, and I’m lucky to have them around. I watch Ruth bend over the buggy to talk to Olivia. She clearly loves her granddaughter. I can’t ask for more than that. I just wish I could love Olivia the same way.
Someone squeezes my shoulder and I jump.
‘I didn’t mean to scare you,’ Emma says, joining me at the sink. ‘I scraped my hand on a thorn. I just need to clean it up.’
‘I’m sure there are some plasters somewhere.’ I go to the cupboard that’s still full of Matt’s grandmother’s medication and root around. There are some plasters at the back and I take one and hand it to Emma.
‘Are you all right?’ she asks.
‘Just about coping,’ I say, forcing a smile.
Her eyes crinkle in concern. ‘You don’t have to carry everything on your own, Claire. You can talk to me anytime.’
‘Thanks, I know you’re there for me. But I think I’m used to it now – I’ve felt this way since she was born.’
I remember when Olivia was first handed to me. I’d expected to feel the overwhelming love everyone had told me about, that I was looking forward to so much. But she was a bloodstained, scrunched-up bundle of flesh. She screamed and screamed, a high-pitched mewling, like a strangled cat. Skin to skin, that’s what they’d said, and I held her close against me. Two bodies together. I waited to feel something, willing myself to feel anything. But my first feeling towards my baby was resentment. My second feeling was crushing guilt.
‘Things will work out the way they should,’ Emma says, putting her arm gently around me. ‘I promise. It may not seem like it now. But there’s karma in the world. Everything corrects itself in the end.’
‘You’d better get back out.’ I’m ashamed of my tears and I suddenly want to be on my own. I can’t bear the thought of her judging me. ‘They’ll be wondering where you are.’
I run upstairs to the bathroom and dab at my eyes with loo roll. When I look in the mirror they are still red-rimmed and I stay a little longer, sitting on the closed toilet. I want to stay here forever, but eventually I get up, take a deep breath and leave the bathroom.
I go into my bedroom to apply some make-up over my blotchy face.
I stop stock-still. Someone’s there.
‘Sarah?’
She’s by the window. In her hand is a photo of me and Matt that she’s picked up from the dressing table. We’re on our honeymoon in Borneo. I’m smiling ear to ear with my arm around Matt. There’s an orang-utan just about in shot behind us, if you look closely. I got the photos printed a few days ago and put them out to remind myself what Matt and I have together.
‘What are you doing?’ The way she was staring at our photos so intently makes me feel uneasy. She’s in my personal space, touching my property, scrutinising the photos of my honeymoon. With my husband.
She puts the frame down clumsily and it falls face down. She quickly rights it.
‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ She seems flustered. ‘I was waiting for the bathroom and I wandered in.’
I frown. I’m sure the bedroom door was closed. Why did she think she could just come in?
‘The bathroom’s free now,’ I tell her, abruptly.
She leaves and I go over to the dressing table, rearranging the photos so they align. I hate the thought of someone moving my things around, touching what’s not theirs. It reminds me of my hairbrush falling between the bed and the table the other day. I’m certain Ruth moved it when she was nosing around – no one seems to respect anyone’s privacy around here.
I apply my make-up quickly and hurry back to the kitchen, still feeling annoyed with Sarah. I pour the hot water over the teabags and position the cups on a tray.
Ruth, Jack and Emma have started to move the rocks that line the edge of the pond, but they stop for a tea break. Matt is talking to Sarah, their heads bowed together. He tips his head back and laughs. I bristle. He hardly ever laughs with me any more.
I force a smile as I hand them their mugs, before giving the remaining cup to Jack.
Emma comes straight over. ‘Are you OK?’
‘Fine, thank you,’ I lie.
She follows my gaze to Matt and Sarah.
‘They get on well,’ she says quietly.
‘Well, you know they have shared history.’ I think about how much time they are spending with each other, much more time than Matt spends with me. Then I think of Sarah in my bedroom. And the late-night texts she’s been sending. What does she want with my husband?
Emma frowns and we watch Sarah and Matt go over to Olivia’s buggy and coo at her.
