Grazing The Long Acre

by Gwyneth Jones

  My husband said, ‘What’s the use in that? You didn’t lose him anywhere near the park.’

  I sat down on the armchair, the old one with the leaf-pattern in black and white on the upholstery, the leaves he used to trace very seriously with baby fingers.

  ‘You think I’m mad.’

  ‘I think in your state of mind you can easily force yourself to see a ghost. I just don’t understand why you’re doing it.’

  ‘I want to know what happened to him. I want to see it.’

  ‘That’s disgusting,’ he said.

  My child, called Christopher after his grandfather, went out with me to the shops. In the Post Office I looked around and he was gone. I ran out into the street. He was nowhere. And when I was sure he was gone, you can imagine. You can imagine how I ran up and down, calling his name, how I flung myself at passers-by, how I was shaking from head to foot, how terror possessed me. We always called him Fery, it was his own name for himself. He’s gone to the fairies, he’s gone. It’s eight days. He’s dead.

  In cases like this, suspicion always falls on the family, especially on the man. The police were going to be suspicious of us as a matter of course. I think we made it worse for ourselves by being certain, straight away, that he was dead. I think I made it worse for us by my terror. But how could we believe anything else? The child is gone for an hour, for three hours, he’s been missing for a day and a night. How are we supposed to unknow what everyone else in the world knows about what happens to a child snatched away like that?…just because it is our child, this time, not a story on the news. They told us not to give up hope. Children have funny whims, he might have wandered off, taken a bus, decided to run away from home. Paedophiles often are not violent, he might turn up safe in some sad bastard’s miserable bedsit. Fools. We can’t give up hope, we will hope forever: but we know he’s dead. I think of him when we had the builders in before he was two years’ old. My baby goes up to the foreman and takes hold of the man’s big, plaster-ingrained hand, wants to show him a Lego house. It’s potty-training summer, the little boy is dressed merely in a blue tee-shirt that leaves his round middle and his little bum bare. ‘You’ll have to watch him,’ says the builder-man to me, very seriously. ‘He’s too friendly.’

  A child must not be friendly, that’s provocation. A child must not smile, must not take an adult’s hand, that’s flirtatious. I shake with fury. They’re saying it was his fault. They’re saying he brought it on himself. I try to imagine him here, giggling and wriggling among the cushions, very small. But all I see is something like a great sky folding into itself from horizon to horizon, bellying and billowing into a vast ochre mushroom cloud that rises and fills the universe. A million megatons of death, nothing can be saved, destroyer of worlds.

  ‘I’m going to go back to work,’ said Eric. ‘Do you want your sister down?’

  By work, he means that he’ll return to his office at the back of our house, the room that overlooks the garden; where he teleworks on his computer. Projects, consultancies. I have no more idea of what he does, in detail, than if I was the child myself. He makes good money. I don’t have a job, which means I have nowhere to go. My sister has offered to take unpaid leave, desert her family, come and be with me. I don’t want her.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I’ll be fine.’

  A policewoman comes to visit the house, with a uniformed constable, also a woman. They ask me if they can have a look around. Would I mind? They want to search our house, and I’m supposed to say well of course, please, step this way. My face serene, a little polite smile, as if they’ve come to read the gas meter. I am not supposed to resist, or question. I am not supposed to say, you think my husband killed our son. It’s such an insane charade, dealing with the police. The WPC in uniform sits there holding her mug of tea, (I offered: they accepted). She has her face arranged in a solemn look of sympathy. I think she’s really sorry, how could she not be sorry, but it’s like tissue paper. Any move I make, anything I say will tear it and reveal the police agenda. Any sign that I’ve ever read a tabloid report on a child’s disappearance, or watched the news, or seen a TV mystery drama where it was the father, of course it was the father, you can see the solution a mile off…It was the mother, you can see she’s disturbed…will be an admission of guilt. The superior officer searched the house. The WPC sat with me. Strange, I’d have thought it would be the other way round. Eric stayed in his office. When she came back the superior officer started to ask me a few questions.

