Go to Sleep

by Helen Walsh

  The foghorn blares out again. I’m smitten with an impulse to climb up on to the promenade wall and step right out into the dense inky stillness below. I think it, then drive the thought down, down. I snap my eyes open, jounce up the brakes on the buggy and quickly head away from the water’s edge. Come on, Joe. Me and you. Me and you, baby.

  31

  I’m punished for my selfishness, letting him sleep all that time while I sat with Dad, talking like I didn’t have a care in the world. As soon as I shut the front door and before I’ve decided how best to finesse the stairs, Joe twists himself awake – and he’s off. Nothing I do will console him. I take him up to my bed and lie down with him, Joe working himself up to a spluttering frenzy as he’s unable, or unwilling, to draw succour from my hopeless tit. I try him with a bottle. He’s not interested in that either. I’m gone here, absolutely fucked. I lie there and exist and wait for the next thing to happen.

  Later, simply for the sake of doing something, I take Joe back downstairs, change him and set him down on his baby mat. I snap on the TV. It’s just gone four in the morning and I’m staring blankly at the screen, listless, the undead. I’ve come to anticipate the new dawn’s telly with the same fevered excitement that rushed me home for The Chart Show or The Hit Man and Her when I was a teenager. Here, I know I can put Joe down. From our third morning home, he seemed to respond to something about the kids’ TV. Could it be that the colour schemes, the voices, even the pitch of the volume is all lab-tested to assure a cosy response from the pre-school multitudes? Whatever it is, it works with Joe. He will slump back in his sprung bouncy chair, and I will rest my yearning eyes. It’s not sleep, but it’ll do. Any rest will do. The countdown commences. 4.35 a.m. That’s nearer to five than four, and once we get past five . . . 5.11. Close enough to 5.15, and once that’s behind us we’re sailing. And before you know it, 6 a.m. is upon us, and Channel Five’s garish reveille will hold him in thrall. I know all the programmes, have already seen every repeat from hours and hours of devoted viewing with my insomniac son. I know Peppa Pig inside out (how does Mrs Rabbit hold down all those jobs and manage to make salad for her indolent husband every day?); I note that the Wise Old Elf from Ben and Holly’s Little Kingdom sounds very much like Grandpa Pig; and after sitting through The Little Princess, Roary the Racing Car and Fifi and the Flowertots I am puzzled as to why so many animated characters, from diminutive yet demanding royals to scheming and vituperative bumblebees all speak with a Wigan accent. Day after day I stumble around in a zombie-like state, my head so heavy it feels like it’s going to fall off my shoulders – and all the while, the constant, nagging refrain of a cursed, catchy jingle haunts me. Day after day of the theme from Humf, or the song about the harvest from CBeebies. Mellow fruitfulness? My arse. I lie back on the couch and watch Joe watching telly, something I swore he’d never do. And I am so, so tired.

  Joe starts up the witches hiccup and, automatically massaging my breast as I swoop to pick him up, I hold him to my nipple, hating him as I wander around the room. My head feels giddy, like it’s spinning off my neck, and the need to slash and harm something smashes through me with its violent promise of release. I force my nipple angrily into his mouth.

  ‘Take it, for fuck’s sake! Take it!’

  And this time, he does. He gulps and slurps and I flop down on the couch and for a while the whole thing feels nice; but then he gets himself mad again, he’s frustrated with the pace and the flow, he’s greedy for more and he sucks too hard, flashing a stab-sharp pain through me. I cry out and pull away but his jaw clamps tighter. I release the suction with a finger. A trickle of milk runs down over his cheek, taunting him. There’s a jab of self-pity, before he slams his loathing back to me as his tiny fist reaches out to pump the futile breast.

  I try again. He seems to latch on but then seconds later I’m flinching from another lightning burst of pain. And now he’s gone again – he’s really gone. The pitch and tremble of his cries pull my stomach taut like a wire. Through it, those monstrous notions come flooding back.

  ‘Please stop crying, Joseph. Please stop!’

