“I thought you’d maybe had a rather more privileged background than that.”
He shrugs slightly.
“I grew up on a council estate in Newcastle,” he tells me. “Quite a rough place, really.” His voice changes slightly as he talks. I hear the lilt of his childhood accent in it. “That’s what you did—you took stuff. We were pretty accomplished car thieves, my brother and me.”
I think about where he has come from, and how he must have struggled to achieve the life he has now. I feel a little surge of admiration for him.
He’s looking down into his coffee. In the clear light that comes through the window I can see all the lines in his face.
“I was driving, the night it happened,” he tells me. “We’d stolen this crappy old Astra, and the engine was really rough.”
His voice is very quiet. I lean in closer.
“I was driving too fast. I could hear the police were after us, I could hear the sirens. I lost control. We went off the road, went head-on into a tree.”
“God, Adam.”
“I got knocked out for a moment.” His face is bleak. I see how raw this still is. “When I came to again, there was blood in my mouth, on my face, and I knew it wasn’t my blood. Jake died in my arms before the ambulance came.”
He pauses just for a heartbeat.
“I felt it was my fault. I felt I’d killed him.”
“No,” I say, my voice rather high, protesting. “For God’s sake, Adam. Of course you didn’t kill him. You loved him, you didn’t want him to die. It was an accident . . .”
“That wasn’t how it felt,” he says.
He’s quiet for a moment, and the noise of the cafeteria breaks over us. The sadness in his story presses down on me. I feel all the terrible incompleteness of things. There’s so much that never gets said, so much that’s unfinished and broken.
“Afterward,” he tells me, “some rather weird things happened. One night I woke in the darkness in the bedroom that we’d shared, and I had such a sense of his presence.”
I feel a quick, surprising pang of envy—that nothing like that happened to me after my mother died. That she left behind her only the wrenching sense of her absence.
“What was that like?” I ask him. “Did you see something? Hear something?”
“That first time, I just felt him,” he says. “Like the way you can know that a house isn’t empty even as you enter it. But another time I heard his voice—not in my head, but real. Coming from somewhere outside me. He said my name. It comforted me. But after that, nothing.”
I hear all the bleakness in his voice. His hands are clasped together on the table. The knuckles are white, the veins are like wire through the skin. Instinctively I reach toward him, put my hand on his wrist. He looks up sharply. I see how my touch startles him. I feel a little jag of arousal, which unnerves me—it seems illicit, out of place. I take my hand away.
“So that’s it. That’s what happened. You asked me why this stuff mattered to me, and I wanted to tell you,” he says. “To answer your question honestly. Sorry to be a bit morbid.”
“No, I’m glad you told me . . . Well, not glad exactly. You know what I mean.”
He nods slightly.
I have such a sense of strangeness, suddenly learning about this man who’s about to walk out of my life. Everything feels off-kilter. Every-thing’s happened the wrong way around.
He starts to gather our cups and plates together. Something shifts between us, as though some thread that joined us together has snapped.
“Well, I guess you’ll need to be getting back in a moment,” he says.
“Yes. I suppose I should.”
He walks me to the entrance hall.
“Look—the best of luck with Sylvie.” He has his familiar crooked smile. “I hope it all works out for you both.”
“Thank you.”
I walk out into the raw gray day and leave him there.
29
I DRIVE SLOWLY back to the flower shop, unnerved by what he told me, reliving our conversation, hearing it all in my head. I felt I’d killed him. I remember the haggard look in his face and the veins that stood up in his hands. I think of this burden he carries, that he will carry for all of his life, and I feel so sorry for him.
But as I drive away from him, there’s also a steelier part of me that feels a kind of relief. As though my decision is vindicated by the story he told. How could he ever be objective when something so devastating drives him? He’d be always trying to reach his brother—wanting some proof, some evidence that he’s still alive somewhere, that there’s meaning to what happened. I tell myself that I wouldn’t want to entrust him with Sylvie. That it’s all for the best I decided not to go back.
