‘She’s scared it’s going to happen again, isn’t she, Tim?’
*
Maisie flops onto the sofa and rubs her feet. She pulls her book, The Night Watch by Sarah Waters, from the coffee table. Lailah recommended it on one of their short breaks. ‘Powwows’ as she calls them. Those chats have seen them through numerous upsetting days on the ward. Working in an ICU isn’t easy. Despite the professionalism they exercise with patients and their families, they both share the belief that there must be an element of humanity in what they do. And at the end of the day it’s an honour to support and care for people who are at their most vulnerable.
The easiest – and quickest – way for her to ‘switch off’, as Ben puts it, is by watching a movie curled up on the sofa or reading a book. After ten minutes, she feels a little more like herself, less like an amalgamation of five different people. Family members’ emotions inevitably rub off on her and, by the time her shift ends, she feels as if she is floating in the air like a balloon, the string holding her down the thought of her quiet time in the evening with Ben.
She leans her head back on the cushion and closes her eyes. Thoughts of Heidi’s baby leap, unbidden, into her mind. She tries to banish them but realises it is like clutching at straws. She feels the hairs on her arms rise up and opens her eyes, looking to the door across from her. She hasn’t been in that spare bedroom for just under a year. And yet still she remembers the way it last felt to turn the handle and walk in, the sweet smell greeting her in the doorway, the memories clamouring about in her head. Faces and smells and feelings she locked away, finding her once again. But most of all she remembers the pain and the guilt. A pain so strong it made her want to pull her hair out and a guilt so overwhelming, she felt as if shreds of herself had been torn away.
Chapter 16
Miller
Wednesday 8 July, 1987
He says he saw me. Saw me standing by the road watching her through the window of the post office. I should have been more careful but I couldn’t help staring, Blue-Eyes. She dropped her change on the floor and, as the redness bloomed in her cheeks, I found my eyes were glued to her face. The woman behind the counter saw it, the knee-high children buying Pez dispensers saw it, the man with the long eyebrows and goatee did too. She has that effect on people, even the adults. Probably even Father if he had been looking at her. But no. He wasn’t. He tells me to stop ‘mooning’ over her. He says it’s not healthy, the look in his eyes telling me he won’t forget this, won’t allow it to carry on. But he doesn’t know I have followed him to work and seen him grope the woman he likes to wink at when others aren’t looking. Tanya, her name is. A name to make Mother cringe if she ever heard it. And hear it she will. Father must go. He must go so I can have Sarah.
Friday 10 July, 1987
Mother likes to ‘take a moment’ in the morning, sitting at the dining table with a mug of tea and her book. She says it is her time to relax. More often than not, the latest romance she is reading will slip from between her fingers and land with a thump on the floor as her eyes flutter to a close. Father wakes her with unloving hands when he comes down for his newspaper. She jumps up, hands reaching for her book. ‘Oh, oh, I must have nodded off.’
Father nods, muttering something under his breath.
‘What did you say, dear?’
‘Nothing, nothing. I’ll get off. Don’t want to be late.’ These are the words he says every morning when he is sick of Mother.
‘OK. Have a good day.’
He bangs the door as he goes. Mother sits back down and continues to read; after three seconds, she gets up again to make herself another cup of tea. No milk, four sugars. She hums as she does this, and I know it is to block out her thoughts. She reads between sipping her tea and glancing at the clock. This lasts for half an hour. When she is finished, she closes her book, runs her hand along the cover and sighs. The morning ritual is complete.
I have watched her do this hundreds of times, peering through the banister of the stairs, both irritated by her mannerisms and fascinated by the way the ritual does not alter. Not even in the slightest. A part of me wonders if it is because this was the ritual she kept when Mary was alive. As if by repeating it she finds a form of solace in her sea of grief. I wonder if the ritual makes her feel close to Mary, to the past she so yearns for.
As she puts her mug in the sink, I make my way out of the door. I do not speak and she does not look at me. Our own small ritual, it seems.