  I said, ‘How can you think my husband had anything to do with this? He’s desperate. He’s sitting up there out of his mind with grief. He doesn’t eat, he doesn’t sleep—’

  ‘Mrs Connors,’ she said. ‘Hazel…I’m still hoping Christopher will be found. Believe me, it does happen. Children are found, more often than not. But don’t you think a man who had killed his seven year old son would be distraught?’

  It was as if she’d hit me. Seven years old. My image in the park was wrong, completely wrong. He doesn’t look like that any more. His ghost can’t look like that. Three years. I’d forgotten a whole three years. This is what happens to you when the Destroyer of Worlds has filled your mind. Your whole memory unravels, crumbles, you can’t hold it together. I stared at her, and the mug of tea in my hands dissolved. I couldn’t feel it any more, it fell to the floor and cooling tea spilled all over my feet.

  She looked at the mess. I didn’t. I was thinking of how much work I had to do, getting him to appear to me not as a four year old but as he was the day I lost him. That’s the only way I’ll find out what happened. She took my hand, and I let her do that.

  ‘Hazel, why wasn’t Christopher in school that day?’

  ‘He had a cold. I kept him at home, but he seemed well enough to come out with me.’

  ‘But your husband was at home?’

  ‘He works at home. He does his share of looking after Fery, but he works office hours. Am I getting points for answering the same questions in the same words fifty times over?’

  A pause, a look of reproof. I’m tearing the tissue paper.

  ‘Christopher’s seven years’ old. Did you ever think of having other children?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m planning to go back to work. But it wouldn’t make sense, at the moment. Wouldn’t have made sense. When Eric isn’t working at home, he has to travel. He’s away often. I would have gone back to work, when Fery was old enough to be home alone.’

  What the superior officer is really asking about is our sex life. No children? Why? Don’t you sleep together? So, what does your husband do instead? I won’t tell her anything.

  When Fery was two, he buried a wooden train in the sandpit at Delauney’s park. It was red and blue, it had yellow wheels, it was called Thomas. He didn’t tell me that Thomas was missing until we were about to go home; and it was winter and getting dark. I searched, as well as I could. I couldn’t find that little train at all. I didn’t have a chance, the sandpit was too big and Fery could not tell me where I should dig. We went back the next day, and we still couldn’t find Thomas. We never found him. But all that year, and longer, Fery went on looking. Stranger than that: wherever we were, including when we were on holiday in Italy, if we passed a playground he must go in. If there was a sandpit, he must dig. He was looking for Thomas. Long afterwards, he still remembered. I’d be in Delauney’s park, the mothers sitting together the way we do, on the edge of the sandpit: I’d see my four year old casually get hold of a shovel and start turning over the cool, dirty, lollipop-stick infested sand. I’d know he was looking for Thomas, but he didn’t want anyone to know because he knew it was silly. And I’d want to help him. As if any day could be that winter’s day, and we could tear the tissue paper and step back, undo the wrong we did, catch up the dropped stitch, make the little red and blue train appear.

  I walk down to the row of shops. The pharmacist, the bakery, the bank on the corner. The greengrocers. They will vanish soon. The only shops in the world wi
ll be inside shopping malls, nothing but To Let signs blossoming on the High Street. The mothers-with-children, and the occasional fathers-with-children, queue up in the Post Office with the foreign students and the pensioners. I look inside. I am trying to make him appear, there by the carousel of cheap greeting cards. He’s looking at the cards, investigating the dirty jokes, lingering with tender emotion over sugary cartoon animals. He’s at an age where the attraction is equal, either way. This is the way I’ll find him. Not by running and sobbing, not by marching in a line across waste ground, searching the back alleys, pulling up floorboards. Not by looking up the paedophile register. I will walk along this row of shops, pushing the doors and glancing in. This is where he was lost, this is where he will be found. Where else could he be? Lost Thomas logic. I’ll take his hand, I’ll say there you are, exasperated: and we’ll go home together. Years from now, as long as the same shops are still here, as long as I can find anywhere little shops that remind me of these, it could happen.

