by Wendy Clarke
Pushing back the covers, she went over to the crib and lifted it, with its stand, to the side of the bed. Samuel didn’t stir. He was fast asleep on his back, his arms bent as if in surrender. Ria looked at his little face, wishing she could feel something for him. But it was sorrow, not affection that tugged at her. Sorrow for the child she had no feelings for. A child born not out of love, but out of submission.
She went to the kitchen for his bottle of milk and placed it on the bedside table. When she’d done that, she picked up the packet of sleeping tablets. Hesitating only a moment, she pushed one of the white pills out of its foil bubble and swallowed it down with some of the water. Immediately, the tension she’d been feeling eased. Samuel would wake soon, but this time she wanted him to. As soon as he had fed, she could sleep. She lay back on the pillow and waited.
Samuel was crying, but it was as if his cries were coming from far away. With difficulty, Ria forced her heavy eyelids open. Her head was muzzy, her mouth dry. With a great effort, she reached across to the bedside table and switched on the lamp. She looked at the clock. How could that be? Without realising it, she’d slept for an hour and a half.
Samuel’s cry was getting louder. She knew she should be doing something, but the fog in her head wouldn’t clear. Through half-closed lids, she saw the bottle of milk. That was it. The baby needed a feed. With shaking hands, she lifted him from the crib and rested him on a pillow across her lap. Taking the lid off the bottle, she touched it to his lips and was surprised when he took the teat into his mouth straight away.
Ria leant back against the padded headboard, feeling Samuel’s soft weight in her arms. She listened to the suck of his tiny mouth and felt the down of his cheek as she stroked it with her finger – something she’d never done before. She felt warm… relaxed, even… and, for the first time, when he had finished every last drop in the bottle, she felt sad. She’d miss the clutch of his tiny hand on her finger when she put him back in his crib. The sweet smell of his head.
But, even through her drowsiness, she knew she must put him back. It was as if her mother’s instinct had kicked in. Lifting him from the pillow, she held him to her, kissing his tiny cheek.
‘Good night, little one. Sleep tight.’
Forty-Three
Leona
A wave of sorrow sweeps over me, leaving me gasping, and my heart clenches with the familiar pain. ‘I didn’t know how much I loved him until that night. Can you understand that?’
‘Of course I can,’ Lisa says. She thinks she understands, knows what happened, but she doesn’t. No one does, except for Gareth, but by the time I’ve finished my story, Lisa will know too.
‘When I woke up again, there was a strange metallic taste in my mouth. It was nearly morning. I remember how the light crept under the curtain.’ I sink down onto the settee, struggling to find the words. ‘Samuel was beside me in the bed and I knew straight away he was dead.’
Lisa sounds surprised. ‘That’s not what you told the paramedics.’
‘I couldn’t. Gareth wouldn’t let me. He’d heard my scream and came straight away. I let him take charge… He’s good at that. He picked the baby up and put him in the crib. He said that if anyone knew the truth – that I’d taken a sleeping tablet and fallen asleep with Samuel beside me – they would call me an unfit mother. They’d take Lily away from me. I was distraught. I didn’t know what to do, so I went along with it. When the ambulance came, we told them we’d found him dead in his crib.’
I cover my face with my hands, knowing that, on the other end of the phone, Lisa’s face will be mirroring the disgust she must be feeling at what I’ve just told her. I’m surprised, then, when her voice holds nothing but sympathy.
‘Even if he was in your bed, Leona, the cause of death would likely still have been Sudden Infant Death Syndrome.’
I shake my head. ‘No, it was me… I caused his death. Gareth said so. I was careless. I must have rolled onto him. Stopped him breathing.’ My body begins to shake as my grief brims over. ‘If it wasn’t for me, he’d be here still. Beth would have a brother.’
