Dear Thing

by Julie Cohen

  She knew that Claire would have told Ben what she’d discovered. That the two of them would be talking, horrified, trying to figure out how they would get through this latest threat to their having a child. The thought of it made her panicky and sick. If she knew Ben and Claire, they’d have come up with several strategies by now.

  She didn’t want to be part of a strategy. She wanted all this to be over. She wanted to be able to hop on a ship to Madagascar, for her and Posie to disappear off together and have wonderful mother-and-daughter adventures of the type you read about in travel magazines. Of the type Amity would have had if she’d had an intrepid offspring.

  But she was thirty-six weeks pregnant. The baby weighed down everything that she did. Her ankles were swollen and she couldn’t tie the laces of her Converses. She had the concentration of a— well, of a woman most of whose bodily resources were going to the child curled up in her womb. She was useless in almost every way except for being an incubator.

  She was trapped here in this situation, at least until she gave birth. And what was going to happen after she gave birth was so huge and unbearable that she couldn’t look forward to that, either.

  Her only choice was to keep her head down. Quite literally, when it came to dropping off and picking up Posie from school. She hunched her shoulders up around her and looked at the pavement. Today, she was wearing a hat.

  She imagined that Eleanor would have told everyone by now that the baby wasn’t hers. That she wasn’t really one of them and that she had lied, if only by omission. So they were probably keeping their distance, too. In any case she avoided their eyes and she hovered outside the school gates, not going in, waiting for Posie to emerge. She was pretty sure they were looking at her. She was pretty sure they were talking about her.

  She bit her lip and thought about a documentary she’d seen about caves in Borneo, piled with bat guano, seething with all those lovely, lovely cockroaches. Now there was a creature which could survive anything. A lot to admire there.

  ‘Romily.’ A hand touched her shoulder and she turned around.

  It was Jarvis. He looked angry.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked.

  ‘You’re not answering your phone. I’ve left messages.’

  ‘I don’t feel like talking.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  She folded her arms. ‘You mean besides your turning up uninvited?’

  ‘I want to see my daughter. You said I could whenever I liked. Ergo, I’m turning up to collect her from school and take her to the park.’

  ‘Ergo.’ Romily snorted.

  ‘I don’t understand. You haven’t talked to me for days. What’s going on?’

  She felt the weight of attention from the school playground. Here she was with another man, a different man from the one the mothers had seen with Posie before. She shouldn’t care – who were these people, after all, to judge her? But the fact was, she was guilty. She couldn’t think of a single thing she’d done right.

  ‘She’ll be glad to see you,’ she said grudgingly. ‘She’s been asking.’

  ‘So why have you got your phone turned off?’

  ‘Jarvis!’

  She saw Jarvis’s face light up at the sight of Posie. Their daughter tripped, smiling, into his arms.

  ‘I thought we’d go to the park, Butterfly,’ said Jarvis, taking her hand.

  ‘Scintillating.’

  ‘Pardon me, are you Posie’s parents?’ A young woman stood just inside the school gates, wearing a staff security pass around her neck.

  ‘Yes,’ said Jarvis.

  ‘I’m Posie’s teacher, Mrs Kapoor. I wonder if I could have a quick word?’

  ‘Oh. Okay.’ Romily turned to Posie. ‘Is there something you need to tell me, Posie?’

  But Posie had scooted behind Jarvis, and only the hem of her skirt was visible. ‘I’ll take her to the park,’ Jarvis said, ‘and you can meet us there.’

  Romily followed the teacher into the school, trying not to notice the staring mothers, and into the classroom. Brightly coloured paper displays plastered the walls. ‘Please have a seat, Mrs Summer,’ said Mrs Kapoor.

  ‘Dr Summer,’ said Romily, to cover up. She didn’t even recognize her daughter’s class teacher; she’d never made an effort to meet her. Yet another thing she’d done wrong. The only seats were child-size plastic chairs. She took one. It made her about half a foot shorter than the teacher, which she supposed was the point.

