The Doll House

by Phoebe Morgan

  Mum sat me down at the table and she told me everything again, and she explained why we had been doing what we do all this time. After I’d finished the wine she gave me a little bit more, just half a glass this time, and after a bit I started to enjoy myself. Being with my mum, talking like a grown-up. It was good. I felt like I was being taken seriously, I wasn’t an annoying child any more. Mum said she never thought I was an annoying child but that she knew when I was little that I couldn’t have understood everything. She said she hopes I do now. She hopes I realise what we have to do.

  The more Mum tells me, the angrier I get. She tells me about all the things he said, the promises he made. I can tell it makes her sad but it makes me angry. It’s as though she’s lit a fire underneath me and it is starting to burn, hotter and hotter, brighter and brighter. It gives me something to focus on when life starts to seem a bit grey, it gives me something to think about when the men on the streets stare at me, call things after my back. I hate it when they do that, I hate the way they look at my body. I didn’t choose to look like this. I don’t know where this body has come from. I feel like one of the dummies we used to draw in art class when I was younger, all long limbs and awkward angles. I feel like I don’t belong to myself.

  Mum says she’s glad I can understand more now. We go to the house together the next week. I can’t fit through the fence but we sit in the car outside on the street, headlights off like usual. It’s just the two of them living there now, but the girls visit a lot. I saw them all the other day, another perfect family arriving in their big black car. I watched them all get out, unfold their legs and slam the doors behind them, pop pop pop like matchsticks falling out of a box. She’s pregnant again, she looks as if she’s about to burst. The sight of her stomach is like a knife in my heart. No doubt he’ll love this one as much as the rest.

  I’m just watching when there is the sudden sound of a siren behind us, a flash of blue lights. I duck down straight away and Mum puts the keys in the ignition, her foot on the ground. The engine roars. The lights dance over us, blue diamonds in the darkness. My heart beats so loudly that I almost vomit, I want to open the car window to let fresh air in but we don’t want to draw any attention to us. I have to take deep breaths, in through my nose and out through my mouth, while Mum drives us away around the corner. We stop the car on a side street and sit for a while in the dark. There is silence for a moment. I swallow.

  ‘He wouldn’t call the police,’ Mum says. ‘It’s too risky for him.’ She says it a couple of times, almost to herself, as though she’s trying to make herself believe it. Then there is a roaring sound and we both look up. The blue lights are speeding past again, and my heart jumps to my throat, but it isn’t the police. It’s an ambulance.

  33

  London

  Corinne

  I cannot make Dom understand. He says that somebody sending me a congratulations gift is hardly a threat, he thinks I’m being mad.

  ‘It’s sweet, Cor,’ he says. ‘It’s just a token gesture, isn’t it? Maybe it’s Ash? Or your mum, or what’s her name, the girl you’ve made friends with over the way?’

  ‘Gilly?’

  ‘Yeah. Maybe she wanted to give you something nice. I mean, come on. It says congratulations. I hardly think we can take that to the police. Someone’s congratulated me on my pregnancy!’ He puts on a silly voice, gives me a cuddle. I glare at him.

  ‘It’s the cradle,’ I say. ‘We had a cradle like this when we were young. In the doll house.’

  He throws his hands up in the air, I can feel the frustration coming off him. ‘Corinne, those things are ten a penny. Come on. Get your coat on, it’s cold outside. Got to keep warm for the baby.’ He rubs my stomach, kisses me gently. ‘I love you,’ he says. ‘Please trust me.’

  We’re going to go to the cemetery this afternoon, to get Dad’s grave cleaned up. Dom still thinks the graffiti is probably just kids and that they’ll have done it to several headstones, not just Dad’s. I didn’t think to look at the time. Last night I picked all the little objects up and placed them in a carrier bag, tied the plastic handles tightly. Closing them all in. Evidence. In my head it is my evidence bag, should I ever need one.

  I don’t know whether to call Ashley and let her know, but then I don’t want to upset her if there’s no point. She’ll hate the thought of the grave being graffitied as much as I do. And there’s no way I’m telling Mum. If she can’t cope with being in a French restaurant, how can she cope with this?

  So I’ve left it, haven’t broached the subject. I called to tell her about the baby, of course, and she was delighted, she was so happy for me. I couldn’t really spoil the moment.

  ‘Corinne?’ Dom is calling me, he’s at the front door, jangling his keys in his hand. They’re still bright and new looking, on an anonymous silver ring – whoever’s got his old keys has the pleasure of his scruffy old football key ring. Lucky them.

  ‘You go down,’ I say, ‘I’ll meet you at the car. Just getting my scarf.’

