by Luana Lewis
‘Then put on your coat and your boots and go home.’
‘All right.’
I’m both relieved and surprised that she’s backed down so easily. She swigs the last of her wine, and clatters the glass back down. She brushes past me, grazing my shoulder as she leaves the room. She sits on the bottom step while she pulls on her boots, then she stands up and retrieves her still-damp coat from the cupboard.
‘I’m sorry if I’ve intruded tonight,’ she says. ‘I know my suffering is nothing compared to yours. And Ben’s and Lexi’s. Please forgive me.’
Before I have a chance to respond, she rushes towards me, takes me by the shoulders and kisses my cheek. I back away, and walk around her, towards the front door.
The combination of the wine and the pain in the right side of my head makes my stomach churn. It’s a relief when I pull open the front door and a rush of cold air engulfs me.
Cleo does not make eye contact as she leaves. She does not say goodbye. I watch as she walks slowly down the stairs and along the short pathway. As I press the buzzer to release the front gate, I already know she will not be able to stay away for long.
Chapter 11
‘There you are,’ Wendy says.
Small and immaculate and always so light on her feet, she walks over to the window of Special Care where I am standing with Yusuf in my arms. He’s on my hip, facing outwards and sucking his fist, and we’re having a look at the cars down on Praed Street below.
Wendy pats Yusuf’s head, then she reaches into her pocket and pulls out my phone. ‘You left this in my office,’ she says, ‘and it’s been buzzing away. I thought it might be something important.’
She smiles and tries to look nonchalant, but she fails. My own heart plummets down into my gut as I see Ben’s name on the screen. I have five missed calls from my son-in-law. I was with Wendy the last time I missed his calls, too.
My arms shake as I pass Yusuf over to Wendy. She rocks him as she watches me. She’s scared too. I try to hit the right buttons, but I miss, my fingers seem to have swollen. Finally, I manage to dial Ben’s number.
‘Please pick up,’ I say out loud. ‘Please pick up.’
Yusuf senses our tension and he begins to grizzle in Wendy’s arms.
I don’t want to think about what might have happened to Lexi. I should never have left the house in the early hours of this morning. I should have stayed. But she had stayed asleep, all through the night, and I had to go home to pick up my uniform before my shift.
When Ben answers, he’s out of breath.
‘What’s happened?’ I say.
‘I have a situation here,’ he says, ‘and I wondered if you were free this afternoon to help out with Lexi.’
‘Of course. But is everything all right?’
‘The police have asked if they can come over to the house this afternoon, and I don’t want Lexi to be here when they arrive. I don’t want her to sense there’s anything to be afraid of. Could you pick her up from school?’
‘Yes. That’s no problem. So Lexi’s all right?’
‘Yes, I’m sorry, I should have let you know. She was absolutely fine this morning. I don’t think she remembers anything about last night. Thank you again for your help.’
I start to breathe normally again. I’m light-headed with relief.
‘There’s no need to thank me,’ I say.
‘So if you pick her up from school, then Isaac will fetch her from your flat later, around six.’
I hold the phone away from my ear, staring at the screen of logged calls, shocked. This all seems much too easy. I notice then that Ben’s wasn’t the only call I’d missed. Mrs Murad’s office has called me. Again.
‘Wendy, I’m so sorry,’ I say. ‘I have to leave early again today. Ben needs me to pick Alexandra up from school.’
‘Don’t worry about the ward,’ she says. ‘I’ll get cover for you.’
I feel a rush of gratitude. Cleo is wrong, I have not been alone all these years.
Wendy settles Yusuf in his cot. She lies him on his back and then she winds up the mobile that hangs over his head. Sounds of Bach fill the ward as the coloured animals begin to spin. On impulse I put my arms around her and I hug her, taking her by surprise.
Finishing time at the Endsleigh School is twenty past three and I make sure I arrive early. The red-brick Edwardian building is a cheerful place with a front door the colour of sunshine and children’s paintings strung up like bunting along the sash windows on the first floor. At my feet, the lines of a football pitch have been painted onto the asphalt.
