Part of me wishes I’d been silent too. I wonder if I’ve been rash in sending my text message when I did – in sending that text message at all.
I believe.
Ever since I pressed send, my mind’s been churning, fluctuating between belief and disbelief and back again.
I saw Veritas in the cathedral as God prompting me to believe and the adverts in the optician’s window as code that backed Him up. But what if God is still playing games with me? He let Amy be taken and refused to give her back to me despite my pleas and prayers. Maybe this is just another spiteful twist to make me suffer more.
I can’t deny I want to be wrong. I want Esme to be Amy. But I know that wanting something, wishing for it until it hurts, is no foundation for belief. I need proof, but I can see no way of getting it that will settle the matter beyond any doubt.
Even if Esme was to tell me where Amy’s body is, how could I trust it to be true? Would the police really take the word of a ten-year-old girl and start digging where she said they should? And if they did and they found Amy’s body, Libby would have some difficult questions to answer. It’s in their interests not to tell me where Amy’s body is – even if they know.
I shall have to find proof, one way or the other, that Esme is who she says she is. I shall have to listen to both my heart and my head – and I’m not certain either can be trusted.
It strikes me that maybe Libby hasn’t responded to my message because she doesn’t trust me. She’s sure to ask me why I now believe their story, and I have nothing to answer her with. Not yet. Nothing concrete. Nothing but hope and wishes, and that might not be enough for her, or for me.
There is a more logical reason for their silence, I realise. They could still be asleep, though I doubt either of them could have slept at all. Maybe they’re having breakfast and don’t want to make such an important call in a hotel restaurant. Perhaps the battery is dead or Libby’s out of credit.
Then the phone rings.
‘Hello?’
‘Beth! Happy New Year to you.’
‘Jill,’ I say, hoping my disappointment doesn’t show in my voice. ‘Happy New Year to you too.’
‘You’re up and about early. I’ve just tried you at home.’
‘I needed to get out for some fresh air.’ I pull my coat collar around my neck, as much to hide my lie as to keep out the cold.
‘I could do with some of that myself,’ she says. ‘Bloody champagne! Only had a couple of glasses, but at my age . . .’ Her voice lowers with concern. ‘Were you okay last night? I couldn’t stop thinking about you but didn’t want to ring. I know you don’t like to be disturbed.’
Disturbed. If only she knew. But she can’t. Not yet. Maybe not ever. She would never believe Esme’s story, but she wouldn’t be surprised that I did. My belief has not had time to set firm, and might collapse under the weight of her scorn.
Jill has been resolute in her friendship ever since Amy went missing. I didn’t know her when Amy was alive – not really – although our paths did cross twice a day, every day, outside the school.
Clad in her dayglo-yellow coat and cap, Jill would halt the traffic with her lollipop sign. The steely stare she gave the drivers would soften as she turned towards the children and waved them across to safety. She had a cheery word for every parent, a smile for every child and was inundated with cards and chocolates at the end of every term.
I avoided the school after Amy disappeared and made sure I didn’t go out anywhere until all the mums had finished the school run. It was awkward trying to chat normally when their own children, Amy’s classmates, were by their side, reminding us of the gap where Amy should be.
Swimming, tap-dancing, Brownies and birthday parties had been the oxygen for my friendship with the parents, the time at the gates the lungs. Without them, the relationships withered, before dying abruptly in the wake of the press allegations against me.
But Jill would drop by on her way home from her shift, make us some tea and listen without complaint as I wept and wailed. She didn’t believe I was to blame for Amy’s disappearance and thought that those who did only pointed the finger at me to detract from their sense of guilt when they’d been too busy for their own children.
‘It’s not really about you, Beth, however much it looks that way,’ she used to say. ‘It’s about them. You’re living their nightmare and it’s easier to ignore your own demons if they have somebody else’s face.’
Her support was unerring and unconditional. I feared she’d soon tire of me and drift away, but she was constant, continuing to call in on me even when arthritis forced her to retire.