‘Oh, Leona…’ Lisa’s clear, professional voice has slipped into something softer. ‘You’ve kept this to yourself all these years. That must have been so hard. The anxiety you’ve experienced since your pregnancy is perfectly understandable. You need to remember that, although it can be frightening, anxiety is not a weakness. It takes strength to fight it every day.’
Her kindness floors me. ‘Lisa… I’m terrified that if I have this baby, I might kill it too.’
‘It was a terrible thing to happen, Leona, but you didn’t kill Samuel. You must believe it.’
But I’m not listening to her. I’m hearing Gareth’s words the first time I tried to leave him.
Set foot outside this house and I’ll tell everyone what you did. I’ll make sure I have sole custody of Lily… and I’ll make damn certain that you never get to see her again.
Forty-Four
Leona
I push open the doors that lead into the school’s large hall. At the end of yesterday’s phone call, Lisa advised me to keep everything as normal as possible and this is what I’m trying to do. The hall is filled with parents and students, and as Beth and I walk amongst them, a thought that hits me is like a physical pain: this will be the first school event I’ve been to without Scott.
I turn to Beth, trying to make my voice as neutral as possible. ‘Will your dad be here?’ I’d heard her on the phone to him last night, in her room.
I see her flinch at the word dad, then she shrugs. ‘No. But Granny Fay is coming. It’s fine.’
How I hate this new Beth. The one who’s trying to make out she’s not hurting. The one who will shrink away if I try to comfort her. But I know I’m just as bad. Even though it breaks my heart that Scott wants to avoid me, I’m trying not to let it show.
‘Yes, of course. Anyway, Mrs Snowdon says she has a surprise for me. I’m looking forward to finding out what it is.’
My voice is too bright. Too artificial. Knowing that we should be talking about the things that I told her, not carrying on as if nothing has happened.
‘Like surprises are always nice?’ Beth turns away and I realise what I’ve said. ‘Nice’ would not be the way to describe the surprises I’ve sprung on my daughter recently.
The students’ artwork has been pinned to large boards that have been positioned around the edge of the hall in front of the wall bars. Each piece of work has the student’s name printed above it, along with the title and a short description. Fay is standing next to one of the boards, talking to Beth’s art teacher. I give her a wave and I’m so relieved when she waves back that I have to resist the urge to run over to her and ask if she’s seen Scott, ask how he is. If he’s missing me.
Mrs Snowdon says something to Fay, then comes across to us. ‘Lovely to see you, Mrs Travis. Beth’s been so excited to show you her work.’
I glance at Beth, but she looks away. If it’s true she’s been excited, she doesn’t want me to see it.
‘I’ve been looking forward to it too,’ I say. ‘Do you want to show me which ones are yours, Beth?’
Fay has joined us. She gives my hand a squeeze. ‘Are you all right?’
I want to tell her that my heart is breaking, but instead I give a nod, then follow Beth across the hall to where a board has been set up away from the others. Several people are clustered around it.
‘Why is this one on its own?’
It’s Mrs Snowdon who answers. She stops short of the display board, her hand on my arm. ‘Before you look at Beth’s work, I just want you to know how proud we are of her at Lady Edburton. Your daughter is a very talented artist.’
I smile. ‘I know.’
‘The surprise,’ she continues, ‘is that the series of three pictures you’ll see displayed here, have all been entered into a national competition. The Baxter Prize – you may have heard of it. I’m thrilled to tell you that your daughter’s work has
been shortlisted, but she wouldn’t let me tell you before. She wanted it to be a surprise.’
‘Goodness! How wonderful.’ I can hardly believe it. If anything will boost Beth’s confidence, this will.
‘The competition is run by a national newspaper and is for young artists between fourteen and eighteen years of age. Each year there’s a theme – this year it’s Freedom. Come and have a look.’
Beth’s cheeks are flushed pink. Coming round behind me, she puts her hands over my eyes and leads me to the board. When we reach it, she stands back. Gone is the blank face; it’s been replaced with a look of anticipation and I see now how nervous she’s been.