Before long, the playground begins to fill up with mothers, nannies and au pairs; younger siblings hurtle down the slide and swing from the monkey bars on the climbing frame. I shove my rough hands deep inside the pockets of my coat, relieved to be behind oversized sunglasses which I don’t really need on this cloying and cloud-filled afternoon.
I imagine people are staring at me. The imposter. My granddaughter is eight years old and I’ve never set foot on the grounds of her school before. I haven’t been inside her classroom to admire her drawings and her projects. I haven’t attended a soggy sports day to watch as the other children win medals.
I smooth down my hair. Vivien was always so elegant, so petite in her signature fitted shirt and skinny jeans and her pale-pink lipstick. My daughter understood the need to present a certain image to the outside world. I don’t know who her friends are here. But I have already decided that if anyone does approach me, I am not going to answer any questions. There may be some people who cared about her and who mean well, but there will also be those who revel in the sordid details.
At long last, the doors of the school swing open and the children swarm out. It’s easy to pick my granddaughter out from the crowd because her bright curls shine and bounce even on this dull, dull day. She drags her Spiderman rucksack behind her as she scans the faces of the mothers, the nannies and the handful of fathers. She is a solid and slow-moving child, dazed in the middle of a sea of fast-moving bodies. She’s not expecting to see me and she walks right past, plodding on as though her bag is filled with lead.
I rush forwards and place a hand on her shoulder, holding her back.
‘Hello, Lexi,’ I say. My voice sounds unnaturally cheery.
She turns to look up at me with eyes that are gentle and mournful, eyes that remind me of Ben. Vivien’s eyes were always mischievous, even a little cunning.
‘Your dad asked me to fetch you today,’ I say.
Lexi blinks, with her almost-blonde lashes. I reach out my hand and although she hesitates at first, she reaches back and takes hold. I take her schoolbag and swing it onto my shoulder and walk on, grasping her hand with a smile fixed to my face. I imagine my every move under scrutiny and I try to focus only on her small hand, warming up inside mine. I ask about her day at school; I don’t think she answers. I guide her across the playground and towards the exit.
‘Do you feel like a hot chocolate?’ I say. ‘It feels like a hot chocolate sort of a day today, don’t you think? With marshmallows on top?’
I look down to find she’s staring at me with eager eyes and an almost-smile. Her smile is hesitant, the smile of a child who sees her grandmother as a benign stranger, rather than as the closest thing she now has to a mother.
I wonder if she remembers anything at all about last night.
We’ve made it; we’re outside the school gates. I feel better, more relaxed now there’s distance between us and them. Even so, I hold on to Lexi’s hand as firmly as I dare without hurting her.
She sits at my dining table in her school blazer and her pleated skirt. Her legs, in thick tights, kick back and forth under the table. Back and forth. Back and forth.
I am performing my special grandmother’s trick. Using a paring knife, I peel the orange in one smooth movement, so the skin comes away in a long spiral. Lexi is transfixed, she doesn’t say a word. When I have finished, I hand her the orange peel and then a Sharpie pen. W
ith great care and concentration, she draws eyes and a forked tongue onto the skin of the orange. As she does, my eyes focus on the tiny needle-prick scars all over the back of her hands, the legacy of her time with us as a baby on the Weissman Unit.
Together, we have made a snake.
‘My granny used to make these for me,’ I say.
‘Did you make one for my mummy?’ She’s holding it carefully, cupped in her hands.
‘I did,’ I say.
I’m trying to remember. I must have done, surely, because this is the way I always peel oranges. Vivien and I must have sat at this table, next to each other, just like Lexi and I are now. Only, I can’t picture the way my daughter looked at eight years old.
I have these gaps in my memory and I don’t attribute them to age, but rather to distraction. I was always torn in different directions, between work and home; it was hard to simply focus on one thing. On sitting, as I am with Lexi, and being fully present.