  I screw my eyes tight shut, will the furies away. I offer Joe the breast again, but he wriggles himself off it. He’s hysterical now, struggling to gasp for breath between hiccuping rasps of rage. Only the sound of my buzzer prevents me from hurling him down and walking away. I stride across the room. Whoever is stupid or selfish enough to be calling here at this time of the morning is getting it – even if it’s Dad. The buzzer sounds again before I, before anyone, could possibly get to it. I’m so mad now I don’t even answer it. I just hook up my bra, put Joe on my shoulder and march down the stairs, my anger mounting with every step.

  ‘What?’ I spit as I yank open the door.

  And the young man standing there in the soft drizzle looks as shocked as I do.

  32

  ‘James. Fuck . . . How did you find me?’ We stand there on the empty street sizing each other up through the mist of drizzle. He’s wearing a thin, almost transparent cagoule, so completely wet through it’s slapped tight to his chest. Rain drips from the tip of his nose. ‘James?’

  He ducks the question, tilts his head to Joe.

  ‘Hello, mate.’

  And something about the way Joe’s eyes soften as James taps the tip of his nose with his thumb just melts me. I’m a sucker for anyone, anyone who responds to my baby.

  I ask him again, much more controlled now. ‘How did you find my address?’

  He just shrugs, discards the question as though it were too daft, too simple to merit an answer. He unzips his jacket, delves inside and pulls out a small package wrapped up in a Tesco’s plastic bag. It takes me a second.

  ‘Ah. Thank you, James. I was wondering when I’d get this back.’

  ‘There’s no damage,’ he says. ‘Everything what you’ve got from the hozzy, it’s sound.’

  I shake my head, angry all over again.

  ‘Why did you feel you had to just take it without even—’

  He cuts me off mid sentence.

  ‘I never just took it, did I? You was asleep. Gone. Right out of the game.’ He looks me up and down. ‘And I needed it. Bad.’

  ‘How come?’ He narrows his eyes like a child might, ready for rejection. I’m cross with him, but I start to melt. ‘Come on in out of the rain . . .’

  ‘Nah. Thanks anyway. Gorra get back to our Lacey.’

  ‘Lacey? But . . . the hostel. What?’

  He nods to the camera.

  ‘That’s what this was all about, weren’t it? I needed proper evidence.’

  ‘Of what?’

  He drops his head. ‘Of what me mam was doing.’

  And finally the penny drops. I remember – back on the maternity ward – James trying to tell me all this. Shit!

  ‘Jesus Christ! She had her out there?’ James nods, slowly. ‘Fuck! Did you call the police? Does Andy know?’

  He holds his hand up.

  ‘Look, Rache. That’s what I’ve come to tell you. It’s dealt with, yeah. It’s done and dusted. Proper.’ He starts stroking the back of Joe’s head, addressing the baby as he talks. ‘Me and Lace are getting took in – together. It’s going to be sound. But I couldn’t have done none of it – nothing – without you.’

  My God. I’m overcome. Not one of my kids has ever mentioned what I do, in the way that it affects them. It’s just a given.

  He pulls back now and takes a step away from me. ‘So I just wanted to say thanks and that.’

  He doesn’t move. His face is etched with fear and tension, as though of all the hardship and trauma he’s survived, this is the hardest trial James has ever had to face. I wink at him. ‘All part of the service.’

  ‘Yeah, well.’ He takes another step back. ‘If you or the little fella ever need anything. I’ve got a new mobile now. I’ll text you the number. Anything. Right?’

  I do not know what to say. My eyes are filling up and, anticipating a scene, James turns round no
w and starts to walk away. I watch him go. Joe seems hypnotised, following his progress down the road. Just as I’m about to shut the front door and go back upstairs, James stops dead and comes loping back down the road.

  ‘Rache. Are you sure youse two are okay?’

  I manage to dig out a baffled laugh.

  ‘What? Yes! Of course we are.’

  He just stands out there in the fine morning rain, staring at me. After a long beat he nods, once.

  ‘Okay.’ He doesn’t move at first, then, under his breath, says ‘okay’ again, walks back up Belvidere and this time he doesn’t look back.

