“Yes… yes. Yes, he did.” And Joel sometimes accepted it, and sometimes grew angry, declaring it to be Mummy’s special name for me, you’re not allowed to use it, Daddy. John tried his hardest to find this funny, but I could see the hurt in his eyes.
“Okay, so you and John both knew the Joel Moel nickname.”
“Yes, but John would never—”
“I’m just making sure we know all the people who might know the nickname. Did you call him it in front of the rest of the family? His aunt and uncle? His cousins? Close friends?”
“I… probably, I don’t know. Yes, I suppose we must have.”
“Okay.” Another pause for note-taking. Nick is collecting facts, but it also feels as if he’s talking me down from a very high place, taking everything slowly, cautiously, keeping his voice orderly and calm. Something’s draining out of me, but I can’t tell if it’s anxiety or hope.
“Did you ever write his nickname down? Like in a birthday card, or on a form for school, anything like that?”
“Yes, I signed all his birthday cards to Joel Moel, always.”
“And how about Joel himself? Would he have signed cards to other people that way?”
Joel’s little face as he came into my bedroom on Mother’s Day, his tray bearing a bowl of cornflakes, a mug of tea and a vase of daffodils. The card was resting against the vase, his giant exuberant handwriting sprawling all over the envelope.
“Cards to me, yes, always. Not to anyone else.”
“Would other people have been able to see the cards?”
“I… yes, I suppose so. I put them on the mantelpiece.”
“How about cards to his friends? Would he have signed like that to them?”
“No.”
“Not even his close friends? Or notes or anything?”
“No. Definitely not. It was a private family name, he wouldn’t have used it to his friends. Look, I can see what you’re getting at – there are some other people who would have known his nickname and how to spell it, but they wouldn’t ever – I mean, this is John you’re talking about, and Richard and Melanie. They wouldn’t… not ever—”
“No, I’m sure they wouldn’t.” Another sanitisation to save my feelings. Nick is a police officer; he’s seen everything and trusts no one. “It’s just that they might have mentioned to someone else that Joel had this nickname, that’s all. And his friends might have read it in his card. Maybe even teased him about it. The point is, it’s not impossible that someone else – even someone you’ve never met – might know Joel had this nickname, and they might be using it to torment you.”
“Oh God. You’re right. I know you are. I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. And don’t feel guilty. But what made you come and see me about this one?”
“It was stupid, I’m sorry, I don’t mean to waste your time.”
“No, Susannah, it’s not a waste of time, this is my job. I promise. That’s not what I mean. What I’m asking is, I know you get a lot of these. So what made this one stand out to you?”
This is the part that always takes me by surprise; that Nick is on my side. He believes in me. Despite the long silence of the years, he hasn’t given up, any more than I have. He too has faith that one day Joel will be found.
“Was it definitely just the nickname? Was there something in the language, maybe? A particular phrase that stood out? Something about the time it was sent?”
At first, in the early days when they still thought John or I might have done something to Joel, I was afraid of Nick. His questions were so careful and relentless, so pointed and so unexpected. It felt like he was inside my head, slicing my brain into pieces with a scalpel. I was terrified to lie because I needed him to know everything – even the bad stuff, the hard stuff – in order to find Joel. But I was also terrified to tell him the truth, in case he thought I – or, more likely, John – had done something to Joel and would stop looking for our living son and start looking only for a body and, in stopping the search, miss something that might mean he would never be found again. Now I find comfort in knowing that if there is anything to be found, Nick will uncover it.
“No. Sorry. No.”
“Take your time. Think back to when you opened the message. Remember how it made you feel. What made you think this was important?”
I close my eyes. I think back. Nick waits. He’s good at dealing with silence.
“No. Nothing. There’s nothing. Just the nickname. It was the nickname. That was what stood out to me. I’ve never – no one’s ever – they’ve sent me some awful stuff but nothing with his nickname – I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—”
“Come on, Susannah. You know I can’t help if you’re not honest with me. What’s the point of keeping things back from me?”