Lavinia looks up, smiles at me. “Nice lunch, Gracie?” she says.
“Kind of. Well, I don’t know . . .”
She’s planting out fritillaries in a vintage wooden apple box. The flowers are a smoky purple, their petals with an intricate pattern like the skin of a snake.
“I went to see that psychologist—the one I told you about,” I say.
She pushes her hair from her face. She’s wearing an old-fashioned riding coat and rigger boots of oiled leather, and she has a silver poppyhead pin in her hair.
“Good for you, Gracie,” she says. “So how’s all that been going?”
“Not well, really. I don’t think it’s the answer. I went to see him to tell him that we couldn’t carry on.”
Concern flickers over her face.
“Oh, Gracie, what a disappointment. I really liked the sound of him,” she says.
“Sylvie was crying after the session,” I tell her.
“Well, it would be tough for her, of course. Opening up to a stranger like that.”
“I don’t know. I think it was more than that. And then he told me just now about this thing that happened when he was a boy. It shook me up, to be honest. Though it helped me understand why he does what he does . . .”
I tell her his story. She listens quietly.
“Poor bloke,” she says. “How ghastly. Well, he obviously thinks a lot of you, Gracie, to trust you with something like that.”
“But he couldn’t be dispassionate, could he? Not after going through that. Not if he’s always trying to prove there’s something else beyond all this—trying to find his brother . . .”
She rubs her hand across her face. There are crescents of earth in her nails.
“Why we do what we do—that’s a pretty deep question, Gracie. Is anyone really objective? I mean, we’re all human, for God’s sake. We all have hidden things that drive us on.” She tamps the soil down deftly with the flat of her palm. Her silver hairpin glitters with the movement of her body. “Anyway, I’ll shut up now. Only you can know what’s right for Sylvie.”
“I used to think that,” I tell her. “Now I’m just not sure . . .”
“You need to trust yourself,” she says.
I turn a little away from her. I’ve promised myself that today I will tell her about Little Acorns. I know I can’t postpone it anymore, that it’s not fair to her. And yet I feel such reluctance. It’s as though, while she still doesn’t know, I can half pretend it’s not happening—as though, in telling her, I will make it real.
“Lavinia.” My throat is thick suddenly.
She looks up rapidly, hearing the tremor in my voice.
“What is it, Grace? What’s happened?”
“We’re losing the place at the nursery. They say they can’t keep Sylvie any longer.”
“Hell, Grace.”
She stares at me.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I should have told you. I’m sorry.”
“You mean—she’s been expelled?”
“Kind of.”
“But—she’s only little. How could they? I hate them, Gracie,” she says.
“I’m trying to find another place,” I tell her. “But nurseries have long waiting lists. I know it won’t be easy.”
“How long have you got?” she says.
“Till the end of the month,” I tell her. “I’m sorry it’s all so sudden . . .”
She looks bereft.
“Only till then? Oh, Gracie.”
She moves her hands apart in a small, despairing gesture.
“I shall miss you horribly,” she says. “It’s been wonderful having you here. How shall I ever replace you?”
I clear my throat. “I don’t suppose you could keep my job open just for another few weeks?” My voice sounds strained and shrill. “Just until I find somewhere? I mean, maybe I’ll manage to find a nursery that will take her . . .”
There’s a small, awkward silence between us.
“Grace, I’m so sorry,” she says then. “I would if I could—believe me. But it’s not like it’s the summer, when I could get a student, perhaps. I have to have stability. It really isn’t possible to run this place on my own.”
Suddenly I see it clearly. Hearing her spell it out like that, I know how it’s going to be—that my job here is ended forever. I see it all in devastating detail, this life unfolding before me, this unraveling of everything I’ve tried to knit together. It’s so wearily familiar, the patching up and making do, so like the life my mother had. Living on child support, resentful, our whole life running aground.
She comes and puts her arms around me, holds me close for a moment.
I don’t say anything. If I speak, I’ll cry.
My last days at Jonah and the Whale pass very quickly. Every lunch hour I ring nurseries, trying places farther and farther afield, but no one can take Sylvie, not at such short notice. I keep thinking something will happen, that someone will bail me out or come rushing to my rescue. But nothing happens, no one comes.
Lavinia finds a young woman to replace me. She’s Polish, with a degree in English and impeccably straightened blond hair. She’s very charming and eager to learn, and she’ll suit Lavinia perfectly. I feel a pang of envy.
On my last day, Lavinia gives me flowers, a lavish bunch of pink lilies.
“You must promise to stay in touch,” she says. “Let me know what’s happening with Sylvie.”
“I shall miss you so much,” I tell her. “You—and working here. I’ve loved it.”
“I know that, Gracie,” she says.
She hugs me, and there’s such comfort in the warm solidity of her body. Yet I feel in this moment of leaving that it will be hard to stay close, that our friendship may be more tenuous than I’d always imagined. The thought saddens me.
At Little Acorns, Beth has put all Sylvie’s things together, her hairbrush and towel and rucksack, in a neat, small pile on the table by the door. She holds Sylvie tightly to her.
“Just you look after yourself for me, okay, sweetheart? Promise me that.”
Sylvie reaches up and kisses Beth’s cheek. Beth’s eyes are wet and full. I thank her for all her care of Sylvie.
We walk to the car through the gathering dark and the pools of orange lamplight.
“Why won’t I go to nursery anymore, Grace?” says Sylvie.
“Mrs. Pace-Barden thought you’d be happier staying at home,” I tell her. “You weren’t very happy at nursery, were you? You didn’t like it very much. Not really.”
She thinks about this for a moment.
“Sometimes I did and sometimes I didn’t,” she says.
30
IT’S OUR FIRST Monday at home together—the start of our new way of life.
“What are we doing today?” says Sylvie.
I glance around our living room. It all looks rather blurred and dusty in the washed spring light.
“I’m going to clean up the flat, and then we can do something nice,” I tell her.
“Are you going to play with me?”
“Yes. Once I’ve done the tidying up. We could have a picnic for all your Barbies and Big Ted. Would you like that?”
She’s pleased.
“Yes, Grace.”
I kneel down and hug her. Her silk hair brushes my face. She hugs me back with a little smile.
I tell myself I will make this work. I will give her my total attention, and maybe she’ll be a bit more at peace now that she’s home with me all day. Maybe her troubles were all just stress, and now she will be happier. I can make this work, I know I can.
I clean the room assiduously. The spiders have been busy—the cornices are lacy with webs. I sweep away the cobwebs and I dust and vacuum everywhere while Sylvie plays with her dollhouse, rearranging the furniture, walking the little doll figures through the rooms with the polka-dot walls.
When I’ve finished, I stand back, admiring my work. There’s a scent of polish and everything gleams and the edges of things are exact again. I put Lavinia’s lilies in the middle of the table. The buds are opening out now—you can see the rust-colored pollen in the throats of the flowers, and the small, pale hairs like animal hairs. The shiny room lifts my spirits. I open the window a little. There’s a fresh spring wind from the garden that smells of roots and green things, and the hems of my calico curtains wave and beckon like hands.
“There, that’s better, isn’t it?” I’m speaking half to myself. “Our room looks really lovely now.”
Sylvie glances up. For a moment she doesn’t say anything. Her cool gaze flicks around the room.
“I had a house before,” she says. “When I had my family. It was nicer than this house, Grace.”
Anger surges through me. My mouth is choked with ugly words that I want to shout and scream at her: I struggle so hard to build a decent life for the two of us, but whatever I do you just push it all back in my face . . . I clench my teeth.
I kneel, grab her shoulders.
