by Sanjida Kay
SATURDAY
I love my work. In a funny way, I only realized how important it was to me when Evie was little and I no longer had all the time in the world to spend all day thinking about a painting instead of getting on with it. Talking about it with Harris reminds me of how passionate I used to be. Thanks to him, I’m trying not to feel guilty about asking Jack to look after Ben and Evie this afternoon so I can get on with painting. Ben is ready to go and I’ve already loaded his nappy bag and buggy into the car, but Evie hasn’t responded to my increasingly annoyed shouts.
She’s outside playing. I walk across the lawn. The day is cold. The sky is bright blue and there are long lines of clouds crisscrossed over the moor where planes have passed. Bald, damp patches proliferate; what should be flower beds round the edges are ragged with couch grass and small, ugly bushes grown woody. Ollie wants to hire a landscape gardener but I think we should do it ourselves. It seems such a waste of money to pay someone to put a few plants in. Maybe, after my exhibition, it can be my summer project. Evie is by her tree. It’s a chestnut, I remember now, a little diseased. We ought to get rid of it – half the leaves have withered as if autumn has come early to one side. She’s humming tunelessly and poking sticks into something dangling from the lowest branch.
It looks like a bird’s nest, but spiky, without the cosy contours of a robin’s, say. The twigs are bound with bits of ribbon, balloon strings, and some garish gold thread that was wrapped round one of Ben’s presents. Inside the tangle is a tiny, naked doll resting on a cushion of lichen, her blonde hair matted. I know I should be thinking how creative Evie is, but some of her sculptures are a bit creepy. I go closer. I don’t want to touch it. I’m being ridiculous, but there’s something about the abandoned doll, a smudge of dirt on her cheek, that makes me shiver. Maybe it’s put me on edge already, because I have the sensation that something is tiptoeing down my spine. I feel as if we’re being watched again. Bella lifts her nose and sniffs. The wind stirs the curls at the nape of her neck. I look around but I can’t see anyone else. I go to the fence and scan the bridle path, but there is no one here. I glance at the house next door; the upstairs windows are dark and stippled with the reflection of the dying bracken on the hillside.
I turn back to Evie and her monstrous nest. ‘Come on, sweetheart. It’s time to go. Didn’t you hear me calling you?’
She narrows her green eyes at me, as if she’s only just noticed me prowling around.
‘Where are we going?’ she asks.
‘You’re going to Jack’s so I can do some painting. Remember, we talked about it this morning?’
‘I don’t want to go,’ she says. She puts one hand behind her back.
‘You’ll have fun at Jack’s house,’ I say, going towards her.
Ben appears at the French doors.
‘Plane,’ he says. ‘Sky,’ pointing at a white vapour trail.
He crawls down the steps, smearing algae and rainwater across his trousers. Evie sidesteps. She’s holding something, trying to hide it in the folds of her skirt. It’s sharp-edged, white, not a piece of ribbon or string.
‘Jack is waiting for you. Please go inside and get your coat.’
She half turns as if to obey and I’m about to run after Ben – he’s going to jump in a puddle – when the thing she was clutching flutters to the ground between us. It lies, garish and glittering, on the grass. I catch the word Daughter in looping handwriting in sparkling-pink paint on the front before Evie snatches it up. Her birthday was three months ago. Ollie and I didn’t give her a card like that.
‘Can I see it, please, Evie?’
She shakes her head.
‘Who gave it to you?’ I ask again.
She doesn’t say anything.
‘Evie. Give me the card, right now.’
Her lip starts to quiver and her eyes fill with tears. She hands it to me. It’s made of thin, cheap card, the kind you might find in a newsagent’s or a corner shop. I open it. Inside in blue Biro someone has written:
Hello my darling,
I’m your real father. I’ve been searching for you ever since you were stolen from me. I love you so much.
Daddy
I go cold. I read it again and again. My chest tightens and I can’t breathe. Stolen. Your real father. The words ring in my head like tinnitus.
‘Evie. Who gave this to you?’
