Go to Sleep

by Helen Walsh

  ‘That way we won’t have to move them on before they’re ready. Mind you,’ he dips in close to me, ‘I can’t see it happening. The City Fathers would far rather commission another iconic sculpture than make a real investment in the city’s future and turn young lives around.’

  The lift doors open. I wheel the pram out, puzzled as to why Andy stays put. It takes a moment to register that we haven’t actually moved yet; we’re still on the ground floor.

  ‘Not getting much sleep then, I take it?’ Andy gives me an infuriating little wink. ‘My missus was just like that, first few months. She was putting the car keys in the fridge, pouring tea on the cereal.’ He laughs to himself, mutters something indecipherable. ‘Take it you’re feeding him, then?’

  And again, the knowing wink. I’m burning up with righteous anger, now. Andy has always had a way of rubbing me up the wrong way but what does he mean by ‘feeding’ him? As opposed to what? Poisoning him? And what if I weren’t ‘feeding’ him, by the way? What if I decided to do what was right by me for once and give Joe a fucking bottle? Would that make me any less of a mother? Would it? Well, let me tell you something else, Mr Glaswegian Lefty Gobshite! This thing that’s supposed to come so naturally to us, yes? This thing we’re preprogrammed to feel – the maternal fucking instinct! I’m not feeling it. D’you hear that? It doesn’t fucking exist! I’m hating this. Every fucking minute of it. You can keep your gooey-eyed gargling to yourself because my baby is not fucking cute! All I want is someone to take him away, anywhere, so I can fucking well sleep. There! Ha! I thought that’d wipe the smile off your face . . .

  And now the doors are opening up again, spewing us out into the brightly lit corridor of the hostel, a dozen different sound systems all competing to be heard above the bark of the lone TV. I sneak a quick peek into the kitchen as we pass by. A couple of girls are perched on the draining board giggling about something. We head into Andy’s office. He closes the door quietly behind us, and slips into serious mode. ‘So. James,’ I say.

  ‘Yeah. He’s not here. He took off.’

  ‘Yes, Andy. He took off to see me! Or didn’t he tell you that?’

  He lowers his head; that overly patient, condescending thing he does when he’s ‘protecting’ his clients.

  ‘No, Rache. It wasn’t you he was going to . . .’ He raises his head back up, hits me with a big, significant look. ‘He just went, after he spoke to you last night. I don’t know what you talked about – maybe you can enlighten me. But I’m afraid we can’t have James back, not this time.’

  I feel caught out. I rake back through my impaired recall. What did we speak about? Nothing much. I just put him on the spot. Made the date.

  ‘Andy, listen. I know what you’re going to say, but I need to take a look in James’s room.’

  ‘Come off it, Rachel! You know I cannae do that.’

  ‘It’s important. He’s got some . . . paperwork of mine in there.’

  Andy makes a face.

  ‘Paperwork! Come, come, Ms Massey. Surely you can do better than that?’ He lets out a big dramatic sigh and opens up the key cupboard on the wall behind his desk. He heads for the door. ‘I know nothing about this. Yes?’

  I nod.

  Andy pads away, leaving me and Joe alone with the keys. ‘Five minutes. I hope you find what you’re looking for.’

  * * *

  I set to work quickly. James’s room looks like our flat did the other day – drawers turned out, clothes and DS games strewn all over his bed and floor. Just about visible under the thrown-back duvet is the handset of a clunky old Nokia mobile. I fish it up, hoping for clues, but the battery is missing, as is the back to the phone. I duck down on to hands and knees and spy the battery, halfway under the bed. There are voices coming from the corridor, and Joe is starting to cough up his witch’s cackle. I secrete the phone’s pieces in my pocket, check the coast is clear and make my way out. Andy’s office is still empty as I return James’s key to the cupboard. I call up the creaky old lift and Joe and I make good our escape.