“Because I’m ashamed. It’s so stupid. You’re going to laugh.”
“I won’t laugh. When have I ever laughed? You can tell me anything. Anything at all.”
“I went to see a fortune-teller,” I admit. “The one at the Fair. And she told me, she told me—”
Nick waits, patient as a rock by the side of the road.
“She told me Joel was coming home. She told me he’d come back to me by Christmas. And then, the day after, I got that message, and I thought… oh, it’s so stupid, isn’t it? I can’t believe I fell for it.”
“I saw Derren Brown once,” says Nick. “He got people up on stage, told them all sorts of stuff about their dead relatives. Special jokes only they knew about, clothes they used to wear, favourite foods, all sorts. And it felt so real. He said at the start of the show, and before the act, and all through the act, and right at the end of the act – This is all an illusion, I can’t see the future, I can’t talk to the dead – and still I went away thinking, Bloody hell, what if he really can? What if it’s all true? But it’s not. I know it’s not.”
“I know, my God, I ought to know, I blog about this the whole time, I’m so sorry.”
“The point is, they make you feel like it’s true. That’s what they do. Even when they’re telling you it’s not real, it can still feel like it might be. Don’t feel bad about falling for it.”
“So you definitely think it was a hoax.”
“We can take a look at the comment. See if we can find out anything. We won’t get much but whatever there is, we can find.”
“I deleted it,” I confess. “Before I even called you. And once you’ve deleted them you can’t get them back. So it was stupid even to come and tell you. And then I couldn’t even find the email notification, so now I’m wondering if it… I mean, what if I just imagined it? I’m so sorry, I’m wasting your time.”
“You needed someone to talk to,” Nick says, with that gentle devastating kindness. “But try not to torture yourself any more, okay?”
When I dab at the skin beneath my eyes, my finger comes away smudged with watery black.
“My mascara’s running.”
“You look gorgeous. But my missus swears by a pair of cheap dark sunglasses. She reckons you can hide anything behind them.”
“How’s she… um, how she’s doing?”
He looks at me shyly. The brief glimpses we’ve had into each other’s lives have made a tender place between us where we both tread gently.
“All right. She’s all right. Having a good patch at the moment. Not too up, not too down, just calm and steady. New meds seems to be doing the trick. We’re making the most of it.”
“That’s good.”
“I read your blog the other day. Actually I read your blog every time you update it. You’re such a good writer.”
“Oh… thank you.” Now I’m the one made shy. “Thanks for talking me down.”
“Any time. It’s what I’m here for.”
“Is there still any chance he might come home?”
“It’s always a possibility.”
Always a possibility. Nick’s careful sidestepping of what he really thinks. I’ve known for a long time no
w that Nick believes Joel is dead, lost to drugs or alcohol or accident or malice. The case remains open as long as they don’t find a body, but that’s the best outcome he’s expecting by now. But because he’s a kind man, he never says this.
In my head, I know that Nick is right. But my heart is stubborn and treacherous, because it secretly believes Joel is still alive. Deep within my chest is a rhythm that began beating the first time Joel was put into my arms and I felt his weight, warm and heavy, saw his head turn towards me and heard his high, piercing cry. If Joel was dead, surely that pulse would stutter and come to a halt?
As I climb into my car, I wonder if Jackie has the same connection to her boy Ryan, if she still believes he will return. Or perhaps his place at the centre of her life has been taken by Georgie. Perhaps it’s only possible to love one person that much at a time. When John and I were still married, during the times when we argued, this was always the dark heart of our disputes; the hierarchy of love. It was a simple and terrible truth. Even after we finally became parents, John always loved me best, but the one I loved the best was Joel.
Chapter Three
Tuesday October 15th 2002
“Look at that! What a gorgeous picture. Mummy’s going to love it. Is it some flowers?”
I hear Joel’s gurgling laugh. I’m spying from behind the door, but only because hearing my two boys when they think they’re alone is the best and sweetest present anyone could ever give me. “No, Daddy, it’s not flowers! It’s Scrap-dog.”