“Sylvie, just stop this, okay? Stop all this nonsense. This is your house. This is where you belong. This is your family—just you and me together. You have to know that—you have to accept that. This is all there is, Sylvie, this life we have together here.”
She goes quite still. My face is very close to hers. She has her eyes tight shut so she can’t see.
“You’re hurting,” she tells me.
I pull away from her, make myself breathe. I see my hands are trembling.
The long day stretches before me, and I don’t know how to get through—not feeling like this, with this ugly anger burning away inside me. I tell myself that we have to get out of the flat, that outside in the wind and the freshness I’ll start to feel normal again. Even if we just walk down to Kwik Save.
“Sweetheart, we’ll go to the shop. We’ll need some chocolate fingers for our picnic.”
She goes obediently to find her coat and her shoes.
Kwik Save is almost empty, and the customers are different from the people I usually see, on Friday nights when it’s crowded and everyone’s rushing and full of purpose. I pass an old man with a thin, frail look, as though the slightest knock would make him fall, and an elderly lady who has a faint scent of mothballs; she has three meals-for-one in her basket, and I wonder if coming to Kwik Save is the highlight of her day. One of the women I sometimes see soliciting on the corner is buying Pampers and baby milk. She’s wearing a baggy tracksuit, and her face is creased and drawn. All these sad, tired people, swept to the margins of their lives. Like me, I think, and hate the thought.
There’s a mother and a little boy. I notice them at once—there’s something odd about them. The mother has scraped-back hair and a vigilant, fierce expression and deep frown lines on her forehead. I think she probably looks much older than her years. The boy is a little younger than Sylvie. He has a still, rather beautiful face, and his movements are random and wild. As I watch, he flutters his hand in a strange way, close in front of his eyes, and I realize he is autistic. I tell myself I am lucky. My difficulties count for so little compared to the problems this woman endures.
They’re in the biscuit aisle now, where I’m looking for chocolate fingers. With a movement that comes from nowhere, the boy throws out his arm and
sweeps it through the biscuits. Dozens of tins and packets spill all over the floor. The mother swears. She snatches him up and dumps him in the baby seat on the shopping cart and straps him in, though he’s really too big for the seat. He fights against the straps. Sylvie watches with fascination.
The woman starts to put the biscuits back. I go to help her.
“Really, you mustn’t,” she says.
“That’s okay,” I tell her. “I know what it’s like . . .”
A strand of dull hair falls over her face. She pushes it wearily out of her eyes.
“I’m so sorry,” she says. “I’m so sorry. You shouldn’t have to do this.”
She must spend her whole life saying sorry like this and clearing up the chaos left in the wake of her child.
“It’s no big deal,” I tell her. “Really.”
We pile the biscuits up on the shelf. The boy is starting to cry, with a shrill, high sound like a piping bird’s that doesn’t sound like a human cry. The woman breaks out a can of Coke from the multi-pack in her cart, and hands it to him. He drinks, the crying stops. A dribble of Coke seeps down his chin, and he doesn’t wipe it away. Sylvie steps closer, eyes wide, mouth a little pursed. She has a rather self-righteous look.
They’re nearly out of chocolate fingers. I reach to the back of the shelf. There’s a choice of milk or plain chocolate, and I turn to ask Sylvie which flavor she’d like. I see—too late—that the boy is waving the drink can wildly, almost like it’s a rattle, like he doesn’t know what it’s for. An arc of brown liquid spurts up from the can.
I put out a hand to grab Sylvie. It all seems to happen so slowly, but I can’t reach her, can’t get there. Brown liquid splashes over her face. She’s still for a moment, rigid, her face white, set, a white mask.
“Sweetheart, everything’s okay, it’s just a drop of Coke. Sylvie . . .”
Her screams drown out my voice.
I hold her, but she fights me, hitting my chest with her fists. It hurts. There’s such ferocity in her. Around me, the whole place goes silent, everyone turning, listening. There’s nothing in the world but Sylvie’s screams.
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