‘She’s broody. She wants a baby,’ Emma says, matter-of-factly.
‘But she doesn’t have a partner.’ I laugh, but as I watch Sarah fussing over Olivia I wonder if there’s something in it. She had said she hadn’t found the right man since she miscarried Matt’s baby. What if she’s not over him?
‘I’d watch her,’ Emma advises.
‘Matt and I are fine.’ It sounds more defensive than I intend.
‘It’s not Matt you have to worry about. It’s women who are manipulative, not men. They betray your trust. I’ve learnt that the hard way.’
‘They’re just friends,’ I insist.
‘Well, just be careful. Anyone can see she wants what you have. Your perfect daughter. Your perfect husband.’
‘No one’s life is perfect,’ I say as I watch Sarah slap Matt on the shoulder and giggle girlishly at a joke he’s made.
* * *
After a few minutes, I collect the mugs and take them back to the kitchen. The others stand chatting round the buggy, obscuring Olivia from my view.
‘I’ll come out and help as soon as I’ve washed up,’ I say. The truth is I long to be on my own, away from everyone. I’m finding it difficult being by the pond. It brings back too many memories. Memories I’d rather forget.
I turn on the taps to fill the sink, when I notice a movement out of the corner of my eye.
The buggy. Olivia’s buggy.
It’s rolling down the path, towards the pond.
I shout out, but no one turns. They can’t hear me through the kitchen window.
I run to the door, push it open and run down the path.
‘The buggy! The buggy!’
They turn to me, away from Olivia, and I watch as the buggy reaches the pond and the front wheel tips into the water. The whole thing teeters on the edge for a terrifying second before the back wheels follow. Within moments, it submerges.
‘Hi.’
‘Hi.’
I’m glad it’s her on the other end of the phone, the calm, familiar voice. I call the helpline so often that I feel like I know her now. I’ve lost all pretence of ringing about parenting activities. I ring because I need to talk. I ring because she listens.
‘What’s been going on in the last few days?’ she asks softly.
‘I think… I think that I can’t live with him any more, his behaviour. I think I’ve lost my sense of what’s normal.’
‘What’s he done?’
‘Nothing unusual. Well, not for him.’
I’m sitting on the bed. There’s a bloodstain on the corner of the pillowcase and I run my hand over the hardened surface. I’ll have to wash the sheets this afternoon, before he gets home.
‘What’s he done?’
‘Well, nothing. We had sex last night. I suppose that’s good. Sex is important in a marriage, isn’t it?’
‘But?’
‘But I guess I didn’t really want to. It was more him than me. I said no initially, but I eventually gave in.’
‘You gave in?’
‘Yeah, I had to. He’s a passionate guy.’
‘You know that’s wrong, don’t you?’ Her voice remains soft, but I can hear the accusation in it. She thinks I’m weak, that I can’t stand up to him.
‘I don’t think it’s wrong.’ I twist the corner of the pillow slip in my hand, tying it into a knot. ‘I… well I must have wanted it, mustn’t I? Because I had sex with him. I guess he persuaded me.’
I feel the bubble of confusion rising up in me. I’m exposed. I can see the lies I’m telling myself and I don’t want to face them.
‘Does he have any history of this?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well. I guess, in my experience, men who treat women like that have often done it before, to others.’
‘In your experience?’ Has she gone through this too?
‘Lots of women are harassed, assaulted, injured.’
‘Lots?’
‘By men like your husband.’
‘Have you been?’ I ask hesitantly. ‘Have you been treated like this?’
‘Not in the way that you have,’ she says. ‘But no woman is immune. Not in the world we live in.’
‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘That makes me feel better.’ I wish I was with her now, by her side, having coffee instead of talking over the phone. We speak so often she feels like a friend, not a volunteer on a helpline.
‘That’s OK,’ she replies. ‘That’s what I’m here for.’
‘Are you married?’ I ask. Even though we talk all the time, I know so little about her. I want to check she understands what it’s like to be married, the give and take that’s required and the sacrifices you have to make.
‘Yes.’
‘Do you ever feel, like being married, you have to give up a part of yourself?’
