by Julia Crouch
‘Look, Rose. Here’s how it is. As far as I can see, even without taking Polly into account, it would be terrible for all of us if she went. You’d never forgive me, I’d feel guilty, and it would be the worst thing ever for the boys. I’ve even had Anna on my case this morning.’
‘Do you believe it was an accident?’ Rose asked.
‘Do you know what? I think I do. She was stupid and careless – those are her words, not mine. She swears it will never happen again. And, you know, I can’t get that day at the castle out of my head. How much fun it was, how things were looking so good – before it all happened, I mean.’
Rose was taken aback. Gareth’s conversion had been so sudden, so complete, that she couldn’t help wondering what Polly had said or done to change him. Rose knew from experience that a few tears worked very well at focusing his attention. She wished that she had seen what had happened between them. But that was beside the point. What was important was that things were going to be all right.
‘Thank you!’ she said, and put her arms round him.
‘Now all we’ve got to think about is our Flossie getting better,’ he said, turning back to the baby in the box.
Twenty
The following days seemed to compress into the grey fabric of the curtains around Flossie’s little station. Rose wasn’t sure in fact if it was days or weeks that passed. The routines of doctors’ visits, nurses’ checks and cups of tea should have helped mark the time, but they didn’t. Rose developed a theory that they put tranquillisers in the urn that the WRVS trundled round. Keep everyone calm, keep the lids on.
She tried to share this idea – half – joke, half-conspiracy theory – with the women on either side of her, but they just stared at her as if she were some sort of lunatic. It came to a point where she began to feel like an alien in that room. The others talked easily among themselves, with their backs turned to Rose. Perhaps it was a class thing. Perhaps it was because they were all neat and well-groomed – Rose couldn’t find it within herself to drag a comb through her hair, let alone trowel on the slap like the other women. Or, possibly, wind had got to them of the reason why Flossie was in there, and they disapproved of Rose for being a careless mother. Whatever it was, she felt a bit of a freak. It brought back memories of other times in hospital, times at school – times she thought she had succeeded in forgetting.
There was one moment only when she felt a common bond with the others. On the second day of their stay, a baby in the room died. It wasn’t unexpected: sustained only by a battery of machines, the half-formed scrap had never really stood a chance.
Rose heard the consultant gently tell the defeated parents that there was no hope. She got their consent to remove the wires and tubes that had connected their child to this world.
The mother howled. She had barely been into her pregnancy when the baby had fallen out of her. There had never been much hope. Nevertheless, her devastation was equal to that which Rose knew she would feel if the unthinkable happened to Flossie. Loss, as Rose knew only too well, is the worst sort of despair. Particularly – and this is where her heart contracted so badly that she thought she might fall to the ground – when it concerned a child, a baby, that you would never have the chance to truly hold, to love, to know.
The nurses guided the parents away. Bereaved, the sobbing woman and her grey ghost of a husband had gone in an instant from being permanent residents to having no reason to be there. The whole room joined together in a silent prayer of thanks that it was happening to someone else. Every adult pair of eyes watched the deposed parents make their fragile exit.
Gareth visited twice a day. Once in the morning and once in the evening, when he brought Anna, Nico and Yannis with him. Fascinated by the machinery and other accessories of infant medical care, the boys had shown none of Anna’s initial reticence. They dove in, asking questions, trying things out and creating their own brand of hubbub around Flossie’s station. The nurses had to ask them to be quieter more than once. After their visit, the Sister had a quiet word with Rose: they really only liked one sibling at a time in Blue Ward, so could her sons please come separately in the future.
Polly didn’t come while Flossie was in her induced sleep. She couldn’t get in by herself because she was one of those people who, incredibly to Rose, had managed to survive well into adult life without ever learning to drive. Or swim, come to that – despite having spent a large proportion of her years living within sight of the sea. She had joked when younger that she had an inner life to maintain: the acquiring of mere practical skills was an annoying distraction.
But Polly didn’t visit with the others, either. When Gareth came in the morning, it was too early, way before she woke up, but Rose didn’t really understand why she couldn’t come in for the evening.
‘She’s ashamed,’ Gareth said. ‘And we have to remember that, on top of all this, she is still dealing with Christos dying. She sends her love, though, you know.’
‘Yep,’ Rose said.
The other visitor was Kate, who came in daily. There were messages from Simon and a couple of the other parents at the school, but no one else was allowed to visit. Only immediate family were allowed in Blue Ward, to keep the risk of infection down.
Gareth brought in tasty food for Rose to eat. He had always been a good cook, but had stood aside for Rose since the children had been born. His current return to the kitchen accentuated her feeling of powerlessness: she was so out of the picture, she couldn’t even fill her family’s stomachs. Instead, Gareth got stuck in there, making samosas, little pasties, tabbouleh – all sorts of pizzas and tortillas and pies. Loads of pies, like a good American boy. But Rose was thankful for the cleverly designed portable snacks he brought in. It kept her away from the hideous gloop that passed for food in the hospital canteen.
When he turned up on the ward, all the other women turned their heads to look at him. Their faces registered mild amusement, as if he were part of the Joke of Rose. The first time he left some food, Rose had offered it around but had been turned down. One woman even grimaced at the mini-pasty she had been offered, as if it might in some way harm her.
Gareth also brought in a bottle of Laphroaig, which he and Rose sipped as they sat watching Floss. On the second night, he brought a bottle of Rioja for Rose to enjoy after he had gone. Rose wasn’t going to offer that around. In fact, she detected an air of disapproval, as she sat there with her wine. But after the second glass, she didn’t care. How else was she supposed to get through having a sick baby?
Flossie began to look stronger. On her fourth day on Blue Ward, they unhooked her dialysis and took away her airline.
‘She’s breathing beautifully,’ a young, dimpled Polish nurse beamed.
Rose wondered at what a strange, sad thing it was, to celebrate the fact that your child can breathe on her own.
Flossie’s colour returned from a rashed-over pallor to a more general, healthy pink tinge. Her grip got stronger by the hour, and her eyelids fluttered from time to time. They seemed less translucent, somehow; more as if they were housing something concrete, durable.
Rose reported these developments to the nurses and doctors, who continued to work from their own, less subjective, charts and measurements. They must have found hope there, though, because gradually the sedative was reduced.
On the sixth day, they woke Floss up and let Rose hold her and put her to her breast. Rose wept and wept as she felt the familiar pulling on her nipple, the gasping and breathing. Flossie couldn’t at first settle into a rhythm, but it came back, and with it, the hope of a future; a promise that things would get better and go back to normal.
Flossie was moved from the plastic box into a little cot. This was more, Rose suspected, for psychological rather than practical reasons. It signified that she was out of the woods, that soon they would be able to go back home.
That was the day that Gareth brought Polly in. He guided her across the ward, his hand on her back, as if he were pushing her slight
ly, as if she were a little reluctant to enter. She moved up to Rose, her head bowed, as an errant child might approach her Headmistress. Rose surveyed her, holding the moment. She thought Polly looked a little better than she had when she had stepped off the plane. Gareth’s cooking must be doing her good.
‘I’m going to leave you guys alone for a bit,’ he said, stepping back. ‘I’ve just got to go to Waitrose, pick up a few things.’
He kissed them both – Rose on the mouth and Polly on the cheek – then he left. Polly watched him go, then turned to Rose.
‘I’m so sorry I didn’t come before,’ she said.
‘Gareth told me.’
‘I just had real difficulty getting my head round everything.’
‘Don’t worry about it.’
Polly went over to Flossie’s cot. ‘She looks so much better. Like she’s just sleeping.’
‘She is just sleeping,’ Rose said.
Polly leaned over and stroked Flossie’s cheek. Rose was surprised by the violence of her urge to pull that hand away from her baby and repel its owner from the cot. It took all of her strength to resist it.
‘Hello, Flossie,’ Polly whispered, and two long dark hairs drifted from her head down to rest on Flossie’s face. Rose leaned over and picked them out. Polly looked up at her.
‘Rose, I’m really, really sorry, you know. I’m such an idiot.’
‘Can we move on from apologising?’ Rose said. She didn’t think she could bear much more of it.
Polly grasped Rose’s hands in hers and held them tightly, squeezing her eyes shut. ‘Thank you,’ she said after some time. She looked up. There were tears in her eyes.
‘Sit there, I’ll get us a cup of tea,’ Rose said.
When she came back from the parents’ kitchen, a mug in each hand, she found that Polly had drifted away from Flossie and was standing chatting to the mother who had rejected the pasty. Rose parked the mugs on the top of Flossie’s locker and Polly came back across the room to join her, as bright as a shot of sunshine.
‘What were you talking about?’ Rose said, handing her the tea.
‘Oh, just this and that,’ Polly said. ‘She had been trying to work out all of our relationships.’
‘Oh,’ Rose said. ‘I thought she hadn’t even noticed me.’
‘It’s quite funny,’ Polly smiled. ‘She thought I was Gareth’s wife!’
‘Who did she think I was, then?’ Rose asked.
‘Do you really want to know?’ Polly said.
‘Go on.’ Rose forced a smile.
‘His ex!’ Polly sniggered, delivering it as a punchline.
‘And how did she explain Flossie, then?’ Rose said. ‘And how Gareth has come in twice a day to see us, and brought us food and drink?’
‘Steady on, Rose,’ Polly said. ‘It’s just what she – mistakenly – thought she saw. It’s funny.’
‘Stupid cow,’ Rose muttered, sitting down in her seat and taking a slug of her tea. She stretched her legs out and rubbed her eyes. ‘Shit, I need to get out of this place.’
They sat drinking their tea and talking about the children.
‘It’s so brilliant the way they get on, Rose. It is like they’re all in the same family. Anna loves my boys.’
