The Flight of Cornelia Blackwood

by Susan Elliot Wright

  But when they arrive, Ollie is still in a state of high excitement, and the way he goes on about the game he’s been playing with Luke makes it clear he probably won’t be snuggling up with me to watch Miracle on 34th Street. He needs to burn off some of that pent-up energy if we’re going to do something relaxed and Christmassy later.

  ‘Ollie,’ I interrupt him mid-flow as he’s going on about Luke and his bloody computer games. ‘Shall we go to the park for a little while?’

  ‘Can I go on the swings?’

  ‘Yep. And then, when you’ve had enough of that, how about we go into town for pizza, and then go and get a Christmas tree? You can help me decorate it. Would you like that?’

  His eyes widen and he nods enthusiastically.

  ‘Come on, then.’ I smile. ‘Let’s get your coat on.’

  As I push him on the swings, I realise I’m looking forward to Christmas for the first time in years. Last year, not only was it my first without Adrian, but I’d only just found out about Oliver. The whole thing passed in a blur of cigarettes, alcohol and sleeping tablets. I probably slept through the worst of it. The Christmas before that was the one where Adrian had come home on Christmas Eve with a scraggy little tree he’d seen outside a greengrocer’s. ‘I relented,’ he said. ‘I thought we should start making an effort again.’ So we put it in the window with a string of lights and a few baubles, and all I could think of was that all over the country, parents were filling stockings and wrapping presents and tucking wide-eyed, excited children into bed, and I would never, ever have that experience. On Christmas morning, the tree lights had gone out. A fuse, probably, but we didn’t bother to replace it.

  By the time we’ve decorated the tree, watched the film and eaten the pasta I made for dinner, it’s gone eight. I help Ollie to wash his face, brush his teeth and get ready for bed. He looks adorable in his red flannel pyjamas with the teddy bear pattern. I tuck him into bed and read him The Night Before Christmas, and by the time I’ve finished the poem, his eyes are almost closed. ‘Night-night, Ollie.’ I kiss his forehead. And then, because it’s true and because I’ve heard Cassie say it, and because, at this moment, it feels perfectly natural, I say, ‘Love you.’

  ‘Love you too.’ He turns over and snuggles down. I smile and turn the light out, then I go back down into the sitting room. Spider is washing himself on the rug in front of the wood burner. I settle myself in the armchair, then lean over and lift him onto my lap; he purrs as he allows me to stroke him for a minute or so, then he jumps down and stalks out of the room. A few seconds later I hear the clatter of the cat flap.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  NOW

  As I’m about to get up, I hear the loo flush and then a few seconds later my bedroom door opens and Ollie’s little pyjama-clad figure appears in the doorway. ‘Hello.’ I smile. ‘Did you have a lovely sleep?’

  He nods and rubs his eyes. His hair is sticking up at the back and there’s a red crease in his cheek from the pillow. He moves nearer to the bed. I ache to put my arms out and invite him in for a cuddle, but would that be weird? The dark feeling starts to spread through me again, the certain knowledge that although I love this child, I can’t guarantee his continued presence in my life.

  I turn back the covers and swing my legs round to the floor. ‘Ready for some breakfast?’ Again he nods. ‘Come on, then.’ I stand up and put on my dressing gown, then hold out my hand, which he takes immediately. Momentarily, I’m choked by how natural this all is, how he’s relaxed enough here to get up and come straight into my bedroom, just as he probably goes into his mother’s room in the mornings at home.

  ‘What’s in there?’ he says, pointing.

  ‘Stairs. Leading up to the attic.’

  ‘What means “attic”?’

  ‘It just means a room right at the top of the house. I only use it to keep things in, like the Christmas decorations and old things I don’t want to throw away.’

  ‘What things?’

  I bite my lip as I help him down the stairs. ‘Oh, I don’t know. Bits and pieces, things that are special.’

  ‘Can I see the special things?’

  ‘They’re things that are special to me, but they might not seem very special to anyone else. Although . . .’ There’s a box of children’s books up there, I remember. My dad gave them to me when I was expecting Thomas. He’d kept them, he told me, because he liked to see things passed down, and because he knew it would be next to no time before I’d be having my own children. I tell Ollie I’ll pop up and get them after breakfast.

