Be Careful What You Hear

by Paul Pilkington

  And then I realised where we had met. I felt myself flush. It had been back in the early stages of my depression. I’d taken Grace out shopping and had suddenly, inexplicably, broken down in tears in the local Co-op supermarket. I was slumped against a fridge, clinging on to the pram for support, sobbing. I could hardly see through the tears, but was aware that other shoppers were moving past me. An old lady asked if I was okay, but didn’t probe further when her question went unanswered. And then a woman of about my age, also with a pram, put her arm around my back and guided me into the back staff room. From there, the female manager of the store took over, making me a cup of tea and chatting to me until I had recovered my composure.

  I thought of pretending I hadn’t realised, but I sensed from a micro-expression she too had already remembered. ‘In the Co-op. A few months ago. You really helped me.’

  ‘Yes. In the supermarket.’ She shifted Alfie so he was facing towards her. ‘How are…things? You look really well,’ she added quickly. ‘I wondered afterwards if you were okay.’

  She didn’t seem at all uncomfortable, or overly sympathetic, which also put me at ease. ‘I’m fine now. I went through a really rough time. But I’m out the other side.’ I kissed Grace on the top of her head, as she sleepily gazed back at me.

  ‘That’s great to hear.’

  By the time the singing session had begun, Grace had woken up properly. I balanced her on my legs, which were crossed in front of me. There wasn’t enough room to stretch them out, so for the forty minutes I would have to stay relatively still. Grace seemed to love the sessions. She would gaze, mesmerised at the two library workers at the front, who were leading the singing. The two ladies also had a range of props, including puppets. Grace was especially taken with the rabbit, which starred in a song about sleeping bunnies. Halfway through, instruments were handed out, and she absolutely loved waving the shakers around.

  I was only half concentrating on the songs. In truth, my mind was elsewhere. I was thinking of Sophie. About how I had reacted, or possibly, overreacted. I had assumed that Sophie was thinking that what I had heard, or thought I had heard, was potentially a return of my mental problems. Maybe though I’d been unfair to her. It could be she hadn’t thought that at all.

  Although the look on her face…

  The session ended and I gathered our things together, retrieving the pram and heading for the exit. I was thinking of Sophie again when I spotted her, nose in book, by the entrance. She looked up and smiled warmly, immediately setting me at ease after I had run off on her like that.

  I smiled back apologetically. ‘You’ve been waiting for me?’

  She made a point of looking at the front of the book in her hand. ‘I’m actually getting quite into this. It’s a mystery. They’ve just arrived at their apartment and found someone nearly beaten to death. Oh, and someone else is missing, and they’re not sure whether they’re the one who has beaten the other person up.’

  ‘Sounds intriguing.’

  She placed it back on the “Fast Backs” shelf. ‘I might come and pick it up another day.’

  ‘I’m sorry for running off on you like that,’ I said, as Sophie turned back to face me. ‘I guess I’m feeling a bit defensive, and upset, about what happened last night.’

  ‘You mean, you’re worried that…’

  We paused briefly as a couple of mothers passed by, including Archie’s mum, who I nodded a goodbye to.

  Sophie lowered her voice. ‘You think you might have imagined it?’

  We moved outside to a quiet spot just around the corner. Grace appeared content in her pram, playing with her favourite toy of the moment – a small mouse that squeaked when you squeezed it. I stroked her hair gently. ‘I guess I am a bit, yes.’

  Sophie mulled that over. ‘Did you mention anything to James? About what you heard.’

  ‘No, of course not. Why, you think I should?’

  ‘Probably not. I mean, it’s up to you, of course. But I don’t think it’s a good idea at this stage.’

  ‘At this stage?’

  ‘Before you’ve had chance to rationalise things.’

  ‘So you do think I’m imagining things?’

  ‘No, I didn’t say that. I just don’t want you, or James, to get hurt, over something for which there’s probably an innocent explanation.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘You said it yourself – you were as good as asleep when you thought you heard what you heard. It was most likely part of a dream, mixed up with what you could really hear over the baby monitor. Things like that have happened to me before – you know, the radio comes on in the morning while I’m still asleep, or just waking, and I dream of something that they’re talking about. Hasn’t that ever happened to you?’

  ‘Yes, it has.’

  ‘If you approach James, he might be okay about it, but you know how upset he was when you weren’t well. He might worry that you are slipping back into something bad – the paranoia, the lack of trust.’

  I nodded. Sophie was making sense. What good would it do to talk to James about it, if I had already made up my mind that there was really nothing to worry about?

  ‘And for the record, I don’t think you are slipping back, Georgina.’ She placed a comforting hand on my arm.

  ‘Thank you,’ I smiled. ‘So what do you suggest I do?’

  ‘Try to forget about last night. And try and get some rest. I know it’s hard, with the little princess there to tend to, but if you’re falling asleep downstairs on the sofa like that so early in the evening, then you really need more sleep.’

  I laughed. ‘I wish.’

  ‘Don’t become like Michael,’ she warned. ‘If you don’t respect the need for sleep, then you’re asking for big trouble – your body might just decide to do something that you don’t really want it to.’

  ‘He’s still got the insomnia?’

  ‘Oh yes. He’s hardly slept for weeks. Mostly he sits downstairs, watching night time television. Goodness knows what he watches when I’m asleep.’

  ‘And he still won’t see the doctor about it?’

  ‘No. As I’ve said before, he doesn’t do doctors. It was bad enough before, but after the, you know…’

  I’d never heard Sophie say the word miscarriage.

  ‘…well, that’s it for him and the medical profession I think.’

  ‘I hope he changes his mind,’ I said. ‘Surely he can’t go on like this for much longer.’ I had fears that one day Sophie would call, saying that Michael had fallen asleep at the wheel and killed himself – he had to do a large amount of driving in his role for Aspire, including visiting their other main office in Leeds.

  ‘I hope he gets help too,’ she replied. ‘But I feel like I’ve done all I can. It really needs to come from him. He has to want to be helped, and I’m just not convinced he does.’

  5

  The rest of the day flew by – a trip to the supermarket, various household tasks, feeding Grace, and dealing with the results at the other end. Sometimes I wondered what I did with my life before Grace came along. How did I fill my time? But it was easy to forget that before our daughter was born, I had been working full time. And long hours at that. The one problem about working with your spouse is that it can be easy to spend too much time at work. It was usual for both James and I to only return home after eight. Once we had eaten and washed up it was frequently pushing nine thirty – leaving about half an hour, an hour tops, to grab some time to relax, before retiring to bed.

  Grace’s appearance changed all that, and gave me a new perspective on life. I used to wonder how I would cope when I wasn’t working full time in my chosen profession of dentistry. Now, I often wondered how I would cope on returning – in the first four months, I put this down to my anxious state of mind, and my rock bottom sense of self-worth. But in the past two months, in the good times, work seemed even less appealing. Things had never felt so right, and I wanted it to be like this forever.

  I hadn
’t mentioned these thoughts to James.

  ‘Hey, George.’ James curled an arm around my waist and kissed me hello as he entered the kitchen. ‘Is Grace asleep?’

  ‘Half an hour ago,’ I replied, glancing up at the wall clock and clicking off the oven. It had just gone eight. The lasagne had been on a low light for half an hour.

  He pulled an apologetic face. ‘Sorry, I wanted to be earlier.’

  ‘It’s okay, she was good going down.’ I’d noticed that since my recovery, James had started to return home that little bit later than in the dark times. I wasn’t angry that he had missed Grace’s bath and bedtime. James was normalising his routine, which was a good thing, as it meant that things were getting back to normal. For a time, he would be coming back around half past five, having cut his clinic short. It had just made me feel even guiltier.

  He pulled out some plates and slid them under the grill for warming. ‘Yes, but I promised myself that I’d always try to be there for it.’

  ‘You are most days.’

  ‘It’s a slippery slope though. I don’t want this to become the new routine.’

  ‘It won’t,’ I said, returning the kiss. I gestured towards the dining table, which was already laid. ‘You sit down. I can handle this.’

  He held up hands in mock surrender, took a seat and sighed.

  It got my attention. ‘Tough day? Sorry, I didn’t ask.’

  ‘Not particularly; I’m just tired.’

  I spooned out the lasagne onto the now-warm plates and added the vegetables from the steamer. ‘Maybe you should get an early night.’

  ‘Maybe we should get an early night,’ James smiled.

  ‘Maybe,’ I smiled. I’d missed that mischievous sparkle in his eyes. Our love life had recently picked up, although it still wasn’t back to how it had been. I wasn’t sure whether that was more about having a young child, rather than any after effects of my mental health problems, and the resulting strain in our relationship.

  ‘Let’s do that,’ he replied. ‘How about we open a bottle?’

  I thought for a second. ‘Why not?’ I wasn’t breastfeeding, so it was okay to drink – I’d had problems with breastfeeding from day one, seemingly unable to produce milk properly, and I had developed extremely painful mastitis in the second week. One of my theories was that it was this inability to feed my child that had sparked the postnatal depression. I had so desperately wanted to do it, and was devastated the first time Grace drank formula milk. I knew it wasn’t my fault, but I felt like I’d let her down terribly, and was ashamed and upset. I cried and cried. And then, my tears for not being able to breastfeed became tears for not being a good mother, then tears for not being a good wife, or a good person.

  James grabbed a bottle of our favourite white, from Three Choirs Vineyards in Gloucestershire.

  ‘To the future!’ James said.

  ‘The future!’

  Just as we clinked glasses, I remembered what Max, our neighbour, had told me this morning. I considered leaving it until later, not wanting to spoil the mood, but I didn’t want to risk forgetting again. ‘Max came around this morning.’

  James wanted to speak, but had just forked in a slice of lasagne. ‘You look like you’re about to tell me something bad,’ he said finally.

  ‘Not bad, just a bit strange. He wasn’t even sure himself.’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘He thought he might have seen someone in our back garden last night.’

  James was horrified. ‘What? Someone was in our back garden. Why didn’t you tell me sooner?’

  I was caught off guard by the strength of his reaction, and felt the need to defend my actions. ‘He wasn’t one hundred percent sure.’

  ‘But he said he thought he saw somebody?’

  ‘Yes.’

  James pushed away from his chair and strode across the kitchen towards the patio doors. He swept the blinds across, and cupped his face against the glass, but the back was in pitch darkness. ‘Did he say what they looked like?’

  ‘No, he could only see shadows,’ I said, moving up to him. ‘As I said, he didn’t seem that convinced.’

  James looked me straight in the eye. ‘Convinced enough to come around and tell us first thing this morning.’

  ‘But he didn’t call the police,’ I countered. ‘If he’d have been that sure…’

  ‘Maybe,’ he conceded. He cupped his hands again, trying to see, but the glass was already steaming up from his breath. He gave up looking, and instead just stood there for a moment, thinking.

  ‘Do you want to call the police?’ I asked.

  He bit down on his lip, thinking some more. ‘No, it would be a waste of time. First thing tomorrow, I’ll check the back to see if anything is missing.’

  ‘I already checked,’ I said. ‘The shed is still padlocked. I couldn’t see anything out of place.’

  That seemed to settle him. ‘Then maybe Max did just imagine it. But I’ll still take a look myself in the morning. Come on, that lovely meal is getting cold.’

  ***

  James still seemed unsettled during the rest of the meal, and the atmosphere, although friendly, was definitely not romantic. We made polite conversation, about our respective days, but I could see that he was brooding on the thought that there had been an intruder in our back garden.

  ‘Maybe we should get a security light,’ he said finally, as he gulped down the last wine in his glass.