“Again? No, don’t do Scrap-dog for Mummy’s card, fella, let’s do something else. Why don’t you draw some flowers? Or a picture of you and her holding hands?”
“No, I want to do Scrap-dog. This is my very best picture ever.”
“Your very best ever?” I love the smile in John’s voice. I love knowing that he will be ruffling up Joel’s hair as he says it. I love that he’s got up early on his day off to spend this precious before-school time with our son. I love that he’s let Joel get out paper and crayons, even though it will mean a rush to get him hustled into his coat and out of the door on time. Most of all I love that they’re not behaving like this for me, but for themselves. This is just how they are when they’re alone, and it’s beautiful. “Okay, if it’s your very best ever then it’s good enough for Mummy’s birthday card. Now, are you ready to do something really cool and new?”
“No, thank you, I just want to colour.”
My hand pressed shamelessly against my heart, I mouth the words back to myself. No, thank you. I just want to colour. That heartbreaking combination of good manners and stubbornness. Can anything be sweeter than my sweet boy?
“Come on,” John coaxes. “This is for Mummy, remember? And we love Mummy so much, don’t we? So we’re going to surprise her by you writing your name in her card!”
“No, Daddy, no, I don’t want to.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll help you. Just pick up the pencil and have a go. Look, I’ll do it first. Down like this, a long stick straight down… and then a hook on the bottom like an umbrella. Okay? Now you try.”
“No, Daddy, I don’t want to.”
“Come on, Joel, be sensible. Hold the pencil. No, don’t drop it, hold it. Hold it! Properly, not like that. You know how to do this, you’re just being stubborn.”
“No! I don’t want to!”
For two people who love each other so much, they’re dreadful at communicating sometimes. If I went in and intervened, I could smooth all of this over in four seconds. Instead I stand behind the door and gnaw at a hangnail.
“Look.” John’s irritation is growing. “Hold it properly. There. That’s right. See? You can do it when you want to. So why were you pretending you couldn’t? Hmm? Now then. With me. We’ll do it together. A long stick down… come on, Joel, a long stick down…”
“I don’t know how to do it!” That note in Joel’s voice that John defines as whining and I describe as panic. I’m confident that my interpretation’s better, but I can’t make John see things my way without going in. “Daddy, please, I don’t want to do this!”
“Well, tough. Sometimes we have to do things we don’t want to do. You’re five years old now, Joel, you’re a big boy. All the other—”
Don’t compare him, don’t compare him, don’t compare him. Perhaps my thought transmits itself to John, because he stops himself just in time. “There’s no need to worry about getting it wrong, okay? You just need to try. Together, now. Start at the top… a stick down… no, Joel, no, what do you think you’re doing?”
“I did a stick down! Just like you said!”
“Yes, but not all the way onto the table! Come on, fella, make an effort, will you? Don’t you want to write your name nicely in Mummy’s birthday card and make her proud of you?”
As if I care about that. Joel can do me a scribble if he wants, he can sign with a blob of paint or even a jammy handprint. When I press my ear to the door, I hear a faint sniffle.
“Oh, please, Joel, don’t cry. I just want you to give it a go, all right? For me. Or for Mummy, okay? Let’s try for Mummy. Pick up your pencil. No. Properly. Come on, pick it up properly. For God’s sake, you could at least look like you’re trying.”
“I’m trying, Daddy!”
“Well, not hard enough. Look. Like this.”
“Ow! You’re hurting me!”
“No, I’m not, don’t be ridiculous. Look. Like this. Straight down.”
“Ow! Let go of my hand! Ow, Daddy, you’re hurting, you’re hurting!”
“No, I’m not, you’re just cross because I’m making you do it properly. All the way down, that’s right. And then make a hook at the bottom. There you are, look? You made a J. J for Joel. Good work! Look at that! That’s brilliant! You made a J for Joel! What are you crying for?”