  ‘Can I come?’

  His little face is so alight with interest, so alive, I can hardly bear to say no to him, but I do. ‘Another time,’ I say, ‘when you’re a bit older.’ When I tell him about his half-siblings, I want him to be old enough to understand who they were and what his relationship to them is, and then I’ll take him up there and show him the things that were theirs.

  I make myself some coffee and sit opposite Ollie at the kitchen table, watching him swinging his legs as he eats his cereal. I love the way he dips his spoon into his bowl so purposefully, lifting it to his mouth with care and occasionally wiping a stray dribble of milk from his chin. The spoon goes from bowl to mouth and back again almost rhythmically, then he tips the bowl so he can scoop up the last few Cheerios and drops of milk. When there’s nothing left, he clatters the spoon down and announces, ‘Finished! Can I get down please?’

  ‘Good boy. Yes, of course you can.’ It still thrills me when he asks me for permission to do something, when he talks to me as if I’m a parent.

  I help him dress, then leave him playing with his train set in the sitting room while I go upstairs to locate the books. I haven’t looked through them since my dad gave them to me. I lift the box down from the shelf and blow the dust off before lifting the lid. Some of these will be much too old for Ollie, but right on top is The Giant Jam Sandwich, and there are bound to be others. The box is heavy, so I carry it carefully downstairs and set it down on the rug. Ollie immediately leaves what he’s doing to come and have a look. He reaches for The Giant Jam Sandwich straight away.

  ‘That was one of my favourite books when I was little. I think my grandma bought it for me when I was about your age, but I read it again and again, even when I was older. Shall I read it to you?’ I open the cover. ‘Oh look, I’ve written my name and age in it, see? I was five, so a bit older than you are now.’

  Ollie points to the words written in purple crayon. ‘Where does it say Leah?’

  ‘Good point. You know how your name is really Oliver, but we call you Ollie? And when you write your name on the pictures you do at school, you write Oliver, don’t you?’

  He nods.

  ‘And you know how when you talk to your mum you call her “Mummy”, but when I talk to her, I call her Cassie or Cass?’

  ‘And Luke.’

  ‘Luke?’

  He nods again. ‘Luke does call Mummy Cass.’

  ‘Oh, right. Well, anyway. Your mummy’s name is really Cassandra, did you know that?’

  ‘Yes, but Mummy says people can’t say it because they’ve got their mouth full.’

  I laugh. ‘I see. I think she meant that when a word is quite long, sometimes we say “it’s a bit of a mouthful”.’ He looks at me as if he’s thinking, yes, isn’t that what I just said? ‘It’s because it can be quite hard to say. So, Leah is short for Cornelia. That’s my full name. Everyone calls me Leah now, and a few people called me that when I was little, too, but when I had to write my name, I always wrote Cornelia. See?’

  Oliver nods again, then moves closer so he can look at the pictures while I read. After I’ve read it twice more at his request, I say, ‘Shall we see what else is in the box?’ I unpack the books. Most are too old for him, although one or two pique his interest. Right at the bottom are my dad’s books. ‘Ah, now this,’ I lift out the Boy’s Own annual 1948, ‘is very old – older than you, and even older than me! See how some of the pa
ges are loose? That’s because it’s so old, we have to be very, very careful, because we don’t want the pages to fall out or get torn, do we?’

  ‘No.’ Ollie shakes his head as he takes the book from me ultra-carefully and places it reverently on the carpet in front of him. I open it and point to the writing inside the cover. ‘That says, Happy birthday, George, love from Auntie Doll and Uncle Bob, 4th December 1947. George was my daddy, but he was only a little boy then.’

  Ollie turns the pages with great care.

  ‘Ollie . . .’ I hesitate. ‘Do you . . . What do you know about your daddy?’

  At that moment, the doorbell rings. I’m tempted to ignore it, but Ollie springs to his feet. ‘That might be Mummy.’ He runs out into the hall.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ I say. ‘Mummy said she’d pick you up at lunchtime, but it’s only just gone eleven.’ I open the door, and there are Cassie and Luke, smiling, Luke bearing a huge poinsettia with a Christmas bow tied round the pot. He hands it to me. ‘Just to say thank you,’ he says as they follow me in.