  ‘I know we have a parents’ evening coming up after the holidays but I thought this was important enough to warrant a little chat. I’m concerned about Posie’s behaviour.’

  ‘She’s always been quite an … individualistic child.’

  ‘She’s very bright. At the beginning of the year her work was in many ways outstanding. She’s very creative.’

  ‘You’re telling me.’

  ‘I think she spends a lot of time in her own imaginary world. Am I right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And she’s very shy.’

  ‘Shy? No, I wouldn’t call her shy.’

  ‘She finds it difficult to work in groups. When I ask her to work with another child, she refuses. Not in a rude way, you understand. She just carries on as if the other child isn’t there. Does she have an active social life outside of school?’

  ‘You mean, does she have any friends.’ Romily sighed. ‘I’ve tried to encourage her, and she did use to have some. They’ve sort of … faded away. She prefers to spend her time with grown-ups, or doing her own thing. I used to be the same when I was little.’

  ‘Some children are more naturally solitary, but over the past week or so Posie has completely withdrawn into herself. She doesn’t interact with any of the other children and when I ask her a question she acts as if she hasn’t heard me. She’s not done any schoolwork at all. She gives in blank sheets, or with a doodle on them at most. Her homework is non-existent.’

  ‘She tells me she’s done it.’

  ‘Don’t you check?’

  Romily began to know what the parents of that teenager at Claire’s school must have felt like, told by a teacher that they were doing a horrible job. ‘It’s sort of fallen by the wayside recently. I’ll do better.’

  ‘The homework is the least of it. She’s almost unresponsive. Sometimes this can happen in cases of bullying so I’ve made some discreet enquiries, but I haven’t uncovered anything so far. Has Posie said anything to you?’

  ‘No.’ Would she even have been listening if Posie had said something?

  ‘Is there something going on at home?’

  Romily wondered how much of playground gossip made it to the teachers. She swallowed. ‘There are one or two things. I didn’t think Posie was affected.’

  ‘That might be what’s causing it. She may be worried. Children often know more than we think they do.’

  ‘I’ll talk with her.’

  ‘It would be good if we could get to the bottom of it. It’s disrupting a lot of lessons.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘And she seems like a very unhappy little girl at the moment.’

  A very unhappy little girl.

  Posie sat on the swings, her feet drooping. She dragged her toes in the dirt as Jarvis pushed her. Her fringe, which Romily had let get even longer than usual, flopped over her face, hiding it.

  ‘What’s up?’ asked Jarvis as soon as Romily got close enough. Posie stopped the swing and began twisting it round. Romily took hold of the chains and held it still, so she could see Posie’s face.

  ‘Mrs Kapoor says you’ve stopped talking to everyone at school,’ she said. ‘She thinks something is wrong. Can you tell me what’s wrong, Posie?’

  Posie kicked. ‘Nobody has anything interesting to say.’

  ‘I think it’s more than that,’ Romily said gently. ‘Are you worried about something?’

  ‘It’s more fun just to think things. Like today I was thinking, you know when the sun shines off the wa
ter and it looks like a ladder or a path? What do you think it would be like to walk on that? A sparkly path of light all the way to the sun?’

  ‘Pose.’ Romily cupped Posie’s face in her hand, but Posie turned away.

  ‘I just don’t feel like talking. Nobody wants to talk about anything except for what’s real. And I don’t like what’s real.’

  ‘What about it don’t you like?’ asked Jarvis. His eyes met Romily’s briefly before they both focused on Posie.

  ‘I don’t like, I don’t like … why do you think it’s called December? It sounds a little like a decent cucumber, don’t you think?’

  ‘Posie. Please tell us.’ Although Romily knew. Of course she knew. It was a small flat; Posie had probably woken up long before she appeared in the room that night, the night that Claire had found Romily’s notebook. She’d probably heard every word of Claire and Romily’s argument.

  ‘It was Ben’s text.’ Posie mumbled it into her lap.

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Romily asked.

  ‘I used your phone. I know you’ve had it turned off but I turned it on and sent him a text to ask when we were going to see him.’

  ‘Oh.’ Cold flooded Romily. ‘Did you sign it, Posie? Did he know it was from you or did he think it was from me?’

  ‘Romily,’ said Jarvis, ‘what is going on?’

  ‘I don’t remember if I signed it,’ said Posie. ‘I just borrowed your phone one night when you were in the shower and he texted back and then I turned your phone off again.’

  Romily dug in her bag for her phone.

  ‘What did his text say that’s upset you so much?’ asked Jarvis.

  ‘He said he’d moved out of Auntie Claire’s and his house. And that they had a big argument and that he thinks they’ve split up. And that he’s got a flat by himself, and Romily, does this mean that Ben and Claire aren’t married any more? Does this mean they’re not my godparents and they’re going to sell their house and move away?’

  Posie had started crying. Romily stopped searching for her phone and that text and gathered Posie up into her arms. Posie turned her face into Romily’s neck.

  ‘Was it because Auntie Claire had to look after me in secret when you went out with Jarvis?’ Posie asked, her words muffled. ‘Is it my fault?’

  ‘It is one hundred per cent not your fault,’ said Romily. ‘One thousand per cent.’

  ‘You can’t have one thousand per cent,’ said Posie.

  ‘You can in this instance.’ Romily squeezed her eyes tight shut, keeping her own tears inside. She was causing her own daughter pain, now. Again.

  ‘Let’s go home,’ said Jarvis.

  ‘Has this happened before?’ Jarvis draped the tea towel over the side of the sink and came to join Romily on the sofa. He had made them all beans on toast with what he insisted was his special mystery ingredient (it was ketchup) and lost to Posie twice at Scrabble. It was enough to raise a smile before she went to bed.

  ‘She’s always been a little on-and-off about kids her own age. It’s probably my fault; I never took her to playgroups or activities or any of those things. We just hung out. And she loves playing at Ben and Claire’s.’

  ‘But she’s never completely shut off before?’

  ‘She’s never completely shut off.’ Romily bit her lip. ‘She’s learned that from me lately.’

  ‘And Ben and Claire splitting up?’

  ‘Surprise, surprise. That’s also my fault.’

  Jarvis waited.

  ‘I wrote some letters. To the baby. It was Claire’s idea, so the baby would know it was wanted from the beginning, I suppose so it would have some sort of insight when it was older about why we did everything this roundabout, weird way. Anyway, I wasn’t into the idea at first but I found that it was useful. It felt good to get all of my feelings out on paper. I’d been bottling everything up for so long.’

  ‘Tell me you didn’t write about being in love with Ben.’

  ‘I did. I’ve— it’s not been easy, Jarvis. I didn’t think I’d feel anything about this baby. But I do. I know it’s not mine to keep. But … well, when I wrote the letters, sometimes I could pretend for a little bit.’

  ‘What a bloody stupid thing to do.’

  ‘I know it. I really know it.’

  ‘And of course Ben found them.’

  ‘No, it was Claire.’

  ‘Why would that split them up?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ She got up, fished her phone out of her bag and turned it on. Almost immediately, it started vibrating and pinging with messages. ‘Claire and I had a huge row, but that was between us. I didn’t mean for them to split up. I only wrote all of that stuff down for myself. I pretended it was letters to the baby, but it wasn’t really, not after the first few. It wasn’t part of a scheme or anything.’

  ‘I never really thought you were trying to steal Ben. But I stand by my original opinion, that you’ve let yourself into a whole hell of a mess, Romily.’

  ‘I’m very good at making mistakes.’ There it was, in the read messages. It was the only text from Ben at all, although there were several messages from Jarvis.

  Been waiting for you to get in touch. Hope you are all right. Have moved out, got flat in London St for now. C unhappy and angry, doesn’t want to see me. I’m worried it’s over. So sorry for what I have done. Can talk when you are ready. B

  There seemed no reason not to show it to Jarvis, so she passed the phone to him. ‘He didn’t know he was texting Posie,’ he said. Then: ‘He must be staying in those serviced apartments in London Street. I looked into them.’

