by R. P. Bolton
A little under half an hour later, they alighted at Victoria Park, walked across the main road and up a side street lined with trees where once grand Victorian homes had been swallowed by the expansion of the universities and divided into flats.
‘This one,’ Mia said, coming to a halt outside number twelve.
There was no denying the house had seen better days. A few of the railings were missing and the garden wall surrounded a courtyard filled not with flowers, but tarmac, patches of bare soil and numbered wheelie bins. Ivy cloaked the façade and the stained glass in the front door had a crack running its entire length.
‘Do we buzz or what?’ Mia said, her finger hovering over the entry bells.
Ellie was about to answer when the door swung open and a woman in leggings and a Mickey Mouse sweatshirt poked her head out. ‘Help you?’
‘Yeah, I’m Mia. We spoke on the phone about the top-floor flat.’
The woman got a packet of cigarettes out and moved past them onto the steps. She jerked her thumb inside.
‘Flat six up the stairs. It’s open.’
She clicked a lighter. ‘I’ll be down here.’
‘Thank you!’ Mia sang out, taking the stairs two at a time.
Ellie followed at a slower pace. Not that she was expecting much, but the wobbly banister, grey with the fingerprints of long-gone tenants grossed her out as did the huge cobwebs slung like dusty hammocks in the ceiling corners. But the wide communal hallway had a mosaic floor under the carpet of pizza flyers. And she had to admit, the proximity to Tom was a major selling point.
‘Servants’ quarters,’ Mia said, her voice reverberating down the tiled stairwell. ‘It’s fab.’
Despite being sequestered at the top of the house, light flooded in through a pair of balcony doors. Admittedly, the textured wallpaper could do with a coat of paint, but at least there were no visible stains on the carpets and the cooker and fridge seemed reasonably new. Both bedrooms had double beds and wardrobes and the cramped bathroom lacked a bath, but the shower looked decent enough.
‘Check out that view,’ Mia said, turning the key on the double door that led to the minuscule balcony.
‘I’m not sure you should go out there,’ Ellie warned, peering at the narrow iron base. ‘It looks dodgy.’
‘Nah. Solid as a rock,’ Mia replied.
She grabbed the top rail and the entire structure rocked. Tiny pieces of masonry rained down, exploding into dust when they struck the tarmacked front yard.
‘Shi-i-t,’ she said stepping back inside, eyes almost popping out of their sockets. She laughed breathlessly and laid her hand on her chest.
Ellie shot her friend an I told you so glare.
Unperturbed, Mia twanged the washing line strung between the furthest railings. ‘At least it’s somewhere to hang your knickers.’
‘I don’t know,’ Ellie said. ‘I don’t think it’s safe.’
Mia pulled the door to and locked it. ‘Then we don’t use the balcony,’ she said. ‘But come on. Location, price, size … everything else is spot on, right?’
‘Compared with some of the dumps on offer, I guess it’s not too bad.’
Mia perked up. ‘Really? Shall we tell her we’ll take it then?’
Ellie looked at the view. She could almost see Tom and Danny’s flat behind the trees. Positivity surged through her.
‘Yes,’ she said firmly. ‘Let’s take it.’
35. Now
Ellie had lain awake until the cold grey dawn broke, feeling energy, hope, patience … every positive emotion trickle from her. And now, staring at herself in the health centre’s loo mirror while Trinity howled, she added self-esteem to that list. She washed her hands then folded a paper towel to a point and wiggled at the foundation coagulating in her pores.
In the beige waiting room, Tom jiggled Trinity on his lap, her wet cheeks crimson with sustained crying. The other patients flipped through ancient magazines or checked their phones and pretended to ignore the noise.
He leaned across. ‘How do I get her to stop?’
‘Do I look like a professional baby whisperer?’ Ellie hissed back.
Tom raised his eyebrows. ‘All right.’
‘Well, don’t you think if I knew, I’d already be doing it?’
Two seats away, a man coughed a dry bark of irritation and shook the pages of his newspaper.
