The Cottingley Cuckoo

by A. J. Elwood

  ‘I knew you’d come,’ she says. ‘A fish on a hook, aren’t you, young Rose? How old will you feel, I wonder – in a year, in three?’

  She’s reading my mind again. Her words have too much truth in them. I’m not used to so much truth and I squirm under it. I prefer quiet lies, the usual platitudes that make life tolerable. It’s a beautiful day. I’m fine. Your granddaughter will love them.

  ‘Let’s not mess around,’ she says. She stands abruptly and goes to the bureau, makes a point of placing the key in the lock, turning it, lowering the flap that keeps everything inside. She turns to me and smiles. It’s a cruel smile, and I don’t think she even meant it that way; it slipped from her before she could stop it. In the next moment she’s smoothed it over.

  With much deliberation, she selects something from within. I know she has more in there by the rustling, but when she withdraws there’s a single letter in her hand. None of them were in the bureau when I searched it, but I can’t admit to knowing that. She puts it down, closes the drawer, turns the key in the lock, removes it and places it once more in the bowl.

  ‘I have it here,’ she says. ‘The secret. Everything you’d like to know, Rose: about me, about the world, about life. About the way it truly is.’

  I can’t quite believe she said those words, not even in reference to a fairy tale, but I nod. I wonder what she’s waiting for. You only had to ask, she’d said, but she still hasn’t given me the letter. I open my mouth to say May I? and she lets out a dry laugh and shakes her head.

  ‘You don’t want it,’ she says.

  I frown. Of course I want it, she knows I do. Before I can gainsay her she says, ‘I don’t mean the letter.’

  I can’t move. I can’t speak; I feel as if I’ve been placed under some spell. The atmosphere is redolent with possibilities, things unsaid but known anyway, the past and the future coalescing into some new shape.

  ‘Say it,’ she says, and her eyes are greedy. She taps the letter in her hand as if offering it in return for something, some unholy exchange she can’t even name. I think of Rapunzel – or rather her mother, young and pregnant, making her deal with the devil, or an enchantress at least; Hansel and Gretel, abandoned so that their parents could have more food to eat; the miller’s daughter, promising her unborn child to Rumpelstiltskin. It’s like she’s a wicked stepmother, or a witch, or a—

  I blink. She’s a lonely old woman, that’s all, just a human being with odd ways and an odder story to tell. There’s nothing else to it, yet the impression remains that there’s something beneath, a truth concealed behind the pearlescent blouses and scent of flowers.

  ‘I don’t have infinite time, Rose,’ she says. ‘I only want to hear the truth from your own lips. Tell me. Do you want it?’

  I stand in the silence. Time passes. I think of Paul. I think of all the dreams and beliefs I’d had; I think of staying here for ever. And I think of the thing that’s taking form inside me, the buds of its limbs, eyes forming behind membranous skin, the miniature torso curled in on itself as if tucked into a bird’s nest, bones bending in unnatural ways, minuscule eyelashes, tiny fingernails, and I say, ‘No.’

  Her eyes suddenly shine, like sunshine spearing through clouds. Her smile clears into something transparent and she holds out the letter as if in reward, her arm perfectly straight. I reach out and take it. I don’t feel that anything’s changed; I don’t know if I should. I suppose, one day, I’ll regret saying that word, when I have a son or a daughter at my side, someone of my blood, someone I can never imagine being parted from. But they’ll never know. It will be a private guilt, and anyway, it doesn’t mean anything. No one need ever know. Even Mrs Favell seems to have lost interest, turning from me towards the window, looking out, as ever, towards the woods.

  Without turning she says, ‘Good day.’

  I don’t leave. I don’t even move. It strikes me what a cruel thing it was to have me say, to push me to this point, to crystallise my selfishness. Even if no one else ever finds out, no one that matters, it’s something I’ll remember for ever.

  And I want more: more in return than dry words in faded ink on crumpled paper.

  ‘You’re Charlotte,’ I say, before I know I’m going to. I don’t even know why, since the idea is ridiculous even to me. I’m tired and wrung out. I’ve been caught up in too many stories. I suppose I simply haven’t wanted to think about my own.

