I Do Not Sleep

by Judy Finnigan

  I started first. ‘Josie, when you said you remembered me with my two small boys on holiday here years ago, where did you see us? Did you meet us, talk to the boys?’ Now it sounded as if I was trying to change the subject too, and I saw disappointment in her face. Then, with a brief shake of the head, she rallied.

  ‘No,’ she said briskly, immediately donning once more her preferred disguise: the jolly, capable mistress of a highly regarded luxury B&B. ‘No, I just saw you on the beach a few times, and at the old Land of Legend place. Your kids were so enthusiastic about that daft little attraction, so full of energy.’ Josie’s voice changed. She sounded slightly tremulous. ‘And you and your husband looked so happy and proud of them. I remember because it was such a terrible time for me. I was traumatised by Hope’s birth. And to me you looked like the perfect family. I remember thinking that you were the perfect family. I envied you so much,’ she said wistfully.

  ‘How old was Hope then?’ I knew I sounded abrupt, and Josie looked startled. ‘Oh, she was tiny; only three or four weeks old. Funnily enough, I remember the day because it was the first time she wore an incredibly expensive little pink dress my mother bought at Harrods. It was French, a baby designer number and it cost a fortune. It was gorgeous, but I thought it was a complete waste of money. Well, I was depressed, so I couldn’t find pleasure in anything. Mum had come down to stay, and so she insisted Hope wore it.’ She stopped.

  I chivvied her. ‘How do you remember so well, Josie? And where were we when you saw us?’

  ‘I told you, Mum made a fuss about the dress, cross that I obviously wasn’t appreciative enough. So I put Hope in it, and then Mum wanted to take her to the Land of Legend–Merlin’s so-called Magic Kingdom,’ she scoffed. ‘I mean, really. I didn’t want to go, but Mum insisted. Said Hope would love it.’

  I smiled at her. ‘Bit small for witches and cauldrons, wasn’t she?’

  Josie didn’t smile back. ‘I didn’t… well, it was my mother really; her first grandchild and all that. But when we got there, I found I did want to go in, not to see all the little tableaux or anything. I was pretending, you see. I was trying to imagine how it must feel to be a normal mum, with a normal child: one that would grow up loving silly kid’s stuff like Merlin and witches. That’s why, when I saw you and your family, I remembered you so strongly. Your boys were so fascinated: laughing one minute, jumping out of their skins the next. That’s what I wanted, for Hope to be like them. And I suppose then I was looking for a miracle. I used to take her to the Holy Wells; there are so many of them in Cornwall. I used to try and baptise her in them, dipping my fingers in the water and tracing a cross on her little head, hoping somehow I could change her. Poor Hope. She screamed her head off when I nearly dropped her in the well at St Keynes. I think I was a little bit mad then. Tony never wanted her to be any different than she was–is. He fell in love with her right from the start, as soon as she was born. I thought at first he hadn’t realised, hadn’t seen her face. I did, straightaway. Her little face. I thought the bottom had dropped out of my world.’

  ‘You didn’t know, then? You hadn’t been tested?’

  She shook her head. ‘No, no ante-natal tests. We didn’t think I needed them, not for Down’s. I was only thirty. Besides, I couldn’t bear to think anything would go wrong when I was pregnant with Hope. My last baby had been stillborn. And I’d had two miscarriages before that, and two more by the time I finally got lucky with Hope. I lost two of them when I was quite far gone; and then there was little Rosie, who was full-term but never breathed. It was beyond traumatic, I was beside myself with grief. So I suppose I blinded myself to the idea that anything could go wrong this time. That’s why I called her Hope, even when she was still in the womb. Hostage to fortune, I suppose, but I thought I’d had my run of bad luck. I thought God couldn’t possibly punish me again.’