  Outside, across the road, I see a familiar figure. It takes me a moment to register who it is. I duck back into the shadows. She’s talking to a couple of my girls, Kerry Anne and Danielle, or trying to talk them into something, more like. And I can tell by her posture, the stiff bar of her shoulders, the self-conscious fingering of her hair, that Shiv is way out of her depth here. That woman-child act, the wide eyes and the pretence that she doesn’t know she’s cute always worked with my boys, but the girls despise her for it. They see right through it. I watch the scene play out. Shiv flags down a taxi and tries to chivvy the girls into it. Danielle acquiesces at first, but Kerry Anne drags her back. The driver loses patience, takes off. They stand there on the pavement arguing, Kerry Anne rubbing her stomach protectively, Shiv trying to talk her down. Then, out of nowhere, Kerry Anne steps right up to Shiv, glowering into her face. And here’s the thing; I’m scared for Shiv. I dislike her, but I wish her no ill. I start looking for a break in the traffic, but it’s flying past at speed in both directions. They won’t even hear me if I shout. I step back again, willing the lights to change. Shiv stays calm though. Keeping her eyes trained hard on Kerry Anne, she takes one step back and away from her, but there isn’t a trace of fear. If anything, Shiv is suppressing a desire to give Kerry Anne exactly what she deserves – a smack in the face. Very deliberately, Shiv flags down another taxi and bundles Danielle inside. She jumps in after her, barricading Danni from her mate, so she can’t drag her back out again, and slams the taxi door shut. She says something to the driver, then slides the window down. Shiv barks something at Kerry Anne who rolls her eyes, curses to herself then opens the taxi door and joins them. I find myself applauding her.

  My mother used to tell me that when you become Mummy the world turns on its axis and when it spins back it is different, nothing will ever look the same. That Shiv was able to master those girls so swiftly, and especially one as cocksure and volatile as Kerry Anne might have filled me with envy not that long back. But right now I’m suffused with a spirit that is neither jealousy nor admiration, but something akin to hope.

  * * *

  I’m sat off by a little sandstone turret in a park overlooking the Mersey, feeding Joe. I’m not too sure how I got here, what I’m doing here, but the boisterous clamour of kids filtering down the hill propels me back to reality. I’m gripping a half empty can of Coke. It’s flat and syrupy but I have a raging thirst and I guzzle up the residue in a few greedy gulps. The buzz from the sugar and caffeine lifts me for a moment but just as soon wears thin, dragging me down someplace cramped and dim. I remember James’s phone in my pocket. I was going to fit it back together, once I got Joe settled. I fish out the battery and match it up to the handpiece. James has obviously flung it across his bedroom, or smashed it against the wall. There’s a big shard of plastic missing, and the battery won’t engage without my holding it in position with my thumb and forefinger. I hold the start button in with my fingernail and wait for the phone to crank up. At first, there’s nothing. Then I begin to scroll through his texts, and it’s clear why he’s left in such a hurry. Kemal, one of the kids from the hostel, has seen James’s sister back on the patch. Shit! And there’s me agonising over wanting to bottle-feed my boy.

  In situations like this, I always know what to do. Textbook or instinct, I always call these ones right; but now my brain won’t process it. I’m flailing in the dark here. I know this is a police matter: Lacey is a school kid so whether it’s her skag-bag of a mother or some lairy pimp who’s doing the procuring, there’s a crime being committed here. But what’s the procedure? How do I not fuck this up for the kid? For James, too . . . Ordinarily, I’d call Faye but she’s been chanting the ‘not our problem’ line like a mantra; and I still haven’t invited her round to see Joe. I’ll find James. That’s what I’ll do. I’ll settle Joe, then go and find James McIver.

  Tiredness kicks in – a jagged, jerky tiredness. There’s a metalli
c tang sweating off my skin. Joe seems to smell it; thrashes away, won’t take the nipple properly. He’s asleep and then he isn’t. The light is starting to fade. I stick him in his buggy, some vague sensory prod driving me back up the hill where the road is starting to bloom with artificial light. I see a car slow down, a wraithlike figure step inside it. Dotted along the horizon other scrawny silhouettes skulk and prance, and I know where I am now – up on Everton Road. I make my way back towards town. Baby or no baby, no taxi will stop here in Liverpool’s brasslands, but no matter how purposeful my stride, my limbs are heavy and we barely seem to make any progress. The wind picks up and slams into me, swerving me sideways. Joe’s frightened all of a sudden. I struggle with the polythene windshield and try to soothe him, stroking his head. I manage to snap down three of the eight button-studs before a violent gust takes it out of my hands and launches it fifty, a hundred metres down the street like tumbleweed. Joe’s pushchair shoots off too, and I have to leap to drag it away from the roadside.