Her expression still serious, Lexi lays the orange peel down carefully on the table. Her mug of hot chocolate is empty and only a faint chocolate moustache is left on her upper lip. I lean over and gently wipe away the brown marks with my fingertips.
Her legs still kick under the table, making a dull thudding sound against the table leg. She’s restless, but she’s so reserved, she won’t ask to leave the table until I invite her to. She’s compliant, as though the fire inside her has been extinguished. Or perhaps, she was always this way, a quiet girl.
I’m on high alert around her, watching for signs of anything different, anything wrong. So far, there is nothing obvious. Only, she does not smile since she lost her mother. And she doesn’t talk much at all.
‘Would you like to look at some photographs, of your mummy,’ I say, ‘when she was a little girl like you?’
Lexi nods.
The photograph albums stand in a row on the bottom shelf of my bookcase. They are older ones, with red covers and gold borders, and inside there are sticky-backed cardboard pages filled with colour photographs. Some of them have begun to fade.
Lexi and I sit together on the sofa. She draws her knees up and huddles next to me; she presses her body against mine. I choose the album with the photographs of Vivien in her ballet costumes: in class, before her exams, in recitals, with full stage make-up. The photograph Lexi looks at the longest, the one she likes best, is the one where Vivien is made up to look like a mouse, with pink ears and a long tail. Lexi traces the shape of her mother beneath the plastic covering.
There are also several photographs of Vivien in one of her dance classes, after school. She’s at the barre, in the community hall. Vivien is in sharp focus, but everything in the background, including the other girls, is blurred. Vivien is captured in different poses, in pliés, jetés, turning. She was so graceful, such a slender girl, and solemn, with large eyes and hollow cheeks, her head slightly too big for her small body.
I know I did not take these photographs. I don’t remember this class; I remember Vivien dressed as a mouse, and in a purple leotard as the Sugar Plum Fairy, but not like this. It must have been Cleo who made this tribute to her friend.
I hug Lexi closer to me. I feel at peace, with this child curled into my side. I want to ask her if she is in pain, but I cannot find the words. I tell myself she’s going to recover. That she can bear this. That although her mother is gone, I am here. I stroke her hair and I think how easy it is to love her.
By the time Isaac arrives to fetch her at six, we are both on the floor, kneeling beside the coffee table, drawing with felt-tips. Lexi has drawn a house – a fairly standard one with a square for the body of it and a triangle for the roof. But she takes great care over the garden, drawing several large pink flowers and then a black cat with whiskers. My job is to colour in the petals of the flowers with a light-pink colour. Lexi gives the cat two large and startled green eyes. So far, there are no people in her world.
At the sound of the doorbell, Lexi drops her pen and stands up, her face full of hope. I feel certain she has forgotten, and in that moment she thinks her mother has come for her. Then, the fleeting hope is replaced by a certain blankness, as though she is retreating from this world where she has to face the fact that her mother is never coming back.
When I open the door, Isaac is standing on my doorstep holding a bouquet of ivory roses. After a moment’s hesitation, I reach out and accept the flowers. I close my eyes as I bring the silky petals to my face and breathe in deep. The delicate smell makes me feel horribly sad.
I keep my eyes closed for a few seconds, and I remind myself that babies die on my ward all the time; I am by no means the only parent to suffer. Then I look at Isaac. As he smiles at me, I feel the skin on my face become hot, flushed.
‘Will you come in for a while?’ I say.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says, ‘Ben is expecting us home.’
‘Lexi’s eaten some pasta,’ I say. ‘I doubt she’ll want much dinner.’
‘I’ll let him know.’
He waits in the doorway of my small kitchen, arms crossed in front of him in the way he does, while I search for something to put the flowers in. I find an old green glass vase under the sink and fill it with water. Carefully, I cut away the paper and the elastic band and I arrange the roses. When I’ve finished I turn around, holding the flowers in front me.
‘What was the police interview about?’ I say. I keep my voice low.
From the living room I hear the clatter of felt-tip pens falling to the wooden floor.