‘I’m going to take her outside, see if that helps,’ Tom said. ‘If I’m not back when you go in, make sure you tell the doctor everything this time.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The nightmares and the sleepwalking.’ Using the pad of his index finger, he smoothed a crease out of Trinity’s red corduroy pinafore. ‘Maybe mention Willow Lodge. The PTSD. Mia.’
‘This has nothing to do with her,’ she hissed and turned away to signal the conversation was closed.
A buzzer sounded. The bad-tempered man tucked his newspaper under his arm and strode under the Exit sign. Holding Trinity against his chest, Tom followed and Ellie half-imagined a collective sigh of relief from the other patients as peace descended. She let her gaze wander over the beige Wall of Woe.
Temper troubles?
Can’t sleep?
Overthinking the past?
Yeah. All of the above.
Forget the pain of losing a parent. Forget falling in love or buying a home or starting a family. Whenever anything major happened, Tom always managed to circle it back to Mia. He was obsessed.
Eleanor Wight Dr Monk Room 4 flashed on the screen. Ellie picked up her bag.
Not obsessed, cursed. That was the word.
Dr Monk was young with a sleek chin-length bob and make-up-free skin glowing with health. Vitality radiated from her, as though she could backflip over the desk at any moment.
‘Good morning. Please take a seat.’ The doctor crossed her legs at the knees, smoothing the wrinkles from her skirt. ‘How can I help?’
Ellie breathed slowly. ‘I’ve got a two-month-old baby, and my partner thinks I’m not coping as well as I could.’
‘And do you think you’re not coping?’
‘Hmmm,’ she replied. ‘Sometimes.’
The doctor scrutinised the computer screen, reading notes Ellie couldn’t see.
‘You had pre-eclampsia and your baby was born early, right?’
‘She’s fine now, though. Doing really well.’
Tapping on the keyboard, Dr Monk continued, ‘That’s good. But it’s still a huge trauma. So, is there anything specific that you’re struggling with?’
Ellie hesitated, the desire to unburden herself muddied by remembering Willow Lodge and Alina. The baby taken into foster care. As nice as this woman seemed, with one phone call she could have Trinity spirited away quicker than you could say ‘unhinged mother’.
‘Well, I am quite moody,’ she began slowly. ‘And when I do manage to get some sleep, I have bad dreams. And I’m so forgetful.’
Dr Monk nodded encouragingly. ‘In what way?’
‘Losing my keys. Going into a room and forgetting why. And sometimes I feel so useless.’
The pressure of tears built behind her nose.
‘Why useless?’
‘Like I’m letting her down when she cries. I can’t work out what she wants me to do.’
‘Do you feel tired?’
‘Constantly.’
Dr Monk’s smile was conspiratorial. ‘Tired doesn’t begin to cover it, right?’
‘Not even close.’ The truth erupted in a sudden honest rush. ‘I don’t get it. I used to work all day, go to the gym after, then the pub and I’d be fine. Now some days I hang the washing out and I need a lie-down. And I can’t complain because my partner works such long hours.’ She looked up at the ceiling, willing the tears not to fall. ‘I’ve never done less and I’ve never felt more exhausted.’
Dr Monk’s neat fingernails clicked on the keys. ‘You said you were moody. Can I ask if you have experienced any thoughts about harming yoursel
f or the baby?’
Careful.
‘God, no.’ She exhaled sharply. ‘Never. If anything, I’m the total opposite. Ridiculously overprotective.’
The doctor sat back and twiddled her pen. ‘What about feelings of depression?’
Shaking her head, she replied, ‘Nothing like that. I’m just … knackered.’
Dr Monk placed the pen on the desk. ‘You’ve had major surgery, hormonal changes, lack of sleep plus a new baby to deal with. These things make huge demands on you physically and mentally. I’ve met countless mums in here and I can assure you I have yet to meet one who doesn’t share some of those concerns. The forgetfulness and mood swings are your body’s way of saying take it easy.’
She moved the mouse and ran her finger down the PC screen. ‘Now I can prescribe you something to help you to sleep better, but it would interfere with breastfeeding.’
For a moment, Ellie let the temptation of deep, unbroken sleep linger in her mind. Then she shook her head sadly. ‘I can’t.’
‘Then I think you need to take off as much of the workload as you can. Is there anyone who could help?’
‘My mum should be here, but she broke her leg. She’ll be coming as soon as she can.’
‘Well, my advice is to forget about perfect. Stick to the bare minimum to keep yourselves fed and clothed and rest whenever you can. I’ll just check your blood pressure while you’re here. How are you finding the tablets?’
The cuff tightened.
‘I actually think they’re part of the problem. They give me nightmares.’
The doctor smiled and the pressure released.
‘Still a touch on the high side, so I wouldn’t be happy with you coming off them altogether, but we can try one with fewer side effects. In the meantime, try to eat healthily, get plenty of rest. See how you get on over a week or so and then ring for a follow-up appointment.’
She wasn’t losing her mind! A weight lifted with each step towards the waiting room. No one was going to take Trinity away from her. All she had to do was change the medication, go home, forget about perfect and practise being a normal mum.
But the other members of her little unit weren’t in the waiting room. Or the foyer. The toilet lock read Vacant, so they weren’t having a pit-stop in the baby changing room either.
The exit doors slid open as she approached and she spotted Tom with his back to her, jogging a mercifully quiet Trinity while deep in conversation on the phone.
‘Tom,’ she called, walking towards them. ‘Tom!’
He turned his head and she heard him say, ‘Gotta go, Tan. Speak to you later.’
He popped the earphones out. ‘Sorry about that. How did you get on?’
Ellie stroked the baby’s cheek. ‘Really well. She said it’s normal, especially after a difficult birth.’
He opened the back door and secured the baby in the car seat.
‘Good, good,’ he murmured, then breathed in, ready to say something else. Then didn’t.
Driving home, the crowds and shops soon dissolved into the blur of passing countryside. Forget about perfect. Now there was a mantra Ellie could live by. No matter what social media claimed, real women didn’t inhabit a bubble of yoga, white jeans and gleaming marble worktops. Popping that bubble felt good. The weight in her chest lightened a little more as she curled the green prescription slip between her fingers. Not a revival of mental health issues. Side effects. A fact confirmed first by a midwife and now by a doctor.
Tom rubbed the back of his neck.
‘So did you mention your time at Willow Lodge? Or the PTSD?’
Her buoyant mood deflated like an old balloon. ‘Not this again.’
From the back of the car came a grunt. A familiar smell filled the car.
Ahead, a man stood next to a truck, the dashboard rammed with hi-vis vests, newspapers and takeaway cartons. As their car approached, the man turned his lollipop from green to red.
STOP.
‘Great,’ Tom said with a sigh and pressed the brake.
Ellie reached behind to give the baby’s hand a gentle squeeze, the tiny fingers wonderfully squidgy under her fingertips.
‘This little piggy went to market; this little piggy stayed at home.’
Tom drummed his fingers on the steering wheel a couple of times.
‘You literally never mention Mia or the PTSD and whenever me or your mum do, you shut down.’
Here we go again. ‘Because it’s not relevant. There’s no point dragging up the past.’
Trinity’s fretful cries increased. A magazine article she read had explained how the pitch was calibrated to get on your nerves. An evolutionary move, apparently, so babies couldn’t be ignored.
‘It’s not actually in the past though, is it? Not really,’ he said. ‘I’m worried it’s starting up again. I’m worried about you.’
‘Mia has nothing to do with what’s happening now.’ Ellie folded her arms to underline the point.
The workman nonchalantly flipped the sign to GO in a way calibrated to get on Tom’s nerves.
It worked.
‘Wanker.’
36. Now
‘Can you get two plates out?’ Tom said. He was grating cheese onto the chopping board. Four slices of toast browned under the grill.
They had driven the rest of the way home in tense silence only broken by the endless pinging of Tom’s work phone. Panic always made Ellie snappy and not much panicked her more than discussing Mia. Especially with Tom.
Without replying, Ellie opened the cupboard by the fridge. Random tins, shoe polish, organic weedkiller … no plates.