  What was he wearing? A boy, his body no longer blurred by the chubby disproportion of babyhood, not even a small child any more. A boy nothing like the sweet baby with the red mittens, in Delauney’s park. I need a different ghost. (I need all the ghosts.) He was wearing trainers and tracksuit trousers, black with white stripes. He was wearing red boxer shorts and a green T-shirt, and grey socks. He was wearing a grey hooded sweater with some sporting logo on the front, and a black quilted jacket. He was carrying nothing. He was too old to be visible in mothers-with-children world. He was not holding my hand. We’ve asked and asked, the police have asked and asked. No one saw him that morning. No one remembers me except as the mad woman, running up and down, distraught, flying up to the counter at the bank, demanding wildly have you seen a little boy? I don’t remember him myself.

  That day was scheduled to be like a thousand other lost days, all its millions of precious images discarded, mislaid, never filed. Even now, I have forgotten most of it.

  I’m trying desperately hard, and then suddenly I let go. I can’t help myself, it’s like a muscle failure. I turn away, defeated; and there he is. Glimpsed, corner of my eye. I turn my head slowly, slowly, inching it round…He’s there, crystal clear, no effort. He is standing by the greeting cards, sideways to me, the soft curve of his cheek, his eyes intent and a little furtive.

  And then what happened, I beg of him.

  Fery looks around. He isn’t looking at me. He’s looking at something that isn’t in my memory, no matter how I struggle to recover it. I want to look where he’s looking, towards the opening door of the Post Office, but wanting will do me no good, because surely I did not look that way. I never saw whoever it was, whatever, the monster, the horror that took my child. I try to turn my head anyway, but there’s an awful barrier, and suddenly I’m on the floor, thank god I’m wearing trousers, retain some dignity sprawled there, sobbing, fighting off hands that try to raise me up. The shock was physical, the shock of knowing I saw him. I really saw him. I have forced myself to see a ghost.

  When I found he wasn’t with me, and he wasn’t in the street, I hurried home. He wasn’t there. Eric wasn’t in, either. I called Fery’s best friend’s mother: no reply. Another friend’s mother, no reply. I went to Delauney’s park, no sign. That part lasted about an hour. The running up and down and sobbing—that lasted I don’t know how long. I called my husband on his mobile, I left a message. I called the police. I ran up and down again, by this time meeting everywhere the concern of the street, it was an incident room already. The man in the Post Office, the young girl with the stringy hair in the bakery, the cashier at the bank. If this was a soap-opera I would have known their names but I didn’t. We knew each other viscerally, like animals using the same pathways in some natural environment, we didn’t need names to get along. That’s all changed. I’m a celebrity now.

  The man behind the Post Office counter called Eric. He came and took me home.

  I told him that I’d seen a ghost again. He said. ‘Would you like to go away? Far away? If the police will let us? I think that might be the best thing.’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘You don’t understand. I forced myself to see a ghost, but the ghost is real.’

  The husband gets interviewed at the police station. He hasn’t been arrested, he’s nowhere near being arrested, but he’s in an interview room. The interviewing officer has a chaperone on hand, like a male doctor about to examine a woman patient’s intimate parts; everything is being recorded on video. I know about this interview because Eric told me.

  They asked him about our sex life.

  ‘Would you say you and your wife had a good physical relationship?’ asked the policeman.

  Let it be recorded. ‘Off and on, satisfactory. I mean, fine.’ said Mr Connors. ‘Sometimes good, sometimes not so good. Like most people. We’ve been married ten years you know.’

  ‘Was she ever maybe a bit too much for you? Too demanding?’

  ‘I wouldn’t have said that was a problem.’

  He was trying to guess what I might have answered, and hoping our two stories would agree. That’s the charade the police force on you, with their insistence that it’s up to you whether you answer or not. With their tissue-paper sympathy and their watchful eyes.