‘Sometimes, yes.’
‘I feel that too,’ I say. ‘And when he treats me badly, I wonder… I wonder if I deserve it.’
‘Why would you think that?’
‘Because I knew him before. I’d heard rumours. And I still chose to marry him.’
Sixteen
Matt reaches the pond first. He tugs at the buggy, but it sticks. Olivia is submerged, drowning. I’m in the water within seconds, my hands feeling for the straps that hold Olivia under, as Sarah joins Matt, grabbing the buggy’s handle and pulling as hard as she can.
My hands find the straps over Olivia’s waterlogged clothes and I struggle to undo them. The buckles are filled with silt. It’s not working. I reach down into the murky water and find the front wheel. I lift it with all my strength and eventually it releases. Matt and Sarah fall back onto the path, the buggy with Olivia inside following them and tipping over.
Silence. There should be screams but there’s silence.
Terror rips through me.
I hear a disconnected voice and realise Ruth is on the phone to the ambulance service. ‘Come now,’ she says, her voice a whisper. ‘Please.’
Matt has released Olivia from the straps. The waterlogged hood of her winter coat covers her mouth. I pull it off her face. She can’t breathe. How long has she been unable to breathe?
Matt holds her as he runs his fingers round her mouth, pulling out small bits of pond weed. He turns her upside down, hits her back and a spurt of water shoots out. He lies her on the grass and starts mouth to mouth.
I crouch beside her and hold her tiny hand. She feels so fragile. This can’t be happening. Not again. Her hand is muddy and cold. I kiss it over and over, tasting the algae from the pond on my lips.
She’s freezing. Her winter clothes stick to her.
‘Go inside,’ I shout at Emma. ‘Get her warm clothes. And towels. They’re upstairs in the bathroom cupboard.’
I don’t know if Emma heard the last bit. She’s already gone, closely followed by Sarah.
‘The ambulance will be here any minute,’ Ruth says over and over again, as she paces the garden.
Olivia finally screams and I hug her close to me, overcome with relief. Her wet clothes soak through my jeans and I start to strip her as Emma appears with a dry outfit.
Paramedics are in the garden, kneeling over her before we have the chance to put the clothes on. They wrap her in blankets, check her and then take her to the ambulance. Matt and I get in and I sit strapped to the seat, hugging Oli
via. I realise that we haven’t got her clothes with us.
Emma shouts into the ambulance.
‘I’ll follow in the car.’
‘Bring some nappies,’ I call back. ‘And the clothes.’
Olivia whimpers in my arms and I hold her closer, hugging her tightly to my chest.
‘Keep her warm,’ the paramedic says.
Her tiny face gazes up at me, meeting my eyes. Guilt rips through me.
‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ I whisper. How can I have taken my eyes off her, even for a moment?
I feel the vomit rise in my throat. I can’t do this. I can’t watch her every second. I’m not good enough. I don’t deserve a child.
The inside of the ambulance is full of noise, the sirens and Olivia’s cries echoing around us. I never thought I’d be so grateful to hear her scream.
We arrive at the hospital and we’re taken through the double doors to A&E. It’s like a warm welcome to hell. All the seats are full, and people sit on the small coffee tables between the chairs, on the floor, anywhere. A drunk man lies sprawled across the floor and an elderly couple on the seats next to him stare stoically ahead. A young woman holds her boyfriend’s head in her arms, while a group of men laugh uproariously by the vending machines, one of them bleeding from the head.
The paramedics take us straight past the chaos, through the doors at the end of the waiting room, to the relative calm of the paediatric ward. We’re shown to a bed, where we’re left waiting to see a nurse. Despite the harsh lighting and noise of A&E, Olivia has fallen asleep in my arms. I shift positions and gently place my hand on her to check she’s still breathing. The relief is overwhelming as I feel her little chest rising and falling.
Emma appears, her face flushed as if she’s been running, a plastic bag of clothes and nappies in her hands.
I smile at her gratefully, thankful that she’s here.
‘How is she?’ Emma asks.
‘We don’t know. We’re waiting for the nurse.’