‘These are my pictures, Mum.’
There are three – two smaller ones with one larger one in the middle. As I stare at them, they start to swim before my eyes and my skin begins to prickle.
Beth is looking at me, trying to read my expression. ‘What do you think?’
I press my cheeks with my hands, fighting to remain in control. This is not Beth’s fault. It’s just a coincidence. It has to be.
From its display board, an eagle is looking back at me with its yellow gaze, a tiny mountain crag reflected in each of its pupils. Dragging my eyes away, I look at the other pictures. In one, a feather floats weightless to the bottom of the paper. Looking, for all the world, as if a breath of wind could blow it away at any moment. In the final picture, the paper is empty except for a bird of prey in the left-hand corner, a braided leash trailing from its leg. It hovers, body curled, talons outstretched, above a crow.
I’m not seeing a painting, though. I’m seeing the talons of an eagle wrapped around Gareth’s forearm. The tattoo that I’d once loved. The tattoo my eyes had fixed on as his hands had tried to squeeze the life out of me.
Beth pulls the sleeves of her hooded top over her hands. Something she does when she’s nervous. ‘So, what do you think?’
Despite the indifference in her voice, I know she’s desperate for me to like them. To tell her that I’m proud of what she’s done. But I can’t. For the truth is, the pictures fill me with horror I can’t hide.
‘Mum? What is it?’
I press my hands to my mouth, too frightened to speak. Scared of giving myself away. I want to get out of this hall, away from the birds with their eyes that never leave their prey. The talons that grasp.
Mrs Snowdon hasn’t seen any of this. She’s speaking to Fay and a man with a camera around his neck. Smiling, she turns to me.
‘Mrs Travis. This is Nick King from the Cumbrian Herald. He’d like to take a few photos of your daughter next to her paintings, if you haven’t any objections.’
The man nods to me. ‘If I could have a few words from Beth, too, that would be great. Just the inspiration for her artwork and her ambitions for the future. It won’t take long. It should be in next week’s edition and I can make sure you get a copy.’
It takes a while for the man’s words to sink in, but when they do, my reaction is instant. Taking Beth by the arm, I pull her away. ‘No,’ I say. ‘No photos, and she won’t be giving an interview.’
Fay is at Beth’s side. She puts her arm around her. ‘What are you talking about, Leona? Don’t be ridiculous.’
People are staring at me, but I don’t care. Pulling Beth away, I push through the parents in the hall, dragging her behind me. She tries to shake off my hand, but my grip on her arm is too strong.
‘Mum, stop it! What the hell has got into you?’
I don’t answer her. Just pull her along the corridor, through the double doors and out into the car park – all the while desperately trying to ignore the tears that are running down her face. We stumble along the driveway to where I’ve left the car.
‘It’s for your own good, Beth,’ I say, opening the car door. ‘You won’t understand it now, but you have to believe me.’
I’m not surprised when she gets into the back, instead of next to me. She presses herself into the corner of the car as far away from me as she can.
Outside the window, the darkening fells are heavy and judgemental. I want to believe that Beth will forgive me, but I know, in my heart, that this time I may have created a rift between myself and my daughter that might never be mended.
Forty-Five
Beth
Beth slammed the bedroom door closed and locked it. She would never forgive her mum for this. Never.
Tears of humiliation coursed down her cheeks, but she did nothing to wipe them away. By tomorrow, the whole of the school would know about how her mum had gone mad. Had been rude to the photographer and dragged her out of the exhibition like a child.
It was like the mum she’d known was turning into someone else. A stranger. Lying on her bed, she pressed her thumbs into her eyes, creating a pattern of stars beneath her eyelids. Whoever this person was, she hated her.
She turned onto her side, scrunching up her pillow and burying her head in it. If only David was here to talk to… or her dad. Except Scott wasn’t her dad. Her dad was someone else. Someone she didn’t remember. She knew his name, though. It was Gareth. Gareth Curtess. A man who’d done something so bad that her mum had moved them both away and changed their names.