‘They’re in the one over the microwave,’ he added. ‘With the mugs. Sorry, I didn’t have time to put everything back straight.’ He took the toast out and liberally sprinkled cheese on the top. ‘We can have a proper sort-out at the weekend.’
She put the plates down. Tom rattled the grill pan, dropping shreds of cheddar all over the bottom of the oven.
‘Listen,’ he said. ‘We really do need to talk. And before you do that thing where you change the subject, please will you hear me out.’
He dug the butter-smeared knife straight into the jar of chutney. Ellie clenched her fists.
‘So, about last night,’ he said. ‘I’m worried that your PTSD could be flaring up. Which is totally understandable, given what you’ve been through with the pre-eclampsia.’
She picked a shred of cheese from the plate. ‘I’m fine.’
‘But you weren’t fine when I found you in the dark in the hall,’ he said. ‘Or when you’re sleepwalking. Or hearing mystery women. All the stuff about keys and lost babies. Look, I’ve done some research and there is such a thing as postnatal PTSD and it’s much more prevalent in women who have experienced traumatic births or who have a history of mental health issues. All your symptoms fit. But things have moved on since you were at Willow Lodge. There’s absolutely no stigma around mental illness and no need for you to keep suffering like this when professional help is available. You can be well again; you just need to accept there is a problem and ask for help. They are the first steps to recovery.’
Toast forgotten, she pushed her chair and the legs scraped across the floor. ‘Well, thanks for the TED talk, Dr Google, but I’m good.’
His brow puckered. ‘Don’t be like that, Els. I’m trying to avoid things going back to how they were.’
The unspoken ‘after Mia died’ expanded to fill the silence that followed.
A surge of adrenalin ripped through her tiredness and she wanted to pick Trinity up and run away. Throw the front door open and just leave him, leave the house, leave all of it behind.
Instead, she rooted in her back pocket.
‘According to the doctor, it’s actually all about side effects.’ She slapped the prescription slip onto his palm. ‘See? Not crazy. Don’t need therapy, just different medication. Pick these up for me and I’ll be sorted.’
He read then folded the paper, slowly scoring
the crease with his thumbnail. When he spoke, he sounded concerned.
‘No one is calling you crazy, and no one’s judging you for having a history of mental illness, love. I don’t know why you’ve got such a bee in your bonnet about it. I just wish you’d …’ He pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘OK. Mia’s death had a massive impact on both of us and I don’t want us going through that again. Especially not now when we’ve got Trinity to consider. I’m doing the best I can for all of us. Anyway, I’ll go to the chemist now.’ As he stood, he pushed his plate across the table. ‘Here, I’m not hungry. You can have mine.’
She stayed in the kitchen long after Tom’s tyres had spun in the gravel and he’d driven away. The slump following the argument left her shaky, craving carbohydrates. She polished off the cheese on toast then crammed a chocolate digestive in her mouth. Still holding the packet, she slumped on the sofa.
Forget about perfect, Dr Monk had said.
Well, that was one piece of advice she could certainly follow. She demolished another biscuit, then another, and stretched full-length on the sofa, curling one hand under her head. Her reflection, rippling and distorted by the copper canopy, drew her eye to the mantelpiece and Anita and David’s card.
A traitorous part of her almost wanted Tom to make the connection between the sleepwalking, the anniversary and Trinity’s birth. Once he’d joined the dots, the true picture would emerge and at last, Ellie could purge herself of the toxic guilt she’d carried inside for ten years. But then what? Her mind spun 180 degrees. The relief would be short-lived, lasting until Tom slipped seamlessly from boyfriend to detective mode. Quizzing and questioning. Probing. Judging.
Exactly as he was doing now, in fact.
Her stomach cramped with dread. Had he already made the connection?
37. Now
Of all the bullshit wisdom people loved to share, ‘sleep when the baby does’ had to be the most bullshitty. Ellie shuffled up the nursing chair, wincing as her neck cricked painfully. She’d barely opened her eyes before the phone pinged twice in rapid succession.