I follow close behind Father, knowing he is already having thoughts about the quick half an hour before his colleagues arrive for work, his time with Tanya, a spotty thirty-year-old. He goes into the reception, closes the curtains and locks the door. But I can see through a gap in the fabric. I aim the camera, a Nikon, into the room and take snaps, one after the other, as the first garments of clothing fall to the floor like confetti.
Saturday 11 July, 1987
I could have left them for her yesterday but doing it while she takes one of her ‘moments’ is just too appealing. Father hasn’t come down yet and Mother’s book is slowly edging out of her hands. When it lands on the floor and her eyes close, I slip the four photographs onto the table, directly under her chin. I go back to my room and later, when I follow Father down the stairs, his aftershave making me gag, his face cleanly shaven and fresh for Tanya, she is still sitting there. Only this time, the book is still on the floor and in her trembling hands are the four photographs.
Father looks at them over her shoulder and his expression of contentment caves in. She turns, sensing him, and for a moment they just watch each other. It is almost like a silent conversation. Then Father mutters, ‘Who gave them to you?’
She doesn’t respond, only tears them in half, lip quivering. ‘Get your things and leave.’
‘Sweetheart—’
‘Leave!’
He sighs and makes his way to the door. As he passes me, I look at him and smile. His eyes widen to an almost comical extreme. The door bangs shut in his wake. Out of the window, I see his shoulders loosen, and I wonder if now he finally feels free. He will no longer have to bear the hassle of a nagging wife and strange son. He makes his way down the street, and I can’t help but laugh. That’s right, Daddy, leave. Leave June and her little oddity behind.
Chapter 17
John
Sunday 6 December, 2015
The grief comes in ebbs and flows. If he lets his mind wander for a few precious moments he forgets, his mind releasing its hold on memories of the past two weeks and offering him some relief from the pain. But then it returns as it always does and, once again, he feels as if he is drowning, lungs burning, chest aching with an inconsolable pain. Once more, the rug has been pulled out from under his feet and he is standing on a bed of nails, each sharp point a reminder of his daughter’s absence.
Jules feels the same. She eventually fell asleep on his lap, the hospital smell clinging to their clothes, tissues clutched tight in her hand, cheeks swollen with tears. When she woke, her eyes were clear, bright; then it caught up with her as it caught up with him. He didn’t say a word as she began to cry again. No words would remedy the pain, so he pulled her close to his chest and kissed her head, the rocking of her body moving in time with the sound of their agony.
When Jules was pregnant with Bonnie, he was so frightened of being a bad father. What if he didn’t check the temperature of the milk before he gave it to the baby? What if he just forgot to feed her or change her? What if he lost her in the supermarket? What if he didn’t show her enough love? What if he didn’t make her feel safe and wanted? What if? What if? But it seemed to come naturally. He did all he could as soon as Bonnie was born. He pulled himself from the bed before Jules had the chance, rubbing the sleep from his eyes; burped and hugged and rocked her until she quietened, milk dripping down her chin; mopped up sick from her mouth and poo from her bum, grimacing at the smell of both, sometimes at the same time; made sure she knew she was loved. So why had this happene
d?
*
John wipes tears from his eyes and sighs. Perhaps this is a sign that he is a bad person. Can it be that? John doesn’t believe in God but he knows for a fact He is not kind. He is a sadistic bastard.
Jules sits up, tearing away from his hug, cupping her bump in her hands. ‘Empty’ was a word she’d mentioned earlier. Empty is how he feels, devoid of everything but grief.
He eases himself from the sofa and goes to the cottage bedroom. Photos are tacked to the wall. A smaller version of his wall at home. Bonnie smiles at him, gap-toothed and messy-haired. In the centre is a black and white photo from their scan.
Bertie.
*
He pulls three small cards from his pocket. In each, a one-pound coin is taped to the paper. The first card bears the words ‘I love you’, the second ‘I love you more’, the third ‘And more’. He’d given them to Bonnie for her fourth birthday. She’d been saving up for an expensive dress from Debenhams. Three pounds was all she needed but then she couldn’t bear to ruin the cards. Five days passed before she got her pocket money and only then did she buy the dress, cards safely tucked away in her bedroom at home.
