by Sam Hayes
So I face the window when I swig the sherry in the hope that someone will see me. It makes me feel a little less mad about being watched.
There. A woman walking her dog through the murky dusk. She stared right into my cosy little house and clocked me slugging. I rarely close my curtains, so passers-by can get a glimpse of my life and give me a guess at theirs. I have regulars, each with their own time slot and reason for walking past my squashed-in terrace. Some have names, characters and lives that I have invented for them. My own library of unknown friends.
Marjory comes by early in the morning to get the paper. She once tried to jog and wore a pink velour tracksuit but walked on the way home, sweating and red-cheeked. There are the school kids at eight twenty-five and three fifty each day during term time. Now that Natasha would be at secondary school, I’m not so keen to watch the teenagers skulk by my gate. They leave their mark though; Coke cans and crisp packets and cigarette butts sown in my pillowcase-sized front garden. I usually tap on the window and smile and nod at Frederick when he passes on the way to buy his tongue. He has tongue sandwiches for lunch every day. He’s a client but hasn’t been for a few months. His wife died four years ago and he hears knocking inside his house.
When I got back inside the supermarket, I wasn’t sure whether to queue up at one of the busy checkouts or go straight to the customer services desk, which also had a long line of Saturday shoppers. I chose the express till as everyone had ten items or less, except the woman in front of me who had a small trolley clearly containing more than ten things.
The whole world had gone through a high-temperature coloureds wash and come out dingy grey. And everything was flat, like a child’s cardboard puppet theatre. If I blew hard, I reckon the shop would have toppled over.
My state of severe, sun-flared panic had gone now and all I wanted was for someone to look after me. I didn’t care who and I knew that by reaching the head of the queue and telling the checkout girl that my baby was missing, I would get the sympathy and kindness I needed. I shuffled forward, clutching the chocolate cake, my thumbs sinking through the cellophane. I put it down on the conveyor belt so it wouldn’t get even more mangled. I still wanted to impress Sheila with my home baking.
The woman in front of me finally paid for her groceries and took forever to pack her bags and slot the remains of her pension into her faux crocodile purse. The details, the obscure but exact minutiae overloaded my senses, perhaps to knock out reality. I didn’t realise it then but had I been revved up to red alert, I might have been able to fire up enough people to begin an immediate search. Looking back, Natasha couldn’t have been far away. Looking back, I didn’t handle it very well.
My body ached as I shuffled forward, approaching the apathetic, spotty checkout girl with her hands poised to receive my cake.
‘I don’t have any shopping actually. I was just wondering if anyone could—’ Too late. She scanned my cake.
‘Two ninety-nine, please. I’ll getchanother ’cos this one’s squished.’ She bent forward to a microphone, closing her eyes as she spoke as if she was singing karaoke. ‘Sandra to checkout three, please. Checkout three. Customer waiting.’
‘But I’ve already . . .’ I couldn’t be bothered to explain. I fumbled with my purse, which didn’t seem like my purse any more, and the hands messing with the buckle on my handbag plainly weren’t familiar. Neither was the voice that came out of my mouth. I wasn’t Cheryl any more.
Trembling, I handed the girl my debit card. I’d used up my cash paying for the cake the first time.
‘Check and sign, please.’
Sandra delivered my replacement cake. The first thing I noticed was the use-by date. This cake was a day older than the original cake I’d chosen.
I remember thinking: if I’m bothered by such a triviality then surely my baby can’t have been taken. If Natasha was really missing then I wouldn’t be standing in a shop, paying for a cake that I’d already bought. I’d be screaming, calling the police, crying, wailing, floundering hysterically between customers, begging them to help me search.
I signed the debit card slip and started laughing. It was a laugh of relief, a massive release of emotion that of course Natasha hadn’t been taken. I’d left her in the car. I was on the way to Sheila and Don’s where I was meeting Andy, and we were going to spend the afternoon talking about babies, drinking tea and eating chocolate cake, which I was now purchasing.
Sheila was good at telling me about babies. She’d had three and knew all the ropes. She knitted, goodness knows she knitted, and she provided me with a hundred useful tips each time I visited on how to keep a happy baby, as if Natasha was an exotic pet.