‘I can’t get out of the way of the cars quickly enough any more,’ she said. ‘And the cold stays in my bones for the rest of the day. But it gives us more time to do things, doesn’t it?’
She sounded like Dr Morgan. He was always trying to get me to get out and do things. Trips to the cinema, museums and theatre would distract me, he said, and joining a painting or poetry group would give me the space to express myself and meet new people. But sideshows had no answers for me.
Jill took a slightly different tack.
‘I got involved with the Friends of Durning Library after Arthur died,’ she told me. ‘I’m not saying him keeling over with a heart attack watching cricket at the Oval compares in any way with what you’ve been through with Amy, but losing him was still painful. The Friends helped fill the gap. It might help you too.’
‘I don’t think I’m ready yet,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘Maybe later.’
She smiled.
‘I am an incorrigible busybody, which makes me an ideal Friend, capital F, but something of a nuisance as a friend, small f. I won’t give up on you, Beth. I promise you, the best way to get over losing someone is other people. The right people. Not to take their place, but to remind you what living feels like.’
Her persistence was gentle and polite, but relentless. Eventually I succumbed, becoming part of a crack troop of volunteers organising jumble sales, making sandwiches and cakes for special events and rallying support whenever council cutbacks loomed.
One voluntary group quickly led to others. I became a Friend of St Anselm’s Church, a local charity training people in horticulture, the Kennington Gardens Society and the Imperial War Museum. But even Jill drew the line at trying to persuade me to join the Friends of Kennington Park.
The groups I belong to are usually the same set of people wearing a different badge and swapping one issue or interest for another. The members are invariably older than me and less judgemental than my peers. Perhaps it’s because they’re near the end of their lives, closer to God, and want to show the forgiveness they hope they’ll get from Him.
Whatever the reason for their acceptance of me, their sage sympathy and understanding gives me room and licence to brood. So instead of showing me a way out of my grief, Jill has inadvertently nurtured a warm, moist culture where thoughts and memories of Amy multiply like bacteria.
Lately she’s been saying that I need some friends that don’t come with a subscription fee, newsletter and annual general meeting. Friends of my own age, with interests to match.
I’ve shared so much with Jill, I’m bursting to tell her about Esme. About the possibility that Amy is back. But I can’t. It’s like when I thought I was pregnant with Amy and didn’t tell anyone, not even Brian, not until I was sure. And even then I made him keep it secret, until after the first scan showed everything was going well.
There is no scan this time, no proof of anything. I will have to wait. In the meantime, the least I can do is spare Jill from fretting over me.
‘Don’t worry about me, Jill,’ I say as I walk down the street. ‘I’m fine. In fact, I feel quite optimistic about this year.’
There’s a pause.
‘Yes,’ she says, ‘you do sound quite . . . bright and breezy. Maybe the tenth anniversary will turn out to be a real turning point for you.’
‘I think you could be rig
ht.’
‘No more looking back?’ It sounds like an instruction as much as a question.
‘No need,’ I say with a confidence I don’t really feel.
‘Excellent. I’ll drop in later. Swap resolutions over coffee. I’ll bring some leftover mince pies.’
Panic bites. It’s too soon. I’ll be tempted to tell her even if she doesn’t guess that something has changed fundamentally – although not even Jill would be able to guess what that something might be.
‘I won’t be back for a while,’ I say.
It’s a lie, as I’m already turning in to my street and feeling in my pocket for my house keys. It’s the first of many lies I will have to tell to keep the truth at bay. I promise Jill I’ll call her later and hang up. I shut the front door behind me and lock it, unsure who it is I’m trying to keep out.
The statue on the shelf in the hall catches my eye. The memory of Esme’s explanation for the missing spot of colour on its heel makes me shiver. I take it in my hand, weighing it up, as if testing for the truth, then place it on the cabinet in the front room. A moment later I move it to the mantelpiece, to the left of Amy’s photograph. The arrangement looks unbalanced. I move the statue to the right.