John had grabbed the cards just before the relocation. The thought of leaving them behind had made him cringe. He swipes a finger over the bundle in his hands, remembering the day she ran into his study, red-faced, clutching the money high in the air. ‘Daddy, I have enough! I have enough!’
‘That’s good, sweetheart! Shall we go and buy your dress after lunch?’
She nodded, dancing on the spot and swinging her arms from side to side, face alight with joy.
‘Yes! Mummy’s making us fake bacon sandwiches!’
‘Yummy!’ The nickname had come about from a joke Jules made about Quorn one morning. Bonnie overheard and it stuck.
When Bonnie was frightened of spiders, he’d asked her to name them, saying that, by doing so, they would have less of a hold on her. Hence, all the small black ones were Daniel and the spindly ones were Big Bertha. An unusual thing to do, he knows. But it worked nonetheless. When Don heard about their little ‘naming game’ he burst into hysterics.
John smiles. When he hears a knock, he rushes down the stairs, two at a time. Jules is already there; this is their reaction every time the phone rings or someone knocks on the door.
Don’s eyes mirror their own pain when they open the door. He hugs them both, muttering how sorry he is. ‘Your mum rang me. I… I can’t believe it. Is Bertie OK? Is he going to be all right? What did the doctor say?’
He guides Jules to the sofa and holds her close to his chest. ‘He said it was a cervical polyp. Bertie’s fine.’
‘Jesus.’ Don rubs a hand over his face. ‘That must have been terrifying.’
John sits beside them, cupping his face in his hands. He can feel Don looking at him. And, as if reading his mind, he says, ‘Bertie’s OK, John. He’s going to be fine. Don’t worry.’ John is no longer surprised by how perceptive Don is. They’ve known each other since they were children, endless days laughing until their sides ached. Don hasn’t changed much in that time. He is still jovial, funny, daft Don. If he had to describe his friend in a word, he thinks it would be loyal. He can still remember the time he and Jules were involved in a car crash. Don was on a date with a girl but he came running as soon as they called.
Since then, he’s been in a relationship with a woman called Kim. As his assistant at the paediatric unit, she shares his love of children.
‘We’re going to find Bonnie, you guys. We’re going to find her.’ He says it like a mantra, muttering under his breath to Jules.
John looks at him and is grateful for his presence. He is trying to be positive but in truth he is nearly as heartbroken as they are. The telltale signs jump out at John: the bumps in his jeans pockets where tissues have been hastily stuffed, the stains on his shirt, the puffiness to his eyes and the soreness under his nose. Don kisses Jules on the head, as much a friend to her as he is to John, and jumps up. He claps his hands together and forces a smile onto his lips. ‘Right, I know you probably don’t feel like it but you guys need to eat. I’m going to make one of my specials – you’re both as thin as I wanted to be when I did that diet a hundred years ago.’ He clicks his heels and walks to the kitchen, albeit not with his habitual bounce.
John finds himself wondering if he too sees Bonnie’s face when he goes to sleep. He and Jules do, every single night. Sometimes he even sees her in the day, his imagination sculpting her features from thin air. And he has no doubt that when they eventually fall into bed in a few hours, Bertie will join her in their nightmares because, for a moment, they really believed their son had been taken as well.
Chapter 18
Maisie
Tuesday 19 January, 2016
‘You know, when he proposed, there wasn’t a candle in sight.’ Heidi pushes a curl off her cheek and sighs. ‘It was beautiful, but not in the way you’d expect. There was no meal, no roses, no fancy speeches beforehand. It was just him, kneeling in front of me, smiling like he knew we were meant to be, in a room with some of the most beautiful art I had ever seen. It was simple. But it was beautiful. I wouldn’t have had it any other way.
‘I wasn’t like most children growing up – I didn’t envisage meeting my husband or getting married in a big white dress, none of that. We got married in a field, surrounded by cows and sheep. My dress was ruined by the end.’ She laughs. ‘The wildflowers stained it so badly it looked like I’d tie-dyed it. But it was perfect. Friends and family stood around us, John wore a shirt and a pair of jeans, my dress was a beautiful bright-yellow number. We didn’t have the ‘Wedding March’; instead Watson hooked his iPhone up to a speaker and played ‘Clair de Lune’. It was perfect.’
‘That sounds wonderful.’ Maisie visualises Heidi at her wedding, who she would be, what she would be like if she was removed from this terrible situation. Maisie watches her twist the scarf between her fingers and wonders if she is talking simply to drive her emotions away. To distract herself from the atmosphere. Maisie’s concern for her grows more every day. She wishes she could ask, she wishes she could help. She read last night that the families of crime victims often suffered terrible stress disorders, nightmares and a reluctance to step out of their own homes for fear of being attacked. Is Heidi scared she or her daughter will be mugged? That the person who hurt Tim will hurt them? Does she feel responsible for Tim? Does she feel guilty? Did she say something she regrets? Did they argue before it happened?
‘You know, when he proposed, my first thought was of him folding a map.’ She runs her fingers down Tim’s cheek, the depth of her despair filling the room. ‘Whenever we’re on a journey, he always folds the map the wrong way. It drives me mad. I don’t know why, it just does. And when he asked me, I wondered how many times I’d see him do it. Then I thought, “That’s the only thing about him that really bothers me,” and I said yes on the spot. Of course, he’s not perfect – he’d be laughing right now, you know, hearing me talk about him and that silly map; he’s stubborn and forgets to turn off the lights at night when he comes to bed. He’s lazy at times and gets easily frustrated if his work isn’t going well, but they’re such tiny things.’
‘My partner’s the same.’
‘How long have you been together?’
‘Three years. We got a place together quite early on.’ She leaves out the other side of their relationship. ‘He puts his feet on the coffee table, which drives me mad. And he’s terrible with technology – I have to do everything at home when it comes down to it.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Ben. But like you said a minute ago, they’re such tiny things. I love that he always remembers to water my sunflower.’
‘You have a sunflower? Don’t you live in a flat?’
‘Yes, but we keep it next to the window so it gets lots of light. My mum gave it to me, told me that sunflowers always face the sun, follow it across the sky. I love it but I forget to wat
er it – Ben does it for me. And he hasn’t forgotten once.’
*
Stacked haphazardly in the corner is the plethora of CDs she and Ben have collected over the years. A combination of Rod Stewart, Otis Redding, Paolo Nutini, Sam Cooke, Stevie Wonder and the Rolling Stones. She swipes the duster across the cases, dancing across the floor, singing with wild abandon, just like she did as a child.
As soon as they moved into this flat, they stuck on some music and danced through the rooms, banishing the cold silence. Afterwards, exhausted, they splayed out on the floor, laying out the furniture in their minds.
Maisie digs through the fridge and snaps the lid off a jar of gherkins. She’s been craving them all day. Popping one into her mouth, she sighs, savouring the taste under her tongue, then throws a jumper over her shirt. Despite the blood pumping through her body, the cold bites at her skin like a dog at her heels. She has always been one to feel the cold easily.
At night, when the temperature plummets, she sometimes lies awake for hours, too cold to drift off, remembering how she used to lie shivering under the duvet at her mother’s cottage, a fine layer of ice building on the fabric. They didn’t have enough money to pay for heating and so they gathered every duvet and blanket in their house and curled up together on the sofa. They lit candles to kick off some heat and played music or read books. It wasn’t always easy but she remembers those times with her mother – squashed up under blankets, feet ensconced in five pairs of socks, two scarves wound around her neck – with fondness. Of course, she and Ben have enough money to pay for the heating now, but they try to keep it off. Every penny is set on a course for the bank.
If the weather forecast says the temperature is set to drop overnight, she always finds two hot-water bottles on her side of the bed. One at the bottom, one at the top, Ben curled up, waiting for her. It is such a small thing but she appreciates it more than she can ever put into words.
Lies Between Us Page 8