  I want to throw it at him. ‘It’s lovely,’ I say, ‘but there’s no need, really. You know I love having him.’

  ‘I know,’ Cassie shrugs, ‘but why not? We really appreciate it.’

  ‘How’s he been?’ Luke says.

  I open my mouth to answer, but an unexpected flash of anger renders me speechless. Ollie isn’t his child – who the hell does he think he is? I look at Cassie, but she’s smiling down at Ollie, unconcerned. ‘Had a nice time, mister?’

  I am gratified to see that excited nodding again. ‘We did watched a film, with Father Christmas, the real one! And,’ he pauses for dramatic effect, ‘guess what?’

  ‘What?’ Cassie plays along.

  ‘We did get a big huge Christmas tree! And I did help to decorate it!’ He grabs Cassie’s hand and pulls her towards the sitting room. ‘Come and see.’

  Luke and I follow. ‘My goodness.’ Cassie looks up at the tree. ‘That looks lovely. And you helped to decorate it?’

  He nods, grinning.

  ‘You have had a nice time, haven’t you? What a lucky boy.’ She ruffles his hair, and turns to me. ‘You’re so good. I haven’t put ours up yet, and I won’t let him anywhere near it anyway, in case he messes up my plan.’

  Luke laughs. ‘I didn’t think you’d be a Christmas tree control freak. Don’t tell me you go for those soulless, trendy arrangements – white trees with purple lights, or something? Christmas trees should be chaotic and messy and covered with every bauble and bit of tinsel you can lay your hands on. Right, Leah?’

  He’s relaxed, hands in his jeans pockets, apparently friendly. I’m not sure if he genuinely likes the overdecorated tree – I let Ollie have a completely free rein, lifting him up to hang baubles on the upper branches. ‘I think I was going for traditional.’

  ‘I like traditional,’ Cass protests, elbowing Luke gently. ‘I just like to do it my own way, that’s all.’

  Luke looks at me again, casts an exaggeratedly resigned expression in Cassie’s direction and mouths, Bossy.

  Cassie laughs and punches him playfully.

  I can feel my own expression tightening on my face. Luke’s attempt to include me in their banter makes me feel all the more excluded. There’s only three years between Cass and me, but suddenly I feel much, much older, like some dried-up old spinster. I am forty-one. Is my life as a woman over now? It’s hard to imagine loving a man again; even harder to imagine a man loving me. And I’ll never be a mother, not now. Yet here I am in the same room as my husband’s child, as this happy couple, in love, probably had sex this morning before they drove over here. It’s as if I am suffocating under the weight of something cold and black and slimy. It’s only when I notice Ollie and Luke exchange a smile that I realise what this dark, insidious feeling that has crept over me is. I am jealous.

  ‘Look,’ Ollie is saying, pointing to the books. ‘There are some books from olden days.’

  I take a breath. I have to rise above this darkness that is pushing through me. I manage to smile. ‘Books from my childhood. And my dad’s.’

  Luke and Cassie both kneel down to look. ‘Oh, cool,’ Luke says. ‘Look at this.’ He shows Cass the Boy’s Own. ‘And look! The Giant Jam Sandwich! I Ioved this when I was a kid.’

  Ollie steps forward and takes the book from Luke to show Cassie. ‘Look,’ he says, pointing to the writing inside the cover. ‘This was Leah’s when she was five. I’m going to be five soon, aren’t I?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know about soon. It’s not that far away, but you need to get to four first, then five comes next.’

  ‘And you know what, Mummy?’

  ‘What, Ollie?’

  ‘You know Leah?’

  ‘Yes.’ Cassie smiles. ‘I think I know Leah.’

  ‘Well, her name is really called Cor . . . Cor . . .’ He turns to me. ‘How do you say it?’

  ‘Cornelia.’

  ‘Cor-nee-leah,’ he repeats. ‘Like how I’m really called Oliver, but sometimes my name is Ollie.’

  ‘Really?’ Cassie turns towards me. ‘I didn’t know that. I just assumed you were christened Leah.’

  ‘No, but I’ve been Leah since I was about ten. Cornelia was a hell of a name to be stuck with at school. I used to get called Corny, or worse, Corn Plaster. That’s why I started calling myself Leah.’