  ‘You did?’

  ‘A season train ticket is cheaper. And I thought you probably didn’t want me in your neighbourhood.’

  Ben was in her neighbourhood. Less than a mile from her flat. If he’d moved out right after Claire had found the letters, he’d been very close to her, geographically, for the past several days.

  Had he stayed away from her because he was so angry with her? It seemed likely, but then in his text he said he was sorry. And that he’d talk when she wanted to.

  ‘I don’t understand any of it,’ Romily said. ‘Why would Claire kick him out because I’m in love with him? It’s not his fault.’

  ‘I’m not going to comment on that,’ said Jarvis. ‘Much as I would like to. The important thing is Posie. You can’t shut down, Romily.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘You might be able to escape into your insect world, but it’s not good for a little girl.’

  ‘I did it when I was a little girl,’ said Romily. ‘It meant I didn’t have to think about missing my mum.’

  ‘I’ve been doing something similar for eight years.’

  His words startled her. She met his gaze. The blue eyes that were like Posie’s, the face she’d imagined, for that split second that one night, kissing again.

  ‘I can help you,’ said Jarvis. ‘But you have to let me.’

  ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Yes.’

  39

  Home

  SONNING HAD THE scent of hedgerows and woodsmoke, pollen and cut grass and rain and traffic, wet thatch and warm stone and manure on the fields and the distant smell of baking. But there was something missing, every day, every breath. Claire tuned out the missing part so she barely noticed, until she came back to Suffolk and there it was: salty, fetid, fecund.

  Her parents lived in a white detached Georgian house on the outskirts of town. The sea air blew up on the breeze into the garden. She had breathed it in her cot as a baby, brought home sand and seaweed and shells as a child.

  She parked the car down the lane in a layby; the sea glistened in the distance between gaps left by branches empty of leaves. She should probably drive right up to the house. But she wanted a few minutes to breathe and to walk. To be able to change her mind if she wanted to. She hadn’t called her parents before she set off from Sonning. She hadn’t talked to them at all in weeks. They might not be home; they might be busy and not plea
sed to see her. It had never been precisely stated, that their grown-up children should ring before coming for a visit, but nevertheless Claire always did. It showed consideration.

  But this morning she had had enough of emptiness, the empty house that the central heating didn’t seem to warm. She wanted to breathe in the thing she was missing. She wanted to go home.

  Winter sunshine warmed her shoulders and cheeks, and leaves rustled underfoot as she walked. The house came into view around the corner of the hedges. All of the flowerbeds had been tidied up and winter jasmine blossomed against the wall. The car was gone, though that didn’t mean both of them were out. Claire paused, staying behind the hedge so she couldn’t be seen through the windows, and gazed at the house where she’d grown up.

  It had been warm and bright. It had echoed with children. She remembered being tucked into bed by her mother, sung songs by her father. There was always a kettle singing on the Aga, always something delicious cooking, flowers in vases all year round. Claire and Helen and Ian had always felt safe at home, always loved bringing friends there to see how welcoming it was, how cheerful and neat and tidy. Each child had their own place. Helen was good at sport, Ian was good at school, Claire was good at music but really she was good at everything, anything she could do to please her parents whom she loved so much. Especially her mother, who was always at the centre.

  Even now that they had grown up it was the same, every Christmas, at weekends and holidays. The house was full of food, warmth, beautiful objects. Sometimes Claire picked up glossy magazines about home and entertaining, and in their slick promotion of spending and buying, consuming and making, she glimpsed the ideal they were trying to capture. It was the ideal her own mother had created for her children.

  When Claire and Ben had bought the house in Sonning, Claire had pictured it exactly the same. It would be a haven, a warm place for her family. It would give their children the glowing, loving start that Claire herself had had. Idyllic and perfect. Always there, never changing, the mother at school pick-up and drop-off, homemade cookies waiting with creamy milk, kisses and plasters for small injuries, stories at bedtime.