‘Mummy?
‘I keep thinking I hear you but I can’t. It’s just me here. Only me.’
JULY 2005
Libby
Danny had a different experience to me. He was never dosed up to the eyeballs with gas and air and he didn’t have an anaesthetist plug drugs directly into his spinal fluid. He also didn’t have midwives talk to him about discharge, or strange women show him what an expanding pelvis looked like using a skeletal diagram. We were on different sides of the fence, looking over at one another and trying desperately to find a common ground.
And looking back I see it so differently now.
The first time I saw her on a screen – that was when things changed. Until then it was surreal. His parents, my parents all nodded – despite their reservations – and promised to help us through it all. The power of the promise of a grandchild is a strong thing. I didn’t know that until then.
I was never very close to my parents. My relationship with my mother was always strained. When they announced that they were moving to Cornwall I wasn’t in the least bit surprised. Their first grandchild was about to be born and they were going to live on the other side of the country, taking Alex with them.
Danny and I made our minds up, sort of, and the next week we were announcing our good news to the world. Did we believe it? Did it matter?
Suddenly two families, who were virtual strangers, were thrown together. Both did a noble job of supporting the other but suspicions were rife.
He led my daughter astray.
She is a hussy.
They were easy assumptions. Nobody meant any harm. They were just wary and I think that uncertainty was what pushed Mum into wanting to move so far way. She couldn’t bring herself to stick around and watch me fail.
When Hope was in my belly, twisting and turning, kicking me in the ribs, I made her a promise that I would always protect her and do my best. I didn’t know her then. I didn’t even know I was expecting a girl. I couldn’t picture her at all. She was a child. A feeling. But not real. Not really. Not in those days.
I remember collecting scraps of pretty fabric to make a quilt with. I was no earth mother, I didn’t buy organic veg or worry about the state of the planet, but having a person growing inside me compelled me to do something homely and honest to celebrate the arrival.
Danny was working so hard to make sure our little nest had everything it needed. He hated his job. It sucked the life out of him but he kept on. He never complained. He was my rock.
While he sat behind his desk, tapping away at the keyboard, I spent time at home preparing the nursery. A nursery intended for a child nobody had ever met. Pink, blue or yellow? Those were the extent of the worries I had. And when he came home, trying to smile and hide his frustration at life, loosening his tie and wanting nothing more than to sink into the sofa with a cold beer, I’d bore him with my colour scheme conundrum. That was how we came round to the idea and adjusted.
We were kids ourselves. Apart from our parents, who seemed far too grown-up, we didn’t know other parents. He and I were the first out of our group to have a baby.
My brother used to joke that she was the product of tequila and cocaine. He wasn’t far wrong. I borrowed the joke for myself. But as time went by it became less acceptable. She was more than that. So much more.
I realised I’d used the joke as a way of taking the pressure off myself. If I said it was light-hearted, then maybe it would become so. Part of me was willing for the cover that self-fulfilling prophesy offered. It was a get-out-of-jail-free card; imply everything is easy and comfortable and it shall be.
There were moments during the pregnancy when I wondered if I was ill instead of being pregnant. She weighed heavy in my skeleton. Had the doctors made a mistake? Was it cancer? What was the alien growth in my stomach? But then I would feel a gentle kick and I’d know she was turning around, trying to make herself comfortable. Then, when no one was around to see, I’d rest my hand on my tummy and talk to her. Sometimes, I’d even sing. She loved rock and roll. She would start to dance whenever there was a good beat. I loved that. It made me smile and I started to feel like I knew her. But I didn’t know she was a she. For a while I was certain I was expecting a boy.
Danny and I were fumbling about in the dark. It made sense to me that we would have a son. For some reason a son seemed an easier option. But it’s so long ago now and so much has happened, I can’t link back to that way of thinking. I’m a different person. Nothing is the same.
After she was born I would swear I knew she was a girl. Whether I did or not, who knows. Or who really cares. History was rewritten.
It was then that I learnt how we all lie to ourselves. Motherhood brings with it a whole new set of lies and I was just finding my feet.
The three of us were plunged into the deep end and all it took was sex. That was it. Yes, there was love and attraction and excitement but it was the sex that changed the course of our lives. It created a life. A perfect, strange, little life.
That was the focus of it all. My nightmares would consist of so many things. There was dread of childbirth and the tangible fear of the pain and danger of the unknown. Would my body ever be the same? Would she be born alive? Could my body do her justice? Would I survive? Perhaps medical advances meant nothing. I was going to find out whether I was ready or not.
The pregnancy was horrible, the labour worse. It was a car crash of flesh and blood and doctors. Then she was here. When she arrived, crying, blue, pink and covered in blood, Danny was ready. He’d always been ready. I wasn’t. I prayed my animal instincts would kick in and make sure I did my best. Ultimately they did.
He held her wrapped in a bloody blanket in his arms and I watched the tears fall, as if in slow motion. For a little while it was just the two of them and I was the outsider, lying on the hospital bed, tired, panting, confused and full of drugs.