  No matter how silly it is, I wait for her answer. She doesn’t provide one, doesn’t even look at me, and anger rises. ‘You are, aren’t you? You’re her.’

  At last her voice drifts into the air, vague and distant, as if coming from a long way away. ‘Of course I’m a Charlotte. But however could I be the same? What a funny idea, Rose.’

  I think that’s all, but she adds, ‘No – that Charlotte is gone. She vanished long ago, and she’s never, ever coming back again.’

  The paper in my hand feels more dry and dead than ever. I feel as if I’ve lost something, though I don’t know what. I turn and walk out of the room, half expecting to hear Mrs Favell’s mad laughter ringing out behind me, but there’s nothing; only a cold and fathomless silence.

  14

  The next morning, I don’t go to work. Paul had made a doctor’s appointment, texting me the details so I could arrange it with Patricia. He managed to get a cancellation, so we didn’t have to wait too long. Patricia wasn’t impressed, but after my encounter with Mrs Favell I couldn’t bring myself to care too much. I told her I’d be an hour late starting my shift and now here I am, sitting in front of Dr Motram, answering questions about things I wouldn’t have told my mother.

  Yes, I’d still been bleeding.

  Yes, I’d continued taking the pill.

  Yes, I’d drunk wine.

  Whatever my answer, he doesn’t raise an eyebrow, doesn’t change his blank expression. Is that deliberate, or is it all so commonplace? All he says is that any smoking or drinking has to stop now. Paul sits a short distance away, shuffling his feet, twisting his hands or placing his elbows on the back of his chair, always in motion. It’s only when I say that no, I hadn’t noticed anything out of the ordinary at all, that Paul sits up straight, as if trying to hide his incredulity.

  He’ll wonder why I ever took the test I suppose, but I don’t care; I’ll tell him something vague about how I just knew, and he’ll be happy with that. Right now I’m uncomfortable and embarrassed and still have that feeling I’m not quite myself any longer, but underneath that I feel invigorated, full of energy, restored. I hardly slept – I stayed up reading The Coming of the Fairies, the name of it weirdly prophetic in the half dark – but I’m as refreshed as if I’d had eight hours straight. There’s life in my step; it’s fizzing inside me, right down to my fingertips. Even my hair looks better, gleaming, and my skin is clearer.

  Paul grinned when I awoke and saw him watching. As soon as I did, he leaned in and rested his head on my belly, stroking it as if he couldn’t wait for it to swell and change. Then he accused me of glowing. Is that a word only used for supposedly pregnant women? Now it seems a hundred years away, unable to affect me, not connected with me at all.

  Then I hear the doctor explaining to Paul that over-the-counter tests are so good these days, so reliable, there really isn’t much need to confirm anything, and I don’t hear his words any longer: there’s only the humming of the fan inside the computer on his desk, footsteps walking along the corridor, Paul’s breathing, the sudden tap of computer keys as the doctor updates my records.

  He says he’s going to refer me to the Early Pregnancy Unit, that I’ll need a scan. It’s not usual to have one at this stage, he explains, but with the bleeding they just want to be on the safe side, even though it’s fairly common, nothing to worry about. I have no idea how to respond. It’s all too real again, everything crowding in. The thought of having a scan, of waving a photograph of blurry pixels at my friends, my colleagues – but not my mum – is surreal. It strikes me that I really am pregnant
, and that there might be something wrong with it. It might even be because of something I’ve done. The very obliviousness I’m still trying to cling to could have damaged it, blighted its entire life. My body suddenly feels too light, as if made of feathers or dandelion seeds, something that at any moment could fly away.

  It’s because of her: Mrs Favell. It’s because I told her that no, I didn’t want the baby. Now it might really be gone, as if saying such a thing could have wished it away, and I don’t know how to feel. I’m suspended between moments, between taps on a keyboard, the movement of the second hand on the cheap plastic clock on the wall.

  Someone fumbles at my fingers. It’s Paul, taking my hand. His palm feels hot and sweaty but I don’t pull away.