  ‘D’you ever stray, I mean, have you ever had an affair?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What about your wife?’

  ‘Not that I know of.’

  ‘She was your first girlfriend, wasn’t she. You’ve never looked at another woman?’

  ‘Looked? I don’t know about looked. I’m happy with the relationship we have—’

  They have investigated our lives. They have found among our books and videos adult movies, arthouse movies that they construe as pornographic. They have invented a sour, twilight existence for the woman who stays at home although her son is seven years old, and the man who works at home except when he goes on mysterious trips away. The man who finds the adult workplace and his adult wife too demanding. Everything looks bad in their light.

  ‘Don’t you see what they’re doing,’ I yelled at him. ‘They’re setting you up as some kind of pervert, and you can’t stop them. Damned if you answer, damned if you don’t.’

  ‘They won’t find any evidence,’ said my husband, shrugging, ‘will they?’

  We looked at each other for a long, long moment, until I could see nothing but the mushroom cloud, boiling and silently thundering up into the sky. What can happen? What does it matter? It doesn’t matter if they call Eric a pervert, it doesn’t matter if I scream in the Post Office. Nothing can be worse than this.

  Destroyer of Worlds.

  ‘I’m going to follow him,’ I said, ‘I want to know everything. I don’t care how bad it is.’

  Nothing hurts. You could saw my leg off, I’d feel nothing. Being ‘hounded by journalists’ is not a torture, being interviewed by the police is not a torture, making appeals on the TV is not a torture. Don’t pity the families in these cases, pursued by the greedy, prurient media. We feel nothing. I’ve felt more outrage over an unwanted piece of junk mail, long ago, than over a tabloid reporter on the doorstep, or the sting of a camera flash in my eyes. I couldn’t care less. I walk out. I go and stand in the street. I lean against the wall of the bus shelter, waiting.

  I see a boy in a black quilted jacket and black trousers coming out of the Post Office. I know why nobody saw him, he is totally anonymous. There is no sign of the baby’s body I loved, no sign of the sweetness of his smile. When he was five he once confided in me I keep getting stiffies…Where on earth had he picked up that expression? In the classroom, obviously, other children have older brothers. Had he any idea what he was saying? I don’t think so. Once, I lost him for ten minutes in our public library. When I found him he said he’d gone to the toilet for a wee. He’d gone into the Gents alone because he thought he couldn’t go in the Ladies without me. Very proud, very independent. There was a man in there, he said. Who looked at me, and I was
scared. The Gents at the Public Library is unsafe for little boys. Thinking like this is a disgrace, but what is to be done? My blood ran cold. I said, don’t go there again.

  But I can’t keep on going in the Ladies, he said. Not all my life. So what will I do?

  I’m following my ghost down the street. There must be someone with him, taking him away, but I only see my child. He’s walking aimlessly, oh how I love to see him when he doesn’t know I’m watching. To see him look into a shop window, to see him bend down over a piece of litter, studying it, hope springing eternal, has he won a million pounds? He walks on, carrying this old crisp packet, his companion: little boys need to have something to hold. A stone, a ball, a pencil, an elastic band; a boiled sweet furred in pocket-grime. Of course I won’t tell him but of course I know…this affection is easy to read. I am not repelled. When he gets older I will remember these days and I will understand a young man’s obsession with his favourite toy, his faithful companion, his treasure. Having a son will explain the whole sex to me, at long last. The boy on the street stops and half turns: a stilled frame, quivering. He’s looking back, seems to look at me with an expression of intense malignity, eyes narrowed, inhuman rage-

  He has read my thoughts.

  He will never be a young man. He is dead.

  I saw him again at the railway bridge. He was up there, crossing the line. I still could not see who was with him. I was in the car park, all the suburban commuters’ cars in rows. Everyone has their place, I imagine. Eric doesn’t like to drive, he walks when he comes to take the train. The boy on the bridge looked back at me, with incredible hatred.