I was still terrified. For the first time I had proper responsibility. Not like looking after the family Labrador, when my parents went away on a golfing holiday, but proper life and death weighing on my shoulders. But when he put her in my arms, wrapped in that bloody blanket, I held onto her and promised her the world. Any fear I had disappeared and what took over was something much rawer.
Without any real warning, I was a mum.
The next day he collected us from the hospital. It was that same god-damn awful bloody Toyota, which was covered in dents. Now I can admit I hated it. Now I confess that I resented it.
Carrying her, as if she were made of porcelain, I slipped her into the car seat. The government insisted all children had them by then. You couldn’t just strap a kid to your lap and make your way to the shops any more. It was so much more complicated.
Neither of us could work out how to attach the baby seat to the seatbelt. It was worse than a Rubik’s Cube. It was designed to trip people up. Danny and I both felt our hackles go up. Neither of us wanted to admit that we didn’t have a clue what we were doing. So, like a pair of rabid dogs, we went for each other.
They do say that the birth of a child ruins your marriage. We made up quickly, but something had shifted between us.
People were taken in by her. She was such a beautiful child. Even our parents forgot to doubt each other. They stopped looking at one another like they were adversaries and started to work as a team.
Danny and I sat in the middle of the confused mess and let it unfold around us. We wanted it to work and they made it possible.
Of course the fact that she was intoxicating made it easier. Her blue eyes were like deep pools. I watched people get lost in her stare. But it was pure. She was just a pretty little girl with a heart-shaped face, beautiful skin and a smile to die for. Without a doubt her name would be Hope.
I knew that before she was born. Danny and I didn’t discuss it. Like a lot of things.
When we got her home we took her out of the car and put her gently down in a corner of the room, which was padded with more cushions than was n
ecessary. Then we both took a step back and stood looking down at the tiny fragile creature that squirmed beneath the cotton blanket. My body ached but it was strangely tolerable.
Danny removed a packet of cigarettes from his pocket and we stepped outside into the cool summer’s night air and had a few precious minutes to ourselves. I relished the taste of the hot sticky nicotine. Nine months of abstinence left me wanting more. The only thing missing was a measure of Scotch.
I was wearing a pair of pyjama bottoms and a loose top. It could have been any day spent in Oxford. The morning after the night before. But it wasn’t. Everything was different. She was there, just a metre away from us, inside, sleeping peacefully.
He and I didn’t speak. We just sat on the back door step looking out at the stars, allowing the drama of childbirth to settle.
Then she started to cry and we were brought crashing back to reality. A moment of confused terror passed between us before we both threw our cigarettes away and went to tend the unhappy bundle. In a split second he and I stopped existing. Hope was all there was.
I was proud, so proud but it took me time to reach that point. For a little while I was intimidated. She shone and I wondered how I’d ever be able to support her. To nurture such a delicate creature would not be easy. I wasn’t sure I was cut out for the job. She deserved a different mother; a better mother.
But time went by, without either of us noticing, and we worked out how to co-exist.
Her little hand always reached out for mine and one day it all clicked. I realised that whatever happened I was her mum and I had a job to do. She never doubted me. I hoped that she would never grow up and discover what a disappointment I was.
It took Danny a while but eventually he proposed. Everything had happened so quickly that neither of us had really had a chance to stop and think. Then, one day when he came back home after work and, while we sat eating our supper at the kitchen table, Hope glued to my breast while I fought with one hand to cut my chicken, he suggested we got married.
I’d thought about it. I liked the idea of being his wife. Hope already had his surname. So, happily, I agreed. She was four months old at the time and we planned to marry six months later. That would give me time to plan the party.
Neither of us was religious so it wouldn’t be a church affair. We decided to have a small service in a registry office followed by an almighty party for all our friends and family. We wanted to celebrate our marriage and the birth of our daughter. I wanted the world to know how proud I was of them both and it was the perfect excuse for a knees-up.
Danny was happy to let me take the lead. He didn’t want to concern himself with the minor details like choosing the flowers or deciding what colour the table cloths would be. Those things mattered to me – though I will never know why. I look back at that time with confused amusement. How did he put up with all my lists and the endless phone calls backwards and forwards to his mother. His tolerance was remarkable. It was one of the things I loved most about him.
AUGUST 2013
Libby
The next two days pass in a blur. There is still no sign of Hope and now the national press have arrived in our small Cambridgeshire village. I see them through the window, talking to our neighbours, waiting for a glimpse of the worried parents. They remain on the periphery. As if we aren’t real. As if our pain shouldn’t be private.
For most of my life I felt as if something was missing. My twin sister died on the day we were born and until Hope was born I’d always felt incomplete. Now that feeling has returned again.
I try to spend as much time indoors as I can, away from the prying cameras and questions. Danny insists on joining the police and the droves of kind strangers who have volunteered to help scour the area. If it weren’t so horrible I’d take the time to stop and thank the public for their support. But I can’t step outside of my personal horror. I can’t think about them. I can only think about her.