‘And how about you, Poll? How are things with you?’
‘I’m doing OK, you know?’ she said. ‘My widow songs are nearly complete. Gareth’s talking about having a word with the landlord at the Lamb about me doing a little preview.’
‘Wow,’ Rose said. The Lamb was the village pub, and it had a reputation for putting on surprisingly good music nights. The better Bristol and Bath bands lined up to play there, as well as more famous national acts. Once, the story went, Jarvis Cocker had done an unadvertised acoustic set, a couple of years before his renaissance. It would be a perfect venue for Polly to try out her songs.
By the time Gareth returned, Rose had told Polly all about the problems she was having with the other parents.
‘Rose needs to get out of here, Gareth,’ Polly said. ‘It’s driving her cuckoo.’
‘I’m not surprised,’ he said. ‘How about you go home tomorrow morning? I’ll come in and sit with Floss, and you can drive back, take a bath, spend a bit of time in the garden or whatever you want to do, then come back in after you’ve picked the guys up from school?’
It was a good idea, and Rose had stockpiled enough breast milk to make it work. They toasted Flossie with a drop of whisky, then Polly and Gareth left. As they crossed the ward, Rose saw how that woman might have got the impression that they were husband and wife. There was a rangy similarity to them both, an alikeness of hair and gait, that made you think they belonged together.
Rose shook herself. I really am going crazy in this place, she thought.
Later that evening, the Ward Sister came round to check on Flossie. Rose told her the plan for the next day, asking her what she thought. The Sister looked at Rose as if she were some kind of imbecile.
‘You don’t have to ask our permission, you know,’ she said. ‘Twenty years ago, the parents wouldn’t have been here except for visiting hours and, in my opinion, it allowed us to do our job far more efficiently.’
Rose laughed, as if the woman were joking, but the look on her face made her realise she was serious, so she stopped.
That evening, Rose sat and watched Flossie, who looked right back at her.
Was she imagining things, or was there something different about her baby? Something missing? Before the pills, every day had seen Flossie grow more into focus, a baby on her way to becoming a toddler. But now it seemed as if the process had been reversed. There was a sort of blur about her now.
Now Flossie was awake, the doctors could be more definite about her prognosis. It was clear, for example, that they could rule out severe cognitive or physical impairment. But when it came to the more subtle effects, they couldn’t be so sure. The damage, if any, they said, would probably be slight – an occasional stutter, perhaps, or a tiny setback in her reading age. Or there might be no discernible difference. In any case it would be hard to tell what was a result of the poisoning and what would have happened anyway.
It was all most unsatisfactory. Rose wanted the empirical results she loved so much. Not knowing was like a footing was missing from her foundations. From a world that had promised everything, now nothing seemed certain at all.
Twenty-One
The next day, as planned, Rose drove home, leaving Gareth with Flossie. When she arrived, she took one look at the house and wished she had stayed in the hospital. Anna and the boys were all at school, and Polly was probably still in bed. The place was deserted.
The kitchen was in chaos. A cake with one slice cut out of it stood, uncovered, in the middle of the table. Around it was a jumble of packets of flour, dirty mixing bowls, eggshells and used cups. It looked as if the cake had made itself. The floor was covered in a drift of peelings and flour. Jam jars of daffodils, pussy willow and catkins stood on every surface, their water rank and stagnant: the kind of water you knew would smell of death. The clothes basket stood in the middle of the floor, full of screwed-up, damp washing that was beginning to smell musty. Rose took the whole lot through to the pantry and set it going through another wash cycle.
Then she went upstairs. Every bed was unmade, including hers and Gareth’s. Defeated, she threw herself onto the rumpled sheets. None of this should matter, but it did. She had been away less than a week and everything looked, smelled, felt different. Surely that couldn’t just have happened so quickly of its own accord – without some sort of effort on someone’s part?
She batted these thoughts away. She was tired and this was all strange. She closed her eyes and drifted off. Twice she jolted awake, thinking that the beeping of Flossie’s machines had stopped. Each time it took her a while to think through where she was, and why she was staring at a white wall instead of a beige curtain.
When she woke for good, her face was jammed up against the pil
low, resting in a patch of her own drool. She lay very still, her eyes focusing slowly on the white pillowcase. They came to rest on a foreign object: a single, long, dark hair, right against her cheek. Her brain caught up with her vision and registered just what she was looking at. She sat up and examined the hair, holding it up against her own, which was shorter, mousier. There was no doubt about who this stray belonged to.
Polly’s head had been on this pillow.
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Rose,’ she heard herself say out loud into the silence of the room. Polly must have been up in the bed reading to the children. Anna had probably dragged her up here for a bedtime story. Rose had to work very hard to conjure up an image of Polly, with the children gathered around her, sharing a book. And even if she could bring herself to believe it, stomaching it was completely beyond her. It would be as if Polly were being Rose, and Rose found that almost revolting. It put a scent in her nostrils of the time the burglars shat on the Hackney floor.