  She stopped, shifted in her chair, and drank some more wine. ‘You must think I’m a terrible mother, talking like this,’ she said, very quietly. ‘The thing is, after she was born, the madness didn’t last. After a few weeks I somehow stopped panicking. I began to look at her lovely little face and see what Tony had seen from the start. I saw how beautiful she was, and I saw how much she loved me. And it melted my heart. Up until then, all I’d seen was her neediness. And of course she was needy, totally dependent on me for her life. But what I suddenly realised was that every baby is just as helpless as Hope. It didn’t matter if they would grow up with an IQ big enough to join Mensa. Right at that moment, and for a very long time to come, my daughter would require no more of me than the cleverest baby in the world. All she needed was my love; and suddenly I had buckets of it. Since then, I’ve never felt cheated, never doubted my ability to cope. I’d move mountains for Hope. I love her more than I’ve ever loved anything.’ Josie sighed. ‘But I still do panic now she’s older. It’s her heart; like a lot of Down’s kids she has serious cardiac problems. She’s got a hole in the septum–that’s a wall in the heart. It’s not going to get better at her age; she’s twenty-two now, and she’s had so many operations, poor girl. She gets a lot of chest infections as well, which put a terrible strain on her whole vascular system. That’s why she has to keep going into hospital, so they can stabilise her and keep an eye on her breathing. She has to be ventilated quite a lot; masks, oxygen tanks and all that. It’s happened dozens of times, but I feel sick with anxiety every time she’s in there. I’m always terrified she won’t come out.’

  I patted her hand. She looked at me with something like astonishment. ‘I don’t know what it is about you, Molly. I never talk about all this, except to Tony. There’s something about you; it’s not just that you’re a good listener. I feel as if you know me inside out.’

  ‘Ah,’ I said. ‘I think I do, Josie. It’s to do with motherhood: love, panic and grief.’

  She rocked in her chair, swaying gently on Hope’s little American porch. She closed her eyes for a minute, then she abruptly stopped rocking and stared at me. Her eyes were sharp and focused, as clear and green as the sea.

  ‘What do you mean, Molly? Tell me. It’s your turn.’

  And I did. I told her everything.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  It was two days later, and I was finally installed in Hope’s cottage. Predictably enough, the glorious weather had come to an end the previous night with a storm of gigantic proportions. The lightning was not just forked but horizontal, viciously cracking open the sky, its flickering glare separating the black, still heavens from the foaming sea beneath. The noise grew terrifyingly loud as the furious waves began to roar in protest, clamouring to rejoin the calm skies above. I shivered in my new bed. My picturesque little house, Hope’s miniature version of her idealised view of America’s apple pie culture, seemed pitifully small to stand against the wild Cornish elements. I worried that the roof might crack along with the sky. Then I remembered that she’d modelled her cottage to recreate the sturdy coastal houses of Cape Cod, which had stood for centuries unvanquished by gale or blizzard. Which was comforting until I thought that robust New England seaboard dwellings did not look as if they were auditioning for Toy Story.

  I managed to sleep in the end, but when I woke up on my first morning in Polperro, the prospect before me was utterly dismal. The rain thrashed down, and my plans to eat breakfast on the porch were aborted. Instead I hunched over the kitchen table and pecked at a slice of toast.

  By late afternoon, I was a mess. I lay sobbing on the sofa, totally consumed by my folly and hopelessness. The deluge continued, the coastal path outside my front door surged with a torrent of angry water. I had no car, nowhere to go, nothing to do. I had no idea where to begin with my enquiries about Joey. I’d tried to call Ben three times, but he wasn’t picking up. I could have left a message, but somehow I couldn’t find the words. I felt he wouldn’t respond to yet another request to meet and talk. He’d made it pretty clear he wasn’t interested. Somehow I would have to force a meeting, but how? I realised I’
d got no further with my grand plan than moving to Polperro, and now I was here, the cloudburst outside beginning to resemble a Biblical flood, I was absolutely clueless. And pathetic; I hadn’t even brought any wellington boots, let alone a raincoat or umbrella, so snugly had I been wrapped inside my sunny seaside bubble. Well, now I saw the reality of what I was trying to do. I envisioned Joey as wet as I was dry, drenched, bravely trying to control his storm-tossed boat, terrified at the fate that was about to befall him. That was his truth; mine was less heroic, huddled up inside a duvet, crying my eyes out on my holiday home sofa. And I was lonely. I longed to be back at Coombe, where they would have lit a fire. I imagined my family playing with Edie on the hearthrug, the rich smell of a casserole in the oven. I was feeling horribly sorry for myself.

  The doorbell rang; naturally Hope had chosen the American national anthem, and the cottage filled with the bit that went Oh, say can you see/By the dawn’s early light? I reluctantly shrugged off the duvet, wiped my face with a shredded tissue, and opened the door. In the porch stood not President Obama but a dripping and grumpy Queenie from the Blue Peter.

  ‘Don’t just stand there, let me in. Can’t you see I’m soaked?’ She tut-tutted as she entered, battling to let down her dribbling umbrella, which left a dank puddle of water on the hardwood floor.

  ‘What do you want?’ I asked rather ungraciously, returning proprietorially to my sofa and wrapping the quilt around my shoulders.

  ‘What do I want?’ said Queenie, and she was obviously in a mood. ‘I want to know why you are being such a bloody fool, leaving your poor family back at Coombe while you go off on some wild goose chase and hole yourself up here?’

  ‘How did you know I’d left them?’ I asked moodily.

  ‘I went round there, of course. I didn’t know you’d packed up and gone. Danny gave me your address, poor love. They all seem a bit shell-shocked.’

  I dug deeper into the duvet, as sulky as a two-year-old. Queenie stared at me, then said, ‘Have you had anything to eat today?’

  ‘A slice of toast,’ I muttered.

  ‘Oh, right. That’s sensible at nearly six o’clock in the evening. And you look freezing. Why isn’t the heating on?’

  ‘Search me. Could it possibly be because it’s supposed to be summer?’

  ‘Don’t get smart with me, young lady,’ said Queenie unbelievably. I stared at her, my lower lip jutting in a petulant pout. She stared back, and then we both burst out laughing.

  ‘ “Good God, will you look at us?” ’ spluttered Queenie in an Irish accent. ‘That’s what old Paddy down at the Blue Peter says every time he has a stupid row with someone. Now then, Molly, you look a bit peaky. I’ll light a fire and put something in the oven. I got some nice lamb chops from the butchers, fresh peas and Jersey Royals.’ She busied herself with kindling and logs.

  ‘No, Queenie, don’t be silly. You don’t have to do that. I can look after myself.’

  My friend–and yes, in my gratitude to her for caring about me, I realised that she was indeed a friend–gave me what my mother would have called an old-fashioned look, full of affectionate scepticism, as she started to lay the fire. ‘It doesn’t look like that to me, love. Besides, I’ve invited someone to dinner.’

  ‘For God’s sake, Queenie. Who?’

  ‘Len, the Charmer I told you about. He wants to meet you.’

  I was put out. ‘You really shouldn’t spring this on me, Queenie. I can invite my own dinner guests.’

  ‘Come on, Molly. You’ll like him. He’s a real sweetie, a gentleman. It’ll do you good to talk to him.’

  She got up off her knees; the fire was already spitting happily, and the smell of wood smoke filled the room. The warm golden glow transformed the cottage, obliterating the driving rain that was darkening the windows.

  ‘The woodcutter’s cottage. Hansel and Gretel,’ I murmured sleepily, spinning my own fairytale around the flames.

  ‘Yes, well, if you don’t cheer up I’m going to turn into the wicked witch and cook you for dinner instead of the chops. Here,’ Queenie said, handing me a glass of red wine. ‘Drink this. It’ll put you in a nicer mood.’

  ‘Thanks, Queenie. This is so good of you. I’m sorry I was such a grump.’

  Queenie called from the kitchen, clattering pans. ‘It’s OK. Sometimes you just need someone to give you a kick up the backside.’

  ‘With a lamb chop?’ I asked.

  Queenie chuckled. ‘Needs must. Close the curtains and shut out that horrible weather. Len should be here in no time.’

  Half an hour later the cottage looked snug, as welcoming as a young girl’s idea of an old-fashioned American doll’s house could possibly be. The fire leapt and danced in the grate, throwing shadows on the pretty gold and emerald rug that covered most of the sitting-room floor. The blue and yellow curtains, woven in a soft pattern of sand and sea, were closed; soft creamy wall-lights shimmered low, the dimmer switch turned well down; and scented candles glimmered on every surface. The sitting room smelled of Jo Malone roses, the kitchen of homemade chicken soup.

  I raised my eyebrows at Queenie. ‘I thought we were having lamb chops?’

  ‘We are, but it’s an awful night, and you can’t go wrong with chicken soup when it’s nasty outside. I make it myself in batches, and put it in the freezer. It’s really good, though I say it myself.’ Queenie smiled proudly, and, pleased with herself, poured two more glasses of red wine.

  Oh, say can you see/By the dawn’s early light? the doorbell chimed patriotically.

  The Charmer had arrived.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  We had dinner at the small kitchen table. Len was indeed a true gentleman, as Queenie had promised. He was an impressive sight. When he came through the front door, drenched and covered in fisherman’s oilskins, I was struck by his height. Six foot three at least, I thought. And he was shrunken now by age, so he must have been at least a couple of inches taller in his prime. But he walked slowly, shuffling out of the night into our warm, golden room. He was old; a man of great age; possibly in his nineties? I wondered how far he’d walked in this transport-less village to get to my house. I knew he lived locally, but it was a bad night, and Polperro was hilly and long.

  Len told us tales about previous Cornish storms: families trapped in caves on the beach, foolish tourists out fishing in rock pools who ignorantly failed to monitor the tide and the relentless lowering of the sky. They survived, though, these naive out-of-towners; rescued by local expertise and diligent lifeboat volunteers. He talked about floods, and seaside houses destroyed by water. I suppose you could say his stories were a bit gloomy, especially as the rain was still crashing on the roof with no immediate promise of respite.

  And yet, his voice was so gentle and rumbling soft, his manner so humorous and warm, that he transformed these perilous adventures into arcane fairytales, always with a happy ending. I liked Len a lot. Queenie was right. He was a sweetie.

  After dinner we went back to the sitting room. I offered Len some wine. He shook his head, saying that like all true Cornishmen he drank only whisky and beer. I had neither, but he said not to worry, and produced a hipflask from his pocket. ‘Never leave home without it,’ he twinkled, ‘unless I’m going to the Blue Peter.’

  ‘Well, you’ve certainly drunk us dry there before, Len,’ said Queenie in a hearty voice, and I could tell she was egging him on, encouraging him to unleash his old Cornish ‘charms,’ or ‘spells’, whatever you wanted to call them.

  I fetched a glass and a jug of cold water from the kitchen. He accepted the first, but declined the water. ‘You only want to drink a good malt straight, my dear,’ he said, and poured the Scotch into the heavy glass. He patted his pocket again, brought out a pipe and asked if I’d mind if he smoked. I felt totally nonplussed. I couldn’t let him light up inside; this was not my house, and a notice by the door stated unequivocally that guests were requested not to smoke. I stumbled apologetically that smoking was not allowed in here,
but he gracefully gestured towards the porch. ‘Oh, don’t be silly, Len,’ said Queenie disapprovingly. ‘It’s pouring down. You’ll catch your death.’

  Len smiled, cocked his head, and raised his fingers to his lips in a shushing motion. We listened obediently. The spew of pelting rain seemed to pause, take a breath. The heavy splashing drops receded, like the fading soundtrack at the end of a movie. A minute later, there was absolute silence. The rain had gone. Len opened the front door to a moonlit night. The clouds had disappeared. The stars crowded round the moon like a milky shawl, pulsing tentatively, trying to magnify their brightness, infants in cross competition to impress their silvery mother. The wind had dropped. The night was warm. Cornwall had imperiously changed its mind. Summer was back.

  Queenie looked at me significantly. She whispered, ‘See, Molly. That’s what Charmers do. They can control the weather.’

  ‘Pity he didn’t do it earlier,’ I replied cynically. ‘He could have saved us a hell of a day.’ Queenie actually stuck her tongue out at me. We were regressing into childhood by the hour.