  33

  Somewhere downstairs my phone is ringing. For fuck’s sake. I thought I turned it off after James went. As soon as Joe and I went back up, perhaps somehow calmed by his visit, he took his fill from me without grumbling and, after two sloppy, self-satisfied burps, fell fast asleep. And this time I did as Adele told me – I went straight back to bed myself. It feels like I’ve been asleep for a minute when the message tone shrieks out, once, twice, two sharp electric shocks to my psyche. I force my head up three centimetres to read the time on the bedside clock. A quarter to twelve. Outside the window the world has been spinning gaily for hours already, neither noticing nor caring that Joe and I had stepped off the carousel. Here, inside our cell, my head sways and pulses, aching with a dull despair.

  I sit up and take in the chaos of the bedroom, testimony to the madness of this and every other night; up and down, up and down the stairs, rocking my angry man from room to room. Out of the crib and on to the breast. Feed. Clean. Feed. Clean. I can plot it all out like some macabre tapestry. At one point I found I was looking down at myself from the ceiling, mocking my hollowed-out, puff-eyed face, smashed with exhaustion. I look at Joe, so still now. So blamelessly still and sleeping. I peer closer. His chest lies flat, barely rising at all, and again I find myself dreaming how life would be. If I could sleep. If I could only get some sleep. My fantasy is brief and faintly drawn; no more than the gentle stir of a passing breeze on a puddle, but it’s there nonetheless, lurking behind the scrim of my wakeful consciousness, waiting to be summoned.

  The phone rings again. I lie down, ignore it. I begin to drift and it rings once more. This one gets through to me. Once I’ve processed the question – who needs to speak to me so urgently that they’ll call and call until I acquiesce? – it’s a matter of how and when I will drag myself up and out of bed and pad back down to the telephone. I place my palms flat down on the mattress and force myself up, the sudden rush of blood as I stand sickening me with a shocking and repulsive nausea.

  Downstairs, I play back the tape. Only one of my callers has left me a message – Adele. There’s a moment’s delay before she speaks. In the immediate background I can hear the sound of women chattering, which intensifies my sense of impending dread.

  ‘Oh, shit!’ she says. ‘Sorry, darlin’! Never will get used to these things. Listen. It’s myself. Adele. I’ve called round a couple of times. D’you think you can pop in and see us at some point? Nothing to worry about . . .’

  Nothing to worry about! Why won’t she tell me, then? My mind is vaulting with histrionic worst-case scenarios. Is Joe anaemic? Worse perhaps – they found some critical disorder that right through pregnancy was never picked up on. His heart, maybe, or his lungs. His chest rarely seems to rise and fall as it should if he was breathing fully and properly. Or maybe, no . . . he’s suffered brain damage in labour. Oxygen starvation in his first few seconds, when it was just me and him on this very floor . . . him with the umbilical cord around his little neck. Oh my God – that’s why he doesn’t sleep! The poor kid is brain-damaged. I don’t listen to the end of Adele’s message.

  ‘Dad. Can you come round?’

  ‘Is everything okay?’

  ‘Not sure, to be honest. Joe and I have to get up to the clinic kind of immediately.’

  But by the time he arrives, the idea that there’s something seriously wrong with my baby turns in on itself and shifts the spotlight on to me. Of course. It’s me she wants to see, not Joe.

  * * *

  As we wait at the traffic lights, my heart sinks. Vicky is crossing. Her head is dipped into the buggy as she coos at Abigail. I’m shot through with envy. This woman does not have a care in the world. And I can’t look away. It’s as though I’m sending out radio waves to attract her attention. At the exact moment I snap out of it and go to busy myself with Joe, she spots me. Her face lights up. She is surprised and overjoyed to see me. She bounds towards the car, all smiles, but the lights change and Dad, oblivious, eases away. I don’t know how I must look to Vicky. Sorry, maybe. Stunned. Or possibly just a blank, vacant, whitewashed, sleep-starved shell of a human being. But something about my expression curbs her gaiety and she steps back out of the road, making a ‘phone me’ gesture with her fingers as we pass. I nod.

  Dad’s phone has been bleeping. As soon as we pull up in the clinic’s car park, he has it out, scanning and speed reading his texts. I can’t help wondering when this self-professed Luddite became so technologically adroit. Even his phone is groovier than mine, one of those flat, sleek, touch screen contraptions. I let myself out with as little fuss as possible, then start unbuckling Joe’s car seat. Dad jerks his head up.