  Joe starts to gulp at the air. I turn the buggy round so I’m dragging it backwards, away from the wind, and I cut back down through the park, hoping there’ll be more cabs on Great Homer Street. Even if we have to walk back into town before we see a taxi, it’s more sheltered further away from the Brow. A downpour starts, soaking us immediately, so punitive is its drive. I drag the buggy into the lee of a bus stop and crouch right over Joe, sheltering him with my back. The clattering of rainfall on the bus stop’s roof sounds deranged; more thunderous than hailstones.

  As the deluge slows I can hear now that Joe is crying, has probably been crying all the time. His rain cover blown away and his clothes soaked though, the poor mite is frozen cold and I hate myself to the core. How could I plunge my baby into jeopardy like this? How could I put another waif first? I look down on him, my little Bean, his face all pinched tight and red and rain-stung and I’m flattened by guilt. No more, Rachel – no more. Faye is so right. James isn’t your problem. Joe is your charge, now; your sole priority, your one and only duty. Get him home. Keep him safe.

  I crouch and put him to my breast. It feels good, and I find myself smiling. We’ll do this, you and me. Just you wait and see, Joey. It’ll all work out just fine. I look down at him and realise now I’ve been talking to him, to myself; talking out loud. He’s staring up at me, his angry cross-eyed compass drilling into me. How could you, Mamma? his eyes are beseeching me. How could you?

  ‘Yeah, well what about you?’

  ‘What about me? What have I done?’

  ‘You know! Don’t act the innocent. So small, so blameless . . .’

  I come to. My nose is touching his, and I feel faint. How can someone this tiny wreak so much havoc? Are other babies like this? Or is this, what’s happening now, the first sign of something more sinister? Has my inability to feel for him already filtered through to him on some level? Will his frustration at his mother’s abject failure to nurture him turn to hatred? Is this how women-haters are made? I don’t know. I don’t know. All I know is that I haven’t slept since he was born – and I’m letting him down.

  As soon as I can get my head together we need to think this whole thing through. Maybe now’s the time to move on after all? To the countryside, maybe, or somewhere else, far away where the rhythm of living is slow and simple. And, who knows? Maybe, away from the constant churn and chaos of the city, Joe might just sleep.

  24

  The mice are back. I inherited them when I first moved here, before I had my beautiful, yard-wide floorboards sanded and polished, and the gaps like wind tunnels between them filled and sealed. At first it was just a few pellets in the corner, and by the fridge. I thought they were crumbs of burnt toast until I saw something streak across the middle of the room one evening, bold as you like. So those toast crumbs were mouse droppings; and the culprit was far from cute. As it scuttled past, the vibrating noise of it made my hairs stiffen with revulsion. I felt violated. I couldn’t sleep for imagining mice running up the cavities in the walls, burrowing down under the floorboards, foraging and defecating under cupboards. And now they’re back. There’s no mistaking the little brown bullets by the hearth; it’s mouse shit.

  * * *

  I can’t lay a newborn baby to sleep in a house that’s infested with rodents. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t sleep. Perhaps the mice are nibbling at his toes or his cheeks as he lies in his cot. I shudder and call pest control. The emergency number clicks through to an automated response. Cursing them, I check the time on the wall clock and laugh bitterly. It’s gone 9 p.m. I don’t want to bother Dad and Jan at this late hour, but the heating has clicked off now and soon I’ll hear the scurry and scratch of mice claws. I pace the room, rocking and cradling the tragic, wizened Joe. He’s fast asleep and I still can’t go to bed. I hear a scuttling noise and pick up the phone.

  ‘Dad. I’ve got mice,’ I announce.

  ‘Mice?’

  I hear Jan clatter across their woodblock floor in the background.

  ‘Mice? At this time of year?’ she whines.

  ‘Are you sure?’ Dad asks.

  ‘Of course I’m sure!’

  ‘Well . . . everywhere’s closed. There’s nothing we can do now, till tomorrow. Do you want to come and stay here? I can pick you up in a jiffy.’

  ‘Not really,’ I say.