She shrugs. ‘My daddy. My real one.’
‘But who? Who was it?’ I shout.
She starts to cry properly and runs inside and up the stairs. I see my reflection in the windows. My face is bleached of colour. Not only did Evie’s mother choose not to stay in touch with us, she never told us who Evie’s father was. I wheel around as if the man, as if her father, is here, standing in the bridleway. There is no one in the lane. The wind whistles through the hollow heart of the tree, making Evie’s sculpture spiral. A laugh rings out and my head snaps up. It’s only a couple of golfers, their jumpers garish in the grey light. Ben splashes in the puddle on the patio and screams as the cold water soaks him.
I haul everything back out of the car and ring Jack to cancel. I put the stairgates on and Ben in his room to play, then go to find Evie. I sit on her bed. She ignores me. Evie is building another sculpture, this time out of Meccano. It’s one of the strange, spidery creatures she often creates; she does it when she’s feeling perturbed and it seems to calm her. Because of her problems, she can often feel a little perturbed. I realize that’s what she might have been doing in Ben’s room at his party – calming herself. And maybe getting a letter from her ‘daddy’ could have made her feel anxious.
‘Shall I tell you the story of you?’ I say, hugging my knees to my chest and wishing my daughter would let me cuddle her.
She nods, barely perceptibly.
‘A long time ago, before you were even a twinkle in anybody’s eye, your daddy and I really, really wanted a baby girl. We tried and tried to have a baby but we just couldn’t.’
The more I tell this tale, like a fairy story instead of an offering from the Brothers Grimm, the easier it gets.
‘Then we met a kind young woman who was pregnant with a baby girl and she said we could have her baby because we didn’t have one of our own. And so we waited and waited, and you grew bigger and bigger inside her and, one day, we got a phone call to say that you were ready to come out. So we rushed to the hospital—’
‘In London?’ asks Evie.
She doesn’t look at me but she’s stopped screwing bits of plastic together.
‘Yes, love, this was when we were living in London. You’d decided to come early!’
I say this brightly and brush away the sick feeling I always get at this point. Today when people look at Evie they see an elfin beauty; an otherworldliness. I find it hard not to see the scars of those early weeks when she was floating in an opiate miasma: the wide-set eyes, the fairy-features, her thin frame – she still wears clothes designed for a five-year-old – are they all marks of foetal drug abuse? The doctors never could tell us.
‘You were so tiny, you had to live in a box. You looked like a little elf! Daddy and I spent every minute at the hospital staring at your beautiful little face and watching you grow. And then, one day, the doctor opened the box and gave you to me.’ Evie has now shuffled over and is half leaning against me. I slip off the bed next to her and put my arms around her. ‘And from the moment I held you in my arms, I loved you,’ I say.
I will never tell her about the doubts and uncertainties I had. There was something unnatural about her, as if she wasn’t wholly human. I know that sounds like a terrible thing to say and I hated myself for feeling that way at the time. Thankfully Ollie loved her right from the start and, after the first few months, I did too. But perhaps she knew. They say the first six months are crucial, don’t they? Maybe she sensed the lack of love in me.
Sometimes I say we chose Evie; sometimes I tell her she was a gift, but I always end by saying how precious she is to us and that s
he is our daughter. Normally this story makes her happy.
Before I can get to that bit, she interrupts.
‘But what about my daddy? My real one?’
‘I don’t know who he is, Evie. The young woman who gave you to us didn’t tell us who your original father was. But Ollie is your daddy. He’s looked after you and loved you since you were born.’
I stroke her hair. Ben has lost patience with being in his bedroom and has come to find us. He pushes the door open and makes a beeline for the sculpture.
‘Lego!’ he shouts with delight.
Before I can reach him, he grabs one end and knocks it over. It breaks into several pieces and Evie starts her screaming-howl and throws herself full-length on the floor.
‘Jesus.’ Ollie rubs his hand over his face, holding the card as if it’s contaminated. I waited until both children were in bed to tell him. ‘Why would anyone do this to a child?’ he asks.