Slowly, she sat up, pushing her damp hair away from her face. It was clear her mum wasn’t going to tell her anything more. The only way she was going to find out who he was… who she was… was to do it herself. Taking out her phone, she entered his name into the search engine, surprised at how nervous she felt. The results came up instantly and, as she read them, Beth felt her world fall away.
Gareth Curtess tried for attempted murder of wife…
Former broker jailed for twelve years after attempted murder…
Wife gives evidence against husband who tried to kill her…
Then there were the pictures of him taken at the time of the trial. You could see from the photographs that the suit he was wearing was expensive, his face clean-shaven, his hair artfully gelled. As Beth swiped through the photographs, she saw that what was noticeable in all of them was his arrogant expression – his pale eyes staring back at the camera with defiance. She knew that if she got up and looked at her own face in the mirror, the reflection looking back at her would have those same slate-grey eyes.
Beth put her phone face down on the bed beside her. She didn’t want to look at it. Didn’t want to read the articles. Her father had tried to kill her mum, and that was all she needed to know. His genes were her genes. She was the daughter of an attempted murderer.
Reaching under her bed, she pulled out her rucksack, stuffing it with anything she could lay her hands on: T-shirts, jeans, underwear. She hesitated a moment, then reached for the stuffed horse with the black woollen mane and pushed it into the bag with everything else.
She didn’t know where she was going, but she didn’t care. All she knew was she had to get away – away from this cottage. Away from a life that was nothing but a lie.
Forty-Six
Leona
I open my eyes. There’s a crick in my neck and ridges on my cheek from where the rolled edge of the cushion has pressed into my flesh. Sunlight filters through the curtains and I realise it’s morning. I must have fallen asleep on the settee when I came home.
Memories of the previous evening come flooding back and I groan. What a mess I’ve made of things. Glancing at the ceiling, I wonder if Beth is awake. I must talk to her. Explain everything. If I don’t, I might lose her forever.
Going into the kitchen, I make two cups of tea and take them up the stairs. When I get to Beth’s door, I listen. There’s no sound. She must still be asleep. I tap gently and then a little harder and, when there’s still no answer, try the handle. I’m surprised when the door swings open: recently, she’s taken to locking it.
Straight away, I see that the room is empty. Leaning my hand on the doorjamb for support, I try and marshal my racing thoughts. She must have gone out for an early morning walk. Maybe she’s gone to stay with Fay. Yes, that will be it. Sc
ott’s there – it’s the obvious place for her to go. Especially after last night.
Pulling out my phone, I see there’s a missed call, but I don’t stop to find out who it’s from. Instead, I call Beth’s number. The mobile you have called is currently unavailable. I stare at it. Has she switched it off, or is she somewhere with no signal?
I message Scott. The words blurring.
‘Is Beth with you?’
As I wait for his reply, our previous conversations come up on the screen, making my eyes fill with tears. It’s the usual stuff, shared jokes and casual endearments:
‘Love you, wife.’
‘Don’t miss me too much, you big bear.’
‘Back soon beautiful, got fish and chips.’
When I get no reply, I phone him.
‘Leona?’ He sounds tired, as though he’s just woken.
‘Is she there, Scott? Is Beth with you?’
I hear him yawn. ‘What do you mean is she with me? Of course she’s not – she came home with you last night. Fay saw you leave.’
My heart beats faster. ‘She must be there, Scott. Please go and look. She’s probably asleep on the settee.’
There’s the sound of feet on the stairs, then his voice again. ‘No, she’s not here. Anyway, how would she get to Ambleside from Church Langdon in the middle of the night? She’d hardly have walked?’
I hear my voice breaking. ‘If she’s not with you, I don’t know where she is.’
Scott sounds wide-awake now. ‘Don’t worry. There’s bound to be a simple explanation. I’ll get some clothes on and come over.’