  ‘Just gimme two ticks.’

  ‘It’s fine, Dad. You wait here.’

  ‘I’ll take the baby.’

  ‘Stop flapping, Dad. We won’t be long.’

  He looks grateful. His phone beeps again and he swoops to read it before he can correct himself.

  ‘Sorry. Just the department.’

  I raise an eyebrow.

  ‘You two working things out?’

  ‘Maybe.’ He gives an embarrassed smile, puts down his phone. ‘It’s far from being my biggest priority at the moment.’

  I lean back in and kiss him.

  ‘Well, it should be. Me and Joe are fine. Call her.’

  I swoop up the car seat by its handle and haul myself and the baby inside. Adele is as chirpy as ever, cooing over Joe.

  ‘My word but you’re a stunner, so you are. Would you look at him, girls! God but you’re a beautiful boy – and you know it, do you not?’ There are even back handed compliments for me, too. ‘Well, now! Isn’t your mummy feeding you well? Aren’t you the chubby little fella, hey?’

  And for all that Joe is gurgling and the mood seems light and easy, I’m keen to get right to the heart of the matter.

  ‘So, Adele. You called me in?’

  ‘I did indeed.’

  ‘If you want to check him over, let’s just be honest and get on with it, hey?’

  She cranks an extra level of reassurance into her smile.

  ‘Rachel, honey, the bruises are a concern. You’d want us to be aware, and to be curious about something like that, wouldn’t you? But you yourself are not on trial here.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘Absolutely not! This is for your own good as much as for Joe . . .’

  ‘Here we go . . .’

  ‘Look, love – it’s nothing. I simply need to ask you some very basic questions. The bruising is not consistent with a child being mistreated. But nonetheless . . .’

  ‘What?’

  She lets out a long, exasperated sigh.

  ‘Could you just – and this is not a criticism, right? But just show me how you’re holding Joe. Particularly when you bath him and change his nappy.’

  I squeeze an ironic face for her, inject some airy levity into my voice.

  ‘You’re serious?’

  ‘Well, no, it’s not an order. I just wonder whether, especially when Mummy’s a little stressed or sleep-starved . . .’

  ‘Whether I beat him?’

  I’m surprised when she snaps at me.

  ‘Rachel! Now stop this! I’m trying to help you here.’ I take a step back, hang my head a little. She comes right over and hugs me. ‘And more than anything, I’m trying to help that gorgeous wee boy of yours.’

/>   My head still down, I mutter an apology. She lifts my chin with a finger, smiles into my eyes. If she could peer inside me she’d see me stall, then freeze, with the cold, hard shock of sheer confusion. I actually do not know whether I’m coming or going. Did I hurt Joe? No. I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t.

  I strip him down, go through the motions of holding him as I would, show her what a terrible mother I am. The bruises have long faded now. Adele seems apologetic, caught out almost.

  ‘Is everything okay, darling?’

  ‘Better than ever,’ I chirp.

  ‘Truthfully?’ I nod. ‘Look at me, Rachel. I really can’t help you if you won’t be straight with me.’

  I stand up and level with her.

  ‘Honestly. He’s a good, good baby. He slept like a dream last night.’

  She gets up to face me.

  ‘Well, good. Good.’ We stand there like that for a minute, each trying to out-smile the other. Eventually, Adele turns back towards the waiting room. ‘Okay. If all is well, then, all is well!’

  She laughs and holds the door open. I scoop up the car seat, force one more tight-lipped smile and step back out into the corridor.

  GO TO SLEEP

  34

  I buzz Dad in through the front door and as soon as he bounds into the lobby, his nose bright red from the cold, I can see he’s pleased with himself over something.

  ‘Just chased some little scallywag outside.’

  ‘Oh? What was he doing?’

  ‘Just hanging around. Tell you, love – when you’ve lived around here as long as I have, knowing the wrong ’uns from the right ’uns comes to be second nature.’

  I swallow a rising ire.

  ‘Right. I’m sure he meant no harm.’

  ‘No harm?’ His eyes go all wide and self-righteous. He lets out a little snort. ‘Fair enough.’

  I feel like giving it to him, full on, but I manage to swallow it.