He turns the card over in his hands, its glittery surface catching the light, re-reading the poisonous words inside.
‘I’ve been searching for you...’
I know them by heart. Who would send such a thing to our daughter?
‘Do you think it could be a joke? Maybe someone at school who’s heard she’s adopted?’ he says.
A child then, seeing Evie, like a reversed Midwich cuckoo, an impostor fledgling in this blonde family nest.
‘It seems a bit of a sick thing for a kid to do.’
I tell him Evie found the card in the garden.
‘Could be a coincidence. Not even meant for her.’
‘No,’ I say flatly.
‘If they’ve screwed up, given out our contact details to some idiot who wouldn’t even admit to having a daughter before she was born…’ he says.
A muscle clenches in his jaw. He leans forward and throws the card in the fire.
‘Don’t!’ I grab it, flapping it to put the flames out. It’s scorched but hasn’t burnt. ‘I’m going to speak to the adoption agency on Monday. We might need it as evidence.’
Does he think I’m being too dramatic? He’s always been the one to reassure me – that everything with Evie would work out and I needn’t worry so much. He’s been right so far – her brain scans have all been normal. I still believe there could be something wrong with her that the doctors haven’t properly diagnosed.
‘How could her father have tracked her down?’ I ask.
I don’t feel as if we – Evie, Ben and I – are safe any more. Should I tell Ollie the feeling I’ve had, that we’re being watched? Would he believe me?
Ollie shrugs. ‘Let’s see what the adoption agency has to say,’ he says, as he puts another episode of Suits on.
I want to ask him more about the card. What it means. I’m frightened. I know Ollie thinks this kind of ‘talking around an issue’ is pointless because we don’t know who sent it or how he found Evie. He used to have the patience for it but not any more. Talking about it would help me deal with it, though, make me feel less jittery. I open my mouth to speak, but Ollie grunts with laughter. I’m not sure what’s worse – my husband chortling minutes after I’ve shown him the card that our daughter received from a man who believes his illegitimate child was stolen from him and has tracked her down seven years later – or Harvey fucking Specter’s smug face.
MONDAY
I have a churned-up feeling in my stomach. The words from the card we found on Saturday spin round and round in my head. ‘... you were stolen from me...’ I’m shattered. I haven’t been able to sleep for the last two nights. How does he know where we live? How did he find Evie? Is he definitely her father or is it a ruse to lure a small child to him – any small, pretty child? She’s so precious – and so vulnerable. She’s seven, for God’s sake. What can she really understand about errant fathers who change their minds regarding their illegitimate children? The unfairness of it makes my cheeks burn. I tried again yesterday to talk to her properly about the card and explain that she’s loved, but Ben was such a handful and it was impossible. Now is definitely not the right time, we’re on our way to school.
Just before we get there, Evie sprints on ahead. I wish she’d stay with Ben, Bella and me. I glance around. The cars passing us are going slowly as they approach the junction. He could be in any one of them, tailing us. My palms become cold and slippery. I expect Evie to stop and wait for us at the bottom of the road, but she doesn’t – she sprints round the corner, out of sight.
‘Evie!’ I shout.
I start to run. Bella thinks it’s a game and races ahead, tugging on the lead. I can’t control her and the buggy and it starts to tip over.
‘Evie!’ I yell again.
I yank Bella back and right the buggy. We reach the corner. My heart is pounding. Evie is standing a few metres away, waiting for us. She looks puzzled.
‘Please don’t run away like that—’
‘Evie run,’ says Ben.
‘I wasn’t running away!’
‘I couldn’t see you! Just stay where I can see you, okay?’
She pouts and drags her feet the rest of the way. She sullenly slopes into school without saying goodbye. I’m marching purposefully from the playground when I see Harris. He’s waiting for me on the other side of the road. I stop. My heart clenches and a slow smile spreads across my face. Warmth courses through my body, like standing in front of a fire after a bracing walk on a chill day. I need to tell him I can’t go for a coffee today. I have to get back, dig out Evie’s case notes, call the adoption agency.