  ‘Maybe. But what about the cats? And foxes? We decided it would be more trouble than it was worth – with the light going off all the time.’

  He nodded. Coincidentally we’d talked about it just a month ago. The suggestion had been James’, and had come out of nowhere. But he’d quickly been convinced that the number of domestic and wild animals that frequented our garden, meant that a motion sensor light would be forever being triggered. ‘But things have changed,’ he said eventually. ‘That was before we suspected someone has been prowling around outside.’

  ‘You don’t think it’s a bit over the top? That it might just make us more anxious, every time the light comes on?’

  James shrugged. ‘Maybe. But it’s only like the baby monitor we have for Grace – it’s just something extra to give a little bit of reassurance.’

  The mention of the baby monitor brought back the events of the previous evening. For a split second I thought of mentioning it to James, but Sophie was right – it would serve no purpose except to worry him. It also would potentially jeopardise our healing relationship. So, I just said: ‘If you think it would help, maybe we should look into it again. Maybe they do systems that only activate when larger things are detected.’

  ‘How about CCTV?’

  I didn’t like the sound of CCTV – one of my all-time favourite books was George Orwell’s 1984, and it just felt too much like that. That’s why I had rejected the idea of a video monitor for Grace. ‘Let’s sleep on it.’

  ***

  I prepared Grace’s last milk of the day, and went upstairs to feed her. James said he was staying downstairs for a few minutes, but would be up soon. I didn’t ask him what he was planning to do, and why he’d obviously decided against the idea of an early night. Maybe he just needed time alone to brood over the prowler issue.

  I stood over the cot, gazing down at Grace, who was fast asleep. My love for her was like that of the majority of mothers – total. It had always been that way, even in the depths of my despair. The one consolation that I could take from all that had happened, was that I never let go of her – the emotional bond between Grace and myself remained unbroken. Yes, I had needed help, in particular from James and Sophie, and I had sometimes not been what I considered to be the best mother. There had also been times when I’d been too protective of our relationship, such as when I believed James and the locum dentist were planning to run off with her. But I had been there for her. And I knew that if we had survived that, then we could survive anything.

  I gathered her up in my arms, c
areful not to wake her, and cradled her against my bosom. She was getting heavier week by week, but was still a relatively fragile bundle of joy. I moved across to the area of her room that we had set up as a feeding station – a comfy chair, side table and a nappy changing platform. She fed from the bottle, guzzling down the milk hungrily.

  This was my time with Grace. James did take his turn with feeding, but for the most part I liked to do it, and he obliged – correctly sensing that my desire to feed Grace was related to my inability to breastfeed.

  I brushed at Grace’s soft hair, and stroked her ear. ‘You know, little lady, you are my saviour.’ She had got me through my problems. Just a smile from her, a giggle, a knowing look from her perfect blue eyes, raised me. I might have had post-natal depression, but Grace hadn’t been the problem, she had been the solution.

  Grace finished her feed and I placed her back in the cot. James still hadn’t come upstairs, and I considered going back down to see how he was. I hoped that he wasn’t just sitting there, thinking about last night, or worse still, standing at the patio doors looking out with fear into the darkness. I brushed my teeth and climbed into bed. It was then that James entered with his laptop. He looked much brighter than before, and I wondered whether he had found a security light on the internet.

  ‘What do you think about this?’ he said, sliding the laptop towards me.

  It was an image of a white cottage, situated right by the sea, on a cliff side. The photo had been taken from a distance, so you could see that the building stood alone on the cliff’s edge. It looked the epitome of isolation. In usual circumstances, this would fill me with joy – I loved being away from it all, which I found to be a perfect antidote to the hustle and bustle of London. But as I looked at the screen, and noted the web address at the top – www.coastalcottages.co.uk – my stomach lurched.

  ‘It looks lovely.’

  He smiled, but it was the kind of nervous smile that set me on edge. ‘I’ve done something a little out of character.’