Bagpuss smiles from the sofa. Esme’s essay winks from the table. I pick them up and slowly climb the stairs to Amy’s room. The duvet and pillows are crumpled, the curtains closed. I set about making the bed, then strip it, placing the linen in the laundry basket.
I’m tantalised by the realisation that one day, Amy might just sleep in that bed again. The thought gathers momentum. She’ll want a new duvet cover, something more suitable for a ten-year-old girl. Pink probably.
And what about clothes? The latest must-have trainers, fancy party frocks, sensible winter coats, swimsuits, scarves and school uniforms. I throw open the wardrobe doors, tug out every drawer. They are dark and musty – empty. Full of promise yet somehow stuffed with doubt.
I try to fight the tease in the prospect of buying her things, but it’s no good; my desire outruns my logic. She’ll want games, books, toys and gadgets with headphones and screens. I owe her a decade of birthday and Christmas presents, holidays, treats and trips to the panto and cinema. I can bake cakes again, complete with candles and icing. I can forgo my ready meals for one in favour of vats of carbonara sauce and whole slow-roasted chickens. I’ll have someone to pull the wishbone with, someone at the other end of my festive cracker. Two people. Libby will be around too.
My fantasy is stopped in its tracks, each thought and image of my new future colliding with the one preceding it. My mind is carnage, logic mangled and twisted with hope.
I throw open the window, take deep breaths of the cold, murky air. The park’s turf is scrappy and the pathways are uneven.
I fall back on to the bed and massage my temples. The shrill ring of my phone makes me wince.
‘Mrs Archer? It’s Libby.’
She’s whispering, and there’s a humming noise in the background.
I sit up quickly, suddenly alert and watchful. Expectant and hopeful.
‘Libby. At last! Where are you? What’s that noise?’
‘It’s the extractor fan in the bathroom.’
‘Why are you whispering?’ I say. ‘Speak up, I can barely hear you.’ I flick my hair away and push the handset closer to my ear.
‘Esme’s asleep,’ Libby says, her voice still a whisper. ‘She had a bad night. Last night took a lot out of her. Me too.’
‘Oh no. Is she all right?’ A frown rucks my forehead.
I’m surprised at my concern for a child I don’t really know, much less trust, but I can’t deny my feelings for a girl who might yet be mine. The old instincts are still there.
‘Under the circumstances, yes, I suppose she is,’ Libby says. She sounds distant, deflated – bored even.
‘I have to see her. Forget the hotel. Come and stay here for the rest of your visit. There’s plenty of room.’
‘Mrs Archer—’
‘Beth, please.’
‘Beth.’ She says my name as if the word doesn’t quite fit in her mouth. ‘You’ve got to slow down. Think of Esme. Where she’s at. What she’s feeling. We have to tread carefully.’
‘But I have to see her.’ My tone was meant to be pleading, but it came out more like a demand.
There’s a pause before Libby answers.
‘You will,’ she says. ‘This afternoon. But I don’t think we should come to your house again. Not yet. It might be too much for her. Besides, we need to talk. Just the two of us.’
‘You can’t stop me seeing her,’ I say, scraping the hair back from my face and getting up off the bed.
‘Actually, I can. I am still her mother.’
‘I am too.’ The certainty in my claim startles me.
‘You wouldn’t show up on any DNA test,’ Libby says tersely. ‘It’s my blood in her veins. My name on her birth certificate under the heading of “mother”.’
I didn’t have to fight for custody of Amy – there was no one for me and Brian to argue over. If there had been, though, I would have won. But that’s not the case this time; I can’t afford to antagonise Libby, but I can’t let go of any claim I might make to Amy either.
‘But if you didn’t want me to be part of her life, why did you turn up last night?’ I say.
Libby pauses again, as if she’s wondering the same thing.
‘Because it’s what Esme wanted,’ she says. ‘Because I thought it might help her.’
‘Even if it didn’t help you.’
‘Exactly. Mothers have to be selfless.’
She sounds triumphant, like she’s played a trump card or pulled rank on me. Reminding me that I’m out of practice. A has-been. Anger bristles.