When I reach him he says, ‘Do you want to walk back through Heber’s Ghyll? It’s a bit of detour but it’ll not add too much time to your journey.’
I stare up at him. His dark curls are tousled by the wind; he has day-old stubble. He looks weathered, craggy; his green-brown eyes are kind.
‘You look like you could do with clearing your head.’
I nod wordlessly. He takes Bella’s lead from me and we follow the back roads through Ilkley, along wide, tree-lined roads, through narrow snickets carpeted with gold larch needles, past high stone walls and gardens where the last roses of the year bloom. We reach the wood, which connects the town to the moor. The winding path alongside the ghyll will eventually emerge at the end of Panorama Drive, alongside the reservoir and below the Swastika Stone. It’s steep and in some places there are flights of stone steps, edged with moss. Harris strides ahead of me. I can see the muscles in his thighs as he climbs. The deep water is brown with peat, and edged with foam and ferns. I like the way Harris feels no need to speak.
We pause before we reach the moor. There’s a semicircular granite wall at the top with a wooden bench set into it. By the time I reach him, he’s already pouring coffee for us from his Thermos.
‘You didn’t paint much this weekend,’ he says.
It’s a statement, rather than a question and I relax back against the cold stone. I don’t need to explain or justify myself with Harris. There’s no judgement in his words: I don’t have to feel guilty. I briefly consider telling him what happened but he doesn’t know that Evie is adopted. It would be a long explanation. I don’t want to be the kind of mother who talks about her children the entire time. I want Harris to be for me. I want him to be mine. There’s nothing else in my life that I don’t share with Evie and Ben and Ollie. I’m surprised how fiercely I feel; how possessive I am of him. He passes me a coffee and the mug is so small that our hands collide, our fingers merging. He steadies my wrist so I don’t spill it and, when he lets go, I can still feel the impression of his fingertips against my skin.
‘What about you?’ I ask.
‘Aye, I’m working like a dervish, trying to get it all done before the exhibition. I needed to clear my head too,’ he says, and smiles at me.
Bella lies down at his feet, resting her head on his hiking boots. He strokes her gently.
‘Fewer distractions than you. I can work all night if I feel like it.’
I sigh, remembering those da
ys, alcohol and caffeine-fuelled, high on white spirit and the sheer thrill of painting. Out of nowhere I have an image of Evie’s doll, lichen-stained, her bare limbs twisted, clawing her way out of her cage of twigs. I shut my eyes.
‘Tell me about the Hunza Valley,’ I say, and he does.
He describes cobalt skies, cherry blossom, the way the leaves turn gold and vermillion in autumn, women in marigold shalwar kameez carrying glacier-water, donkeys laden with panniers of chillies and apricots. His words wash over me like a tonic, clearing the thoughts crowding my mind.
‘When you stand right in the centre of the valley, you’re surrounded by five snow-capped mountains. It feels like you’re in the heart of the earth and no one else but you exists.’
Like a fairy tale, his word pictures replace the dark greens of this dank, primordial wood.
‘Thank you,’ I say, and he doesn’t ask why, as if he has seen my distress and knows how to help me forget, just for a moment.
He stands and stretches out his hand, pulls me to my feet and enfolds me in his arms. I inhale him. He smells of newly planed wood and oil.
‘I’m glad I met you, Zoe Morley,’ he murmurs into my hair. ‘I knew you’d be a kindred spirit. My kindred spirit.’
He releases me and we emerge into a shale-grey sky. I need to get home but I’m torn, confused by his embrace. He sounded as fiercely possessive as I feel about him: my kindred spirit. Does he want to come back with me? I wish I could stay longer with him but I can’t. I have to make that phone call.
As ever, he seems to intuitively discern what I’m thinking because he hands me Bella’s lead and says, ‘I’m heading this way,’ inclining his head towards the moor.
He bends down and kisses me on the cheek. His stubble scratches me. He cups my face for a moment between both his hands and then he’s gone. I watch as he strides away, towards the Swastika Stone and the bent pines on the horizon.