‘When baby’s finished feeding, slip your little finger in the corner of her mouth to release the suction. Sore nipples for you otherwise,’ Sheila had said when I was getting to grips with breastfeeding my baby. ‘At change time, let baby kick free for half an hour. No nappy rash for our little pumpkin! And winter or summer, a nap in the garden makes for healthy babies. Mind you fit a cat net, though.’ The woman was a baby helpline and I never called her up.
‘You were just wondering if anyone could what?’ Checkout girl was grinning at me now, not so bad after all. ‘You didn’t finish what you were saying.’
‘Oh, nothing.’ I smiled, bagging my cake. I left the cardboard shop, my pace quickening as I approached the door, passing through a rush of warm overhead air before I dived into the car park cold. I ran to my Renault.
Stupid me. Mad me. Irresponsible, messed-up, nervous first-time-mother me. How could I have thought my baby was lost? Obviously my senses had been playing tricks. The health visitor warned me about not getting enough sleep. Natasha was a little madam at night. She cried right through, making sure she took snatches of beauty sleep during the day and, by playing such a game, she had bled me of my ability to reason and see straight. I just hoped I didn’t look too fraught when I arrived at Sheila and Don’s.
But when I got to the car, it was empty.
Natasha had been taken. No doubt.
I peed myself and screamed before dropping to the ground.
Dear Natasha,
When you were eight weeks old, you were taken from me. I was stupid and left you in the car when I went into a shop. We were on our way to Nanna Sheila’s house, to meet Daddy and to eat cake. I tried to find you but only found your bootee dropped in the road.The police came and for months they searched and checked all their known criminals and put posters up and did an appeal on the telly and then they stopped looking. They shifted your file onto a less hopeful pile, gave me back your bootee and said that they were doing all they could.
I want you to know, Natasha, that I’ve never stopped loving you. I never will. Some days I believe that you’re alive and happy and living with a kind family who love you as their own, coping with your teenage tantrums and boyfriends with motorbikes, and fighting with you because you want your belly button pierced. Other days, the truth hits me as painfully as the moment I realised you had slipped from my life.
I wonder about your last view of the world. Did you stare into your killer’s face as you were smothered? Did you gaze up with the same adoration and trust that you bestowed upon me as you lay heavy in my arms while I fed you? Were you allowed to fall into a sleep of starvation and pass away from lack of nourishment? Did you slip away peacefully or did you leave this world after only eight weeks vowing vengeance?
Wherever you are, dead or alive, I sense you. I feel you. I want you back.
You are a special girl, Natasha. I love you and I am sorry.
Mummy
I know I won’t find her today, which is reason enough to drink the rest of the cooking sherry. I pass out for the evening and miss my favourite quiz show.
TWO
Robert glanced at his wife as they waited for the results. He willed her to turn his way so that he could give her a reassuring smile, a touch on her small hand, anything to dissolve the nervousness that seeped from her.
But Erin didn’t turn his way. Instead, she focused her attention on the headmistress and drove a brittle stare at the archetypical principal of the private college. Erin sat stiff-boned, her hands clasped across her grey flannel suit, her blonde hair tamed for the morning, wholly prepared for disappointment.
While the headmistress riffled through papers and reports, Robert allowed himself a brief look at his wife’s legs. She had them crossed neatly, somewhat primly, he thought, for a woman who was more comfortable in jeans and boots. It was all a show, he knew, to impress the woman behind the desk. Like a good omen, he caught a glimpse of Erin’s lacy stocking top. He knew everything was going to be fine.
‘Quite frankly, Mr and Mrs Knight, I wish there were more girls like Ruby.’ Miss Aucott took off her glasses and stared down the long oak-panelled library, squinting at the grand piano. Robert had almost forgotten that Ruby was present, even though her music still reverberated in the vast room like a thousand butterflies set free.
‘Come and sit with us, Ruby.’ Miss Aucott smiled, her face creasing into a network of powdered wrinkles.
The girl slid off the piano stool and began the long walk to Miss Aucott’s desk. Robert noticed his wife’s shoulders drop an inch or two as the tension unravelled from knotted muscle. He wanted to punch the air, hug Ruby, pull Erin close but he couldn’t. Not until the headmistress actually said the words, that Ruby was officially in.
He watched his stepdaughter walk awkwardly across the polished parquet floor, one of her crêpe-soled shoes squeaking every other step. For everything she’s been through, he thought, let this be all right.
Ruby sat on the edge of her chair. Away from the piano, she could be mistaken for any other teenager with her self-conscious posture and the softly glazed skin of her nose and forehead touched with only a couple of tiny spots. Robert watched fondly as she settled herself next to Erin.
He was so proud of the courage she had displayed, the control she had mustered, in spite of everything, just for this morning. Ruby had neatened her mass of black hair and, like her mother, was wearing smart clothes. But the pair of them, apart from the similar dull suits they wore, had surprisingly few common traits. Robert permitted himself an internal grin as with renewed hope that everything would be OK, he gestured to Ruby that she should tuck an escaped strand of hair behind her ear. He wanted nothing more than for his family to be happy.
‘Ruby, there’s a place here for you at Greywood College. It’s unusual for us to take pupils mid-term but in this case I shall agree.’ Miss Aucott’s voice contained a tinge of triumph, as if she had discovered something rare. She put on her glasses again and began to read from the file. ‘Over ninety-seven per cent on all three tests, young lady. Quite an achievement.’
Ruby blushed and lowered her head. Robert noticed the flickering smile whip across her lips, he saw her chest lift slightly as she drew breath in relief and he noticed her eyes, too, the colour deepening for just a moment. He wanted to reach and pull her into his arms, which at thirteen she was still willing to allow.
‘But it’s your music that we really want.’ Miss Aucott leaned forward across the rosewood desk and settled herself on folded hands. Her voice was quieter now, as if she was concerned she might scare away the very thing she wished to secure for her college. As if Ruby was an exquisite, wild creature that needed trapping and taming. ‘Many of our young ladies are talented.’ She broke off, her voice faltering, like her scholarly veneer was lifting, as though her usual doggedness had been steamed clean off by Ruby’s piano recital.
‘We know that Ruby’s special,’ Erin interrupted. ‘Not just because of her music . . .’ She checked herself and reached out for Ruby’s hand. ‘Just special.’
Robert shot her a look, tantamount to drawing a sharp line across his neck, and nodded, signalling Miss Aucott to continue.
‘You’ll be in a class of eight other girls, Ruby, all musically gifted. We like to arrange the groups according to their talents. Lessons begin at eight thirty and finish at four.’ Miss Aucott drew breath, removed her glasses again. ‘You’ve had the tour, seen our prospectus. Do you have any questions?’
Robert expected a barrage of motherly interrogation from Erin but all she did was shrug.
‘It all seems perfect,’ she finally said. ‘Greywood is just what Ruby needs. It’s going to be a fresh start for her.’
‘Yes,’ Miss Aucott said, her voice dragging like a sudden limp. Robert’s heart quickened as the headmistress once again replaced her spectacles and leafed through the file. ‘I have the report from your current comprehensive school. Your mother is right, Ruby. Judging by what’s written here, a fresh start is certainly in order. Are you willing to give Greywood one hundred per cent?’
‘With my heart and soul, miss,’ Ruby said, some of the zest bleeding from her dark eyes. ‘What happens to me at my other school isn’t my fault,’ she continued, a pleading tone to her voice. The muscles under her eyes flickered, an indication of how much could come tumbling out, ruin everything.
Robert willed Ruby to stop. If she chose, Miss Aucott could delve further into events and reconsider her offer of a place at Greywood. Instead, she reached out a hand and took hold of the child’s fingers.
Ruby smiled, that unruly strand of ebony falling across her face again, her cheeks flushing, perhaps from embarrassment, perhaps from relief. She swallowed audibly and moved closer as Miss Aucott beckoned her in.
‘Greywood will become your life,’ the headmistress whispered. ‘You won’t have a moment to get into trouble.’
Robert wanted to intervene, to protect Ruby. In his head, as if he was defending in court, he presented the evidence to prove that she hadn’t done anything wrong. He was ready to lay blame on the guilty parties and even opened his mouth to speak but Erin shot him a look that mirrored the one he had just given her. Reluctantly, he remained silent and monitored Ruby instead, fearful of her reaction. Her cheeks were on fire now, her black eyes smouldering. But that rosebud smile sweetened everything.