She tells me to meet her at the Tower of London at two o’clock.
‘They’ve set up a skating rink in the moat. You’ll get to see Esme and the two of us will have the chance to talk.’
I find Libby sitting at a table alongside the ice rink. She looks tired and worried; the tight-fitting bobble-less hat on her head deepens the furrows in her brow. Her eyes are sunken but I can tell she’s been crying.
She stiffens when she sees me approaching, then shudders and rubs her arms, masking her discomfort by blaming the weather.
‘It’s freezing,’ she says.
‘We could always go back to my place for tea and crumpets by the fire?’
Libby shakes her head and points to the ice rink.
‘You don’t have one of those in your back garden, though.’ She squints as she watches the skaters. ‘Esme needs a bit of fun. And we need her distracted.’
People in brightly coloured hats and gloves glide by, preceded by puffs of white breath. Others shuffle around close to the edge, wobbling and lunging for the perimeter wall. The powdery artificial ice muffles the slice of the blades and amplifies the thud of tumbling bodies.
‘I can’t see her,’ I say, shielding my eyes with my hand.
‘At the far end. Just coming up to do the turn.’
I spot Esme’s silver Puffa coat flashing through the crowd, her hair trailing behind her. She moves with steady, sweeping strides, shortening them to weave in and out of the people in front of her, missing them by millimetres, then pushing out again confidently.
‘She always was a good skater,’ I say. ‘You should see her on roller blades.’
‘I have,’ Libby says flatly, then gives an almost imperceptible shake of her head.
I wave as Esme glides towards us, her cheeks pink. She is panting, spent breath streaming like ectoplasm. She smiles and picks up speed.
‘Mum!’
The word is like a slap in the face bringing me round after a fainting fit. Restoring me to the consciousness of motherhood once again. When she called me Mum the night before, it felt cruel and inappropriate. Now it feels more familiar and comfortable, although that could still prove to be as transient as the misted air that accompanies the word from Esme’s mo
uth.
I move closer to the barrier. Esme swerves wide then swings in again, her skates cutting into the ice, kicking up a wake of white powder. It sprays behind her like stardust. The thud of her boots against the barrier echoes the thump of my heart.
She reaches over the barrier and throws her arms around me. Instinct makes me do the same, albeit slowly, like when I’d told Amy off as a toddler and have to gradually displace my disapproval with a comforting, reassuring hug.
But once she’s in my arms I find I can’t let go. I bury my face in her hair, breathe in her warm and clammy citrus-scented skin. Her coat is bulky with padding and I keep squeezing until I can feel her body beneath it, until I’m certain she is real.
‘I can’t breathe!’ she says, and tries to pull away from me.
‘Beth,’ Libby says. ‘Stop. She doesn’t like it.’
‘Nonsense. What child doesn’t like being cuddled?’
But Esme’s elbows flail and her shoulders buck until she shakes me off. She totters back, off balance, and for a moment I think she’ll fall, but she recovers and shoots off back into the crowd.
‘I told you,’ Libby says with a gloating smile. ‘She doesn’t like being hugged for too long. Not any more. Not like she used to. There was a time when I couldn’t hug her long or tight enough.’ Libby huddles into her own arms. ‘I miss that.’
‘She’s at that funny age, I suppose.’
It feels good to swap clichés about children with a mother again.
‘If you say so,’ Libby says doubtfully, and jerks her head at the seat alongside her. ‘We’d better get started. Her session only lasts half an hour and I’m not laying out for another one, even if I could afford it. But half an hour should be enough anyway, after the night Esme had.’ She gives a little laugh. ‘It will be enough for me too.’
‘What about me?’ I say as I sit down next to her.
‘This isn’t just about you, Beth. In some ways, you’re the least important of the three of us.’
Her words smack of the accusations levelled at me by the press; of my family of three, Amy and Brian were more deserving of sympathy and consideration than I was. In the hierarchy of hurt, I was a distant third.
The Second Life of Amy Archer Page 7