  ‘It’s fine,’ he says, ‘you’ll see.’ His voice is tense, strung out on wires.

  The doctor pushes leaflets into my hands. You’re pregnant: what now? the uppermost says, and I want to cry. I want to see my mum, just once, for a little while. I want to tell her that this can’t be me; I’m not ready.

  Instead I shove the leaflets deep into my bag. As I do, I catch sight of the letter Mrs Favell gave me yesterday. I still haven’t read it, haven’t wanted to think about it. Is that who I am now, refusing to face up to anything?

  I walk out of the surgery with Paul, nodding in thanks at the receptionist just like other people do. She doesn’t notice. She’s busy finding the key to the toilet for an old lady with a walker and thick ankles. Another, younger woman is sitting in the waiting room, a baby carrier in front of her. I can’t see what’s inside but she can’t take her eyes off it, and she’s smiling as if she’ll never stop. She glances up briefly, seeking answering smiles, admiration of this thing she has made, and her eyes meet mine and her expression falters.

  Some day soon, that will be me. I have an image of myself sitting in her place, but I’m not smiling. My eyes are dark and entirely blank.

  Outside, Paul turns towards me, putting his hands on my shoulders and resting his head against mine. He’s so much taller than me. I always thought he’d know what to do. He murmurs into my hair, saying he’ll look after me. He says he’ll drive me to work and pick me up again afterwards. I know he’ll make a good father. I can see him comforting a child, making it smile, patching up an injured knee or a grazed palm.

  I shake him off – I’m the one carrying the two of us, aren’t I? I’m the one building a life for us, or I was. I lead the way towards the car, feeling as if I’m floating inches above the ground, but it’s different now. The energy’s gone, leaving me dizzy and wrung out. Can I smell burnt toast or is that another symptom of what’s happening to me?

  I’m not an hour late to work after all. I’m only forty-five minutes behind my time, though a hundred years might have passed. It’s easy to slough it off, though, that other world. I distribute nutritional milkshakes, selecting spouted cups or beakers, adding straws for those who find them easier, ready with more for when the paper goes gummy. I rush off in response to an alarm triggered by a frail resident’s bedside pressure mat; just admitted for respite care, she’d tried to get up by herself. I smile brightly for Barry, who’s increasingly showing signs of dementia and insists he hasn’t shaved, must be shaved now, still confused even when I get him to stroke his own cheek; for Maryam, who’s misplaced her glasses and can’t see me properly, isn’t it awful, I’m nothing but a blur; and at Edie, who isn’t knitting but watching television with an expression of raptness, or emptiness, I’m not sure which. Guilt strikes me to the heart. At least Mandy and the others are taking no notice of me. It’s as if I’ve wronged them by being late and they’ve already cut out the tainted presence in their midst.

  That reminds me that once again Mrs Favell has kept herself aloof, and I know I should do my duty and see if she’s all right. In a rush of perverseness I ask Mandy, in a loud voice that can’t be ignored, if she’s seen her. Without glancing up she says, ‘She has a visitor. In the garden.’

  I’m so surprised I don’t answer. Mrs Favell with a visitor? It’s just so human of her. I thought she must have alienated everyone she’d ever met, that she’s embittered because she’s alone, or perhaps the other way around. The visitor could be someone professional of course, a lawyer to go over her will or someone else who doesn’t have a choice in the matter. Overcome by curiosity, I go to the French windows. I open them just enough to peek out and hear, ‘Ah, Rose. There you are.’

  I start. There’s no one there, no one on the lawn, no one meandering the gravel paths. I lean out. She’s sitting on a bench set against the side of the building a little to my right. Her face is half concealed by another person, whose back is turned. It’s a woman. Her hair is golden, twisted into a chignon, not a strand out of place. A ruffle of lacy whiteness protrudes from the collar of her violet jacket. She is tall; I can see that even though she’s sitting down.

  I step outside and greet them.

  ‘Well, chop-chop,’ says Mrs Favell. ‘You’re just in time, Rose. I’d like you to meet my daughter.’