‘I’ll be good,’ Ruby promised. Robert and Erin exhaled.
‘That’s settled then. We shall see you next Monday, Ruby.’ Miss Aucott turned to Erin, startling her as she spoke. ‘That gives you nearly a week to sort out uniform, Mrs Knight. We’re going to need the enrolment forms completed and returned along with copies of Ruby’s vaccination record and birth certificate. Perhaps you could see that the school secretary receives these before your daughter starts.’ Finally, Miss Aucott turned to Robert. ‘We shall be sending you a prorata invoice for what’s left of the term, Mr Knight. Likewise, if you could see that we receive payment promptly.’
‘Of course.’ Robert took the cue to stand and shake hands. Things were winding up. ‘Ruby won’t let you down.’ He held on to Miss Aucott’s bony hand for a beat too long but when it was offered to his wife he saw that, without prompting, she wasn’t going to take it. ‘Erin?’ he said. ‘It’s time to leave.’
But Erin remained motionless, her face drained of its usual colour, her pale eyes suddenly translucent with a skim of tears collecting on their surface. Robert didn’t think he’d seen her so ashen since he’d surprised her with tickets for a honeymoon in Barbados. Sadly, Erin’s pathological fear of flying had prevented the holiday.
‘Are you ready, Erin?’ To break his wife’s sudden trance, shock at the good news, whatever it was, Robert placed a hand on her shoulder. ‘Time to leave, love.’
Erin jerked, as if she had woken from a bad dream. ‘Sorry,’ she managed. ‘I was just . . .’ She stood, ignoring Miss Aucott’s outstretched hand, and walked briskly to the door.
With a frown tugging his brow, Robert Knight led his family out of Greywood College in the belief that Ruby would be returning there on Monday in full uniform, a bag on her shoulder, her hair brushed neatly back and ready for a fresh start. He stepped out of the marble-tiled entrance hall into the sunlit afternoon, a discernible dome of summer pollution hanging over the city,
and stopped for a moment to admire the two most beautiful things in his life.
‘You were fantastic,’ he said, embracing Ruby. ‘Let’s go and get a cold drink to celebrate.’ His grin, typically reluctant, somehow morphed his lawyer’s impassive expression into a mask of pride and relief. But Robert’s sudden enthusiasm wasn’t transmitted to his wife. Erin didn’t respond to his hug, neither did she seem particularly bothered that their news had been good. Better than good. Their daughter had been offered a place at one of the most desirable private schools in London. She had been saved. Erin, to Robert’s bewilderment, seemed untouched by events. He released her rigid body from his embrace and lifted her chin with his finger.
‘I have a headache, Robert. I need a strong drink.’ Erin squinted in the afternoon sun, raising her hand to her brow. ‘There’s a bar over there.’ Before Robert could reply, she darted between cars, towing Ruby by the hand.
‘That’s going to do your head a lot of good.’ Robert didn’t attempt to shout after her. He doubted, in her current mood, she would listen. Instead, he impulsively purchased a bunch of flowers from a street stall, removed his pale grey jacket and headed for the bar. He was completely unable to help the grin that took over his face and felt relieved that no one he knew was there to witness it.
He entered the bar with a patina of sweat coating his face and neck. The cloying, exhaust-sodden air outside was replaced by crisp air conditioning hung with a trace of beer and smoke. He took his jacket off his shoulder and laid it over a stool, placing the flowers carefully on top. Erin and Ruby were already seated in a quiet booth. He ordered the drinks and studied his family, struck as he often was by their sudden presence in his life. Where had they come from?
Ruby was animated, her movements jerky, as if her spirit had just doubled in size. Her soul seemed to be bursting from her skin, fuelled, Robert knew, by the prospect of starting at Greywood. He refused, however, to allow the small wave of guilt that occasionally rose in his craw to swell out of proportion. It would be too easy to blame himself, he thought, for not having sent her to a school like Greywood sooner, what with her exceptional musical talent and difficulties at her current school. A simple reminder that she wasn’t his real daughter, not his flesh and blood anyway, vindicated his hands-off approach thus far. After just six months as acting parent and only eight weeks as her official stepfather, he didn’t yet feel he had the right, or the experience, to interfere in the way Erin handled her daughter.