Joel’s wail cuts through me like glass. I have the door open before I know it.
“Hey, Joel Moel. What are you up to? Look at you all dressed for school, good boy.”
Joel flings his arms around me and clings on tight, as if I’ve dragged him from a burning building, as if he’s been drowning and I’m his lifeline. John looks at him with such sorrow that for a moment I consider loosening Joel’s death-grip on my thighs. For a moment.
“It’s all right,” I croon, stroking his fluffy head. “Don’t be upset. It’s all right. You’re fine. You’re fine. What’s made you so sad?”
“I was teaching him how to write his name,” John says. Does he know I was listening at the door? Probably, but he’s willing to play the charade with me. “He’s just upset because he wouldn’t hold the pencil properly, so I had to be firm with him. But he got it, didn’t you, fella? You did a beautiful J for Joel. Come and get it to show Mummy.” He holds out the paper towards Joel.
“No!” Joel buries his face mutinously between my knees.
John’s face is very vulnerable. Help me out, his expression says. Be on my side. Support me. I’m doing my best here. With his little hands clutching tight to the back of my jeans, his face smothered blissfully against me, our son asks me for the same thing. Who am I going to choose? I know the answer without having to think.
“He’s a bit little for all of this, isn’t he?” I say, keeping my voice light and tentative.
“Of course he’s not too little, he’s at school!”
“But they’re still such babies. Why are you trying to rush him?”
“I’m not trying to rush him, I’m trying to—” John shakes his head and sighs. “How am I supposed to help him when you keep—” I know what he wants to say, but I also know he won’t say it in front of Joel. Perhaps I should send Joel to his room so we can talk like adults. Or perhaps I should do exactly what I’m doing, which is to stand here and hold onto Joel and defend him against all comers – even his dad – and let him find the comfort and security he needs above all else.
“It’s all right, Joel,” I repeat, stroking his head. I’m in the right, I know I’m in the right, but I don’t quite dare t
o look at John’s face. I watch his hands instead, as he tidies away the paper, the crayons, the card with its picture of Scrap-dog and its single wobbly J. I press Joel against my knees as if by doing so I can keep him safe from all the terrors of the world.
“Come on, Joel, let’s kick the ball.”
Joel holds Scrap-dog up to his ear.
“Scrap-dog doesn’t want to play football.”
“Well, I’m not asking Scrap-dog to play, am I? I’m asking you. Look, let’s see who can kick it the furthest, shall we? I bet you can beat me if you try.”
No, I think, standing in the shadow of the back door where I can watch without being watched. Don’t make it a competition.
“Come on, you give it a kick. Hard as you can. See if you can hit the fence.”
“I want to have a tea party for Scrap-dog.”
“Maybe we’ll do it later. Come on, let’s try kicking the ball first, then we’ll do the tea party afterwards. How about that?”
Joel’s bottom lip quivers.
“Just give it a kick, fella. You can do it.”
Joel takes a mutinous step towards the ball, then kicks out from over a foot away so that the tip of his toe just touches the leather.
“Not like that, like this.” John grabs Joel beneath his armpits and moves him closer. Joel wails. “Don’t be silly, that doesn’t hurt. Now kick it, okay?”
“No, Daddy, no! I’m scared!”
“What? There’s nothing to be scared of, you plonker. It’s just a ball, it’s not heavy or anything.”
He’s scared of failing you, I think. He’s scared because you wanted a tough little football nut who’s good at maths and that’s not who Joel is, not at all. He’s scared of not living up to what you want from him.
“Come on now, take a really big swing at it and see how far you can get it. I’ll help you.” He takes hold of Joel beneath his armpits again, swings him out so that his feet hit the ball. Joel screams and collapses onto the floor. John stands over him, bewildered. His hand hovers over Joel’s head, about to ruffle his hair comfortingly.
Do it. Comfort him. Go on. Be soft. Be gentle. Do what I’d do.
The Winter's Child Page 4