  I hear the front door slam and wait a few seconds before following him out into the hallway. I can hear his footsteps going down the stairwell, and quickly I cross over to Gilly’s flat, raise my hand to knock on the door. I’ve got to ask her, I have to know whether it’s a present from her, a genuine congratulations gift. I know it isn’t. She might have seen someone else near the flat. That envelope had been hand-delivered.

  I knock twice, trying to be quick, jiggling my foot nervously. I’m scared Dom will reappear at any point, tell me not to be so silly. She doesn’t answer. I can hear the faint whine of some sort of toy inside the flat, one of Tommy’s wind-up things. I’m about to knock again when the sound of Gilly’s voice cuts over the toy,

  ‘How many times do we have to go over this? I have told you, Ben, we need to let it go. You need to let it go.’

  I freeze. Her voice is high; she sounds younger than ever. Stressed out.

  ‘I already know that! You already know that! But I am not prepared to lose any more money, or time for that matter, on this sodding architecture firm and what they did. And I can’t believe you’re dragging this up again.’ There is a pause. My heart is thudding.

  ‘You know what, Ben? Go fuck yourself.’

  I jump, slightly, the word is shocking in her voice, I’ve never heard her swear like that before. Another pause and then crying, the wail of Tommy starting up, seeping out into the corridor where I am standing.

  ‘Jesus.’ The word is softer, Gilly sounds like she is right on the other side of the door. Panicking, I turn away, stuff my hands into my pockets and head down the stairwell, not wanting her to find me hovering outside her front door.

  ‘What took you so long?’ Dom says, and I tell him my scarf got caught as I shut the front door.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘Let’s go.’

  In the car to Hampstead I am silent. I wanted the chance to talk to Gilly but she sounded so angry, so upset. Her words turn over in my mind. Architecture firm. I wonder who it was, who she means. It sounds as though they really screwed her over. My dad used to talk about that sometimes, about small companies who set themselves up then defrauded their clients, or did a half-job on an expensive project.

  ‘Cutting corners,’ he used to say. ‘Except it’s usually a lot more than that, and it’s people’s lives. When you’re messing with someone’s home, you’re messing with their family, their life.’ He’d smile at me. ‘You know what they say. Home is where the heart is.’ It was where his heart was, in spite of the pull of the city, the attention and the accolades. I knew that his heart belonged with us. But perhaps it’s not the same for everyone.

  I wonder what had happened to Gilly?

  ‘You look tired,’ Dom says to me, jolting me out of my thoughts. I blink, rub my eyes with the back of my hand. I haven’t been concentrating.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I say, and give him a tight smile. I put a hand on my stomach, feel the tiny swell, invisible to probably anyone but me. I can�
�t stop thinking about the little bootees, stuffed into the cradle. Someone knows about the baby. Someone’s been watching.

  It’s starting to rain very slightly, drops splatter the windscreen and Dom turns on the wipers. We’re halfway up Finchley Road when I suddenly remember the girl in his office.

  ‘I forgot to tell you, Dom, when I came to meet you at work on Friday I met one of your colleagues. She was nice. I was really upset, you know, about Dad, and she was really kind to me. I didn’t get her name but I wanted to thank her.’

  ‘Oh, that’s Erin,’ Dom says. ‘She told me she saw you, actually – a mix-up. I’m glad you weren’t on your own, anyway.’

  ‘Yes, she was lovely,’ I say. ‘God, she must think I’m mental. I was really upset.’

  ‘Understandably so.’ He reaches out, touches my leg. His hand is warm through my jeans. ‘Guess who’s got his eye on her, though?’

  I stare at him. ‘Not Andy?’

  Dominic nods grimly.

  ‘Yeah. To be honest, I think he’s done with her already. Moved quick, you know what he’s like.’ Dom’s eyes are on the road, flicking the indicator as we swerve round the roundabout.

  ‘Poor thing.’ I give an involuntary shiver. I think of Dom’s Christmas party last year, Andy staring down my blouse. I could feel his eyes on me for the whole evening, even when I was stood next to Dom. Sleazy doesn’t even begin to cover it. He’s hated me ever since, I think. Not that I care what he thinks of me. I know he doesn’t like me being with Dom. Thinks I hold him back. Hold him back from what?

  ‘She’s so young, though!’ I say.

  Dom nods. ‘I know. I tried to tell him, sort of, but hey, since when has he listened to me?’

  ‘True,’ I say. ‘That’s true. At least you tried.’