Today we have agreed to take part in a press conference. Inspector Will King is taking us through it step by step. He says it will help. People keep talking at us, advising us and trying to keep our focus on the search. I’m trying to stay calm. I’m trying to hold it together.
I cling to her pillow all the time. I won’t put it down or let it out of my sight. It smells of her, her unique scent that nobody else has. Gracie doesn’t smell like that. She smells of something different. But Hope has a sweet musky scent that I’m certain only I know. It’s a secret we share. Our smells. She knows my scent and I know hers. So I keep her special pillow close. The one she hugs in bed when she’s tired or after school when she is sleepy on the sofa watching cartoons.
In amongst the blur of drama sits Gracie. She’s so small and skinny. Her little blue eyes are searching the faces of all of the adults around her, trying to make sense of what is happening. But she’s so little. How can a three-year-old be expected to understand what is going on? I don’t.
Danny’s parents showed up yesterday and have been helping take care of her. My father-in-law, Paul, has been great. He’s kept a cool head the whole time. He’s a practical man and his influence has been soothing. Paul has taken over cooking and making sure that we all still eat. But even he, when he thinks no one is looking, allows the horror to show on his face. We have all aged ten years in the last two days.
My mother-in-law, Clare, spends most of her time trying to keep Gracie entertained. She’s tearful but doing her best to be brave for us. I find it hard to watch her with Gracie. It hurts too much so I leave the room when they start playing.
I keep going over that afternoon in my head trying to make sense of it and trying to see if there is a little detail I’ve overlooked that might hold the key to her whereabouts. But there is nothing that stands out. Nothing was different that day. And despite the original speculation that she might have run away, I am certain that she didn’t. I understand that the police had to explore the possibility but there is no way she would ever go off on her own.
Her father and I taught her about stranger danger. Hope knows never to talk to strangers. She is a wary child, unlike Gracie. She wouldn’t like speaking to someone she didn’t know. That leads me to suspect maybe she does know the person who has her. It was broad daylight. Surely she would have screamed or cried if an adult grabbed her on the street? I can’t bear thinking about it but I have to. I need to work out where she is.
The police have been speaking to everyone we know. The phone never stops ringing. Everyone is trying to be supportive but I don’t want to talk to them. I just want my little girl to come home.
Our little cottage has turned into Piccadilly Circus. We have had scene of crime officers rummaging through Hope’s belongings. Earlier today they took our computer away for examination, since we told them we let Hope use it from time to time.
A family liaison officer has been appointed to us. Kerry is very nice but I find her presence stifling. She keeps offering me tea. I don’t want bloody tea.
Then there are all the other officers, and my in-laws and friends who keep popping in to show their support. I can’t breathe.
As I sit on my bed, trying to find a place away from all the people who now fill our house, there is a knock on the door. It seems I can’t get five minutes to myself.
‘Come in,’
‘Libby?’ Inspector King puts his head around the door. ‘Can I come in for a moment?’
‘Yes of course.’ Under any other circumstances it would be strange, having a man that isn’t my husband in our marital bedroom, but nothing feels normal any more.
King shuffles into the room and stands awkwardly with his hands in his grey trouser pockets. The room is hot and stuffy and the fan that sits on my dressing table rotates, blowing warm air in his direction.
‘I want to talk to you about the appeal.’
‘I’ve said I’ll do it. Danny and I agreed. We’ll do anything to get her home.’
‘Right. I’ve spoken to the press and we have arranged for
an appeal tomorrow lunchtime. If you would rather, I will take the lead and do most of the talking but, to be honest, the public normally respond better to a direct appeal for help from the parents. I know this is a very difficult time for you both and if you think you won’t be able to cope then I will speak on your behalf.’ King cocks his head slightly to one side and looks at me with his dark brown eyes. ‘What do you think, Libby?’
‘Either Danny or I will talk. It’s fine. We can handle it.’
‘You are being incredibly brave.’
‘Just find her.’ A lump forms in my throat.
‘We are doing everything we can.’ In that split second something passes across his face but it’s gone before I can determine what he was thinking.
‘I’ll be down in a minute. Is Danny back?’
‘Not yet. They have expanded the search out towards the railway track.’
‘She wouldn’t play there!’
‘I’m sure you are right–’ he stops before saying anything else.
‘Are you looking for a body?’ The realisation suddenly dawns on me.
‘We are looking for any sign as to her whereabouts.’ He cannot look me in the eye. I hug the pillow tighter than ever and curl up into a ball on the bed. ‘I just need five minutes.’ I close my eyes, not wanting to look at him anymore.
‘OK.’ I hear his footsteps and then the sound of my bedroom door being shut and when I am sure he is far away enough I scream into the pillow.
Hope
How long have I been here? ‘Come on. Someone. Anyone, please.’
It’s so, so dark. ‘Mummy, are you there?’
And then my skin starts to crawl. At least that’s what it feels life. There is a tingling sensation close to my ankle and the flesh feels tight over my bones.
I’m still alone. Am I? ‘Please! Hear me. I can feel you, or someone. Who is it? Where are you?
‘Mummy?
Frailty: a haunting psychological page-turner Page 3