  ‘Cornelia,’ Luke says. ‘Unusual name.’

  ‘According to my dad, it comes from a poem my mum read while she was pregnant. “Cornelia’s Jewels” – the jewels were her children, apparently, and my mum got a bit obsessed with it.’

  ‘Cornelia,’ Luke says again. ‘I keep thinking I’ve come across a Cornelia before, but . . .’ He shakes his head. ‘Maybe not. I can’t put a face to it, in any case.’

  ‘Perhaps you’ve read the poem?’ Cassie suggests.

  Luke laughs. ‘Nah, poetry’s for girls.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  THEN

  It hurt a bit to walk, so I took it slowly, holding onto Adrian’s arm while he carried Harriet in the car seat in his other hand. As we walked through the hospital corridors, everyone was looking at our new baby and smiling – hospital staff, old ladies, a teenage boy, even a huge, fierce-looking man with tattoos all over his neck and face. It seemed the sight of a newborn could melt any heart. On the drive home, I realised I was smiling, too, as if I’d soaked up some of the good feeling that was already pouring towards us.

  ‘Home at last,’ Adrian said as we turned into the drive. I’d only been away a few days, but it felt good to be back. He drove right up to the door and parked in front of the garage so it wouldn’t be far for me to walk, then came round to help me out of the car. ‘Okay?’ He smiled, making sure I was steady on my feet before he let go. He handed me his keys. ‘You get the door open. I’ll bring her in.’

  I turned my key in the lock, but as the door swung open, I was taken aback by a horrible, black memory of coming home from hospital without Thomas, of opening the door and walking into the house, silently, just the two of us, no baby. Instinctively, I rested my hand on my scar to quell the new emptiness in my belly. I had to turn round and look at Harriet to remind myself that this time, everything was okay, that the hollow feeling in my womb was normal and could be soothed instantly by the comforting weight of my baby daughter in my arms.

  The house felt warm and the hallway looked tidy and newly vacuumed. Adrian ushered me into the sitting room, where the lamps were lit and there was already a fire blazing in the wood burner. The moses basket – a new one, bought specially for Harriet – stood in front of the bookcase, a white cotton shawl folded inside. ‘You sit down,’ he said, ‘I’ll make some tea. Shall I leave her in the car seat for a minute, or do you want her out?’

  ‘No, leave her while she’s sleeping.’ I noticed how he automatically deferred to me, and how I automatically supplied the response; it was as though we both accepted that somehow, I knew more about what to do with
a new baby than he did. We’d talked about how we were going to manage childcare. It made sense for me to stay home, at least for the first year. Adrian wanted to be as involved as possible, working from home when he could, and so on. But as I sat there looking at my three-day-old daughter, I realised that no matter what Adrian did, Harriet was my baby, my responsibility. As he set a mug of tea down on the table beside me, I shivered, despite the room being suffocatingly warm.

  Over the next few days, it snowed on and off, but we had the heating turned up and I was enjoying the feeling of being cocooned, safe and cosy, the three of us together in our warm house. I lost count of the number of visitors, but gradually, the pile of baby gifts grew higher – sleepsuits, dresses, gift sets, soft toys – so many of these that they filled the shelf we’d put up above the cot in her room. There were little fluffy teddies in various colours, a silky-soft elephant with furry ears, a hand-knitted pink rabbit and a big golden teddy bear wearing tartan pyjamas. We had so many congratulations cards that before long, there was no room to display them all. There were some lovely messages inside, especially from friends who’d shared our pain eighteen months ago. Half an hour after we got home, an enormous floral arrangement arrived from work – pink roses and carnations with delicate green ferns and white sprays of baby’s breath. The card was signed, it seemed, by everyone in the department.

  We’d been back a week when Diane next door, who’d already dropped in with a card and flowers, popped round again with a pink woollen outfit she’d knitted herself – a tiny long-sleeved dress decorated with rosebuds and a pair of matching leggings, threaded with pink ribbon at the waist and ankle. ‘It should fit her for the first few weeks,’ she said. ‘I thought, well, everyone puts them in babygros at this stage, but a little girl, well, you want to be able to dress her up, don’t you?’

  ‘Oh, Diane, it’s gorgeous!’ I ran my hand over the soft wool. ‘It’s exquisite.’