  ‘Do you mind if we catch the last of the football?’ Dom asks, and I shake my head no, turn to look out of the window as the noise of the commentator fills the car. The shower has stopped and the sun is coming out from behind the clouds, lighting up Hampstead, making the pavements sparkle.

  The gates to the cemetery loom up before us. It looks much less threatening with the sun out, with Dom at my side, but still there is a little tug in my stomach, a twist of fear. As Dom cuts the engine I reach into the back for the bucket of cleaning stuff we brought with us: scrubbers, gloves and white spirit.

  ‘Let’s do this,’ Dom says. He switches off the radio and grabs my hand as we walk to the graveside. For a moment as we walk, the instinct comes over me to turn and run, flee from the cemetery and what is inside. But his hand is tight around mine. I can’t.

  It looks awful. The sight of it shocks me all over again – the black paint is so harsh, so brutal. Dominic whistles under his breath as he sees the black letters, dark and foreboding against the pale stone. He glances at me. I think he’s mainly relieved that I wasn’t making it up. I’m relieved too, because for a moment, I wasn’t so sure. Since the rocking horse disappeared I have started to doubt myself, more and more, double-check my thoughts almost before I think them. I hate it.

  We kneel down, start to scrub the stone together. The paint comes off fairly easily under the chemicals and I start to feel a bit better. I run my hand over Dad’s name, trace the letters with my fingers. He doesn’t deserve this. He was the best man I have ever known.

  ‘It’s almost the anniversary,’ I say softly.

  Dom nods. ‘End of the month. I know.’

  ‘Sometimes it feels like yesterday.’

  ‘Is your mum going to come up?’

  ‘I hope so,’ I say. ‘She finds it really hard though – well, you know what happened last week. Apparently they’re holding a memorial dinner thing for him too, at the Royal Institute of British Architects. Over in Marylebone. She doesn’t want to go.’ I glance at him. He nods. He doesn’t think there’s anything strange about Mum’s reasons for leaving London the other day.

  ‘But she said she’d try to come see us, visit the grave together. You might have to go get her, actually,’ I say, and he nods. ‘And Ash will be here. I’ll get daffodils, hopefully it’ll be more like spring soon.’

  Dom looks at me. ‘You might even be starting to properly show.’ He looks excited.

  ‘I’m not sure it’ll happen that fast, Dom!’ It won’t; I’m only a few weeks gone.

  I stare at the grave. I so wish my dad hadn’t missed this, had lived to see me pregnant. He’d have been so happy to have another grandchild, someone else to love. Family meant everything to him.

  Dominic puts his arms around me. I breathe slowly into his chest. I try to be calm.

  ‘I love you,’ I tell him. ‘I’m sorry I’ve been so on edge, I’m sorry I got so upset the other night. You’re probably right about it all.’ I pause, swallow. ‘I know I’m a bit . . . difficult to be with at the moment. I do know that.’

  He tips my head back, kisses me on the lips.

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ he says. ‘No need to apologise. I’m sorry if I seem frustrated. But I do think you ought to think about what I said. Especially as the pregnancy continues. We want to make sure you’re feeling . . . up to it.’

  ‘Of course I’m up to it!’ I pull back. ‘Dominic!’

  ‘Sorry, sorry.’ He holds up his hands. ‘You know what I mean, Cor. You’ll be an amazing mum, you know that. I know that! But you’ve got to stop worrying. You’ve got to keep calm.’ He pauses. ‘Or I’ll start to worry about you, and then we’ll be the worry family!’ He tickles me under the chin, moves his fingers down to stroke my neck. ‘No one wants that. So just think about what I said. Come on.’ He puts his arm round my waist and steers me away from the gravestone, back towards the car. I think about my evidence bag, the growing pile of objects hidden in my drawer.

  As we leave, I glance back over my shoulder, at all the other graves. They stand still and silent in the grass, like little blank faces, watching me leave. Not one of them has been marked at all.

  34

  London

  Ashley

  Ashley stands in front of the high school, by the row of poplar trees that guard the street like willowy soldiers. Her car keys are clutched tight in her hand, the cold metal indenting her skin. Holly is sleeping in her arms; the day at the café has wiped her out. She is still at the stage where new environments, new people are all exhausting to her – they excite her, and then they tire her out. There is no sign of Lucy yet. Somewhere inside, Ashley she knows that perhaps this is a mistake, that she is trying to catch Lucy out. In what, she doesn’t quite know.

  Still she stands, shifts her feet back and forth in the cold. The storm has died down but the pavements are wet and the wind is still up. Her eyes are strained, fixed on the big gate, darting occasionally to the side exit, the double doors next to the slightly leaning bike sheds. It is six minutes past four; four minutes until