  My mouth falls open. The woman on the bench does not turn as I walk up to her. Even so, I can see by her cheek that her skin is perfect; she could be twenty. Her posture is altogether self-possessed; she could be thirty. And then I see her eyes, and they are older still, and she stands and I look down and see that she is pregnant.

  ‘This is Harriet.’

  She smiles. It is sweet, that smile, and she puts out her hand and says, ‘My dear, I’m so very pleased to meet you,’ and her voice is music. It’s all I can do not to gawp. She looks like Mrs Favell. I remember the photographs in the box of a mother and daughter, their faces alike, and I’m certain it’s them, even though the pictures seemed to have been taken many decades ago. My mind does the sums and whirls and Harriet cries out in concern as I falter. She’s still holding my hand, hers cool and smooth, and she puts her other hand on my arm and guides me to her place on the bench, so that I’m facing her mother. Can it be her mother?

  The sickness I’ve been trying not to think about all morning rushes in upon me. How could I have imagined I was feeling better? I stare down at the narrow stretch of bench between us. The slats are peeling, shreds of paint scarcely concealing the dead grey beneath. Mrs Favell’s eyes bore into me. Amusement seeps from her.

  So glad I never troubled over it, she’d said. I saved myself a world of bother. Why had she lied? What game had she been playing? Or had she merely meant that she had had children, but didn’t much care for it, hadn’t spent time worrying or fussing over them? I wouldn’t put it past her. I can’t imagine her as a mother. A strict, starched Victorian one perhaps, foisting her offspring onto a governess and having them brought out for inspection, but not one who would hold a child, nurture it, love it.

  And the name: Harriet. That had to be a part of the game. Despite any amount of confusion over her age, there’s no way this woman could have been a child in the nineteen-twenties. And she’s surely either too young to be Mrs Favell’s daughter or too old to be having a baby now. Or is it simply that both of them are older mothers – like mother, like daughter? How old is she? Is Harriet even her real name? For whatever reason, she’s playing along.

  I turn to look at her. She’s still smiling with those perfect lips, so redolent of sweetness, and yet her eyes, for a moment, are oddly blank. Dressing, I think, and then the warmth returns. She chafes my hands and says, ‘There. You’re feeling a little better.’

  Without pause, she removes one hand and slides it along my forearm, and across, and rests it on my belly. I catch my breath, try to pull away, and feel the hardness of the bench at my back.

  ‘It’s all right,’ she says. ‘I know. I know.’ She nods, and her expression is so full of sympathy that tears prickle at my eyes. ‘Mummy told me all about it.’

  It’s a violation. I don’t want her touching me. I’ve heard of this, strangers feeling they have the right to put their hands on the bump – not that I even have one – as if a pregnant woman�
�s body is no longer her own. I wouldn’t dream of doing it to her. Yet her voice is so soft, her touch so reassuring, that my discomfort begins to melt away. She means well, I tell myself. She has more understanding in her voice than I’ve felt in days. Her tone soothes me. I wonder if she’s alone too, if she shares some of my fears, if that’s why there’s this connection. I no longer doubt she knows how it feels: the enormity of it, the terror. I’m not afraid now, though. It’s as if she’s draining it from me. A rush of strength returns and I remember for the first time in an age that I am in control of my life.

  I straighten my posture. I’m not adrift any longer. I’m not a child, to sit here and cry and be comforted. I’m an adult, and whatever comes, it will be all right; I’ll deal with it. I’ll accept it.

  ‘There – that’s it,’ she says. She gives a final stroke before withdrawing her hand and puts it instead to her own belly, the small, neat mound half hidden by her lovely jacket. Her eyes twinkle. I know it’s a cliché even as the word comes to me, but that’s exactly what they do.

  I glance up at Mrs Favell. Her eyes are brighter too, shining with barely restrained laughter, full of what appears to be joy.

  My mouth floods with a bitter taste and I suddenly feel cold all over my skin, right through to my centre. I’m empty, nothing inside but a hollow space, and her words whisper again in my ear. Do you want it?

  I cry out, push myself up from the bench, stagger away from them.