‘Let’s talk later,’ Isaac says.
He turns to look behind him, at the glass door, through which we can see Lexi’s silhouette as she kneels at the coffee table.
Isaac stands aside to let me pass, then follows me down the passage. Lexi barely glances up as we come into the room. Her head is bent over her page and she’s frowning in concentration, biting her upper lip, as she puts the finishing touches on the flowers in her garden. She has outlined each of the pink petals in electric blue.
‘What a lovely picture,’ I say.
She nods, ever serious.
I place the flowers in the centre of the dining-room table, where they look quite lovely.
‘Lexi,’ I say, ‘it’s time to go home.’
She is careful to place the lid back on to her felt-tip pen before she stands up. Once again, I find it unsettling, how obedient she is. Vivien was so defiant, always ready with an argument. That, I do remember.
‘Would you like to take your drawing home with you?’ I say.
‘You can keep it,’ Lexi says. She leaves it lying on the low table.
She doesn’t fuss as I help her on with her grey coat and her school shoes in the entrance hall. I place our orange-peel snake carefully inside a plastic bag and hand it to her.
‘Will you put him on the radiator in your bedroom when you get home?’ I ask.
‘Why?’
‘Because then your room will smell of oranges and you will remember how much I love you.’
‘Okay.’ Lexi gives me a small and shy smile, though it’s so fleeting I think I might have imagined it.
There is a look of pity on Isaac’s face. He puts an arm around her shoulders and guides her out of the open front door and into the stale-smelling corridor.
‘I’ll see you soon,’ I say. I keep my voice casual as I bend down to kiss Lexi’s cool cheek. I hug her, my closed eyes against her tangled curls. She smells of chocolate. My eyes burn but I don’t cry. Lexi has enough to deal with.
I wave and smile as the lift doors open but she doesn’t look back. It’s hard to say whether or not she minds leaving me. I suppose the truth is she doesn’t.
Chapter 12
At around nine o’clock that night, when I know Ben will have put Lexi to bed, I arrive at Blackthorn Road. I’m carrying a tray of roast chicken, bought from a deli on the high street, one Vivien often used for catering. There is an elderly Greek lady behind the counter, who is always dressed head-to-toe in blac
k, and today I could empathize with her dour expression.
The driveway is well lit. The matching Range Rovers, with their BKAYE and VKAYE plates, are parked side by side. The lights are on in the basement, and on the ground floor, but the first and second floors of the house are in darkness. I hope Lexi has found peace in her sleep tonight. And I hope Ben isn’t too far into his bottle of whisky.
I press the buzzer with my elbow as I balance the tray in my arms. I think about what I’m going to say to Ben. I could say I wanted to drop off some food, to make sure they’re eating properly. I could say I want to find out how Lexi is, how she responded after her visit to my flat.
And then, if the atmosphere between us is still cordial, I will ask Ben about the visit from the police.
I wait. I look into the round glass eye of the camera. Under the tinfoil covering, the chicken is succulent and spicy and swims in oil. The smell grows stronger by the minute.
When the front door opens, a woman appears at the top of the steps, a dark silhouette against the bright lights of the entrance hall. My heart stops dead, then lurches against my ribs. I feel a surge of joy that defies rational thought. My daughter is alive.
And then, as she moves, I see it isn’t Vivien at all. Her gait is not as graceful as she walks down the few steps towards me. Vivien never lost her ballerina’s posture, she walked with her neck long and her chin lifted; this woman’s shoulders are a little rounded and her footsteps heavier than those of my daughter.
My heart still thrashes in my chest. The surge of hope was so powerful.
It’s Cleo, of course. She could have released the catch on the gate from where she stood at the front door, but instead she walks down towards me at an irritatingly slow pace, until we are standing face to face on opposite sides of the locked gate.
She seems surprised to see me. ‘Rose,’ she says, ‘what are you doing here?’
‘The release catch for the gate is just inside the front door.’ I balance the tray of chicken in one arm and gesture up towards the house and the open door behind her.