  I wait for him to offer a mercy mission to Tesco to buy poison and mousetraps. I don’t care if it’s inhumane. My child is not living in a flat that’s got mice.

  ‘Well, you will call us if you need anything, darling? And I’ll be over first thing.’

  ‘Yeah. Thanks.’

  Thanks for nothing. I put the phone down, reminded abruptly of my place in his world. I gaze down at Joe in my arms. He’s so frail, so feeble. I move closer to kiss his full cheeks, but I have to pull away; his little face seems full of hatred. His lips are twisting and leering, and I cannot look at him. Even in his sleep, it seems Joe’s taunting me. Needled by my child, irked by my father and the mice, I know that there’s no way I’ll be sleeping tonight.

  There’s nothing we can do now, till tomorrow.

  You mean nothing you and Jan can do, but there’s something you can do, Daddy.

  And the more I stew, the more all this starts to make sense. He’s trying to teach me a lesson! He’s calling my bluff – his feisty, headstrong, wayward daughter, determined to do things her own way. And, more than anything, he’s telling me, you’ve made your bed, darling, now lie in it. Drown in it.

  I shift position on the sofa then wriggle again, trying to get comfortable. He’s never been able to articulate it, Dad, but what I know is this: he disapproves of my life, utterly. He disapproves of the route I’ve taken, and the steps that I’ve taken to get here. He’s always harboured hopes that the life lessons he gave me would have somehow led me elsewhere; that I might have become somebody different to the person I am today.

  * * *

  Not long after Mum died I made up my mind what I wanted to do with my life. I was nervous, even then, letting Dad know – letting him down. I could see the betrayal in his eyes; hear the bitter tang of disappointment in his too-jovial response. ‘Social work? Darling! That’s . . . fab!’ Honestly. He said that my life-choice, my passion, the thing that I had decided to devote my working career to was ‘fab’. I must have gulped or flinched, because he grabbed my hand, squeezed it hard, staring right into my eyes: ‘Such a noble profession, darling.’

  But I knew what he was thinking, then as always. This is a reaction to her mother’s death. A little phase she’s going through. She’ll come round in time. This is what people do when they lose a loved one. They’re consumed by the need to do something, something good. They run marathons, climb Everest, swap their high-flying city jobs for the front lines of brutal civil wars. And Dad was not so wrong, thinking that of me. I did my penance, too – but there were no marathons, no huge feats of endurance. Instead, I served my time selling moth-bitten cardigans in Oxfam on Allerton
Road. I did my bit, for sure. But if Dad thought my career path was all bound up with Mum’s passing he was sorely mistaken – not that he’d be able to accept it if I beat him with the truth from now till eternity.

  My back is starting to ache. I shift position again, and I can almost smell the musty Oxfam store. Ha! How Mum would have hated that. She was frugal to a fault, Margaret Massey, yet she’d rather go without than have anything whatsoever to do with secondhand goods. During my short-lived Goth phase I’d come home with long black overcoats and elbow-length black lace gloves and she’d shudder with real disgust.

  ‘You have no idea where this coat’s been. It could have belonged to a murderer.’

  No, she wouldn’t have wanted her daughter selling other people’s leftovers any more than she’d have welcomed me putting on a pair of running shoes or swapping my vintage brooch for a pink ribbon. The idea of five hundred women running through the Mersey tunnel in loving memory of their dearly departed was just plain daft to my mum. Death, dying – this was a private affair.

  But nor would she have wanted this for me, to tell the truth; she would have yearned for something grander in scope and ambition. Law or Medicine would have fit her notion of a ‘respectable’ profession – and boy did Mum love respectable! Yet even so, I have a sneaking feeling that in her deepest, most private recesses Mum nurtured ambitions of my being, well, famous. It’s laughable. I’m almost laughing now, remembering her encouraging me to stand on a stool and sing ‘Yesterday’ at her best friend’s fortieth birthday party, my cheeks smarting crimson as my six-year-old self stood stiffly and battered out the syrupy old standard. Ha! Yes, Mother would have had me on Britain’s Got Talent had she lived. So much for respectable.

  And anyway, it isn’t even social work what I do, is it? Not in the purest sense; not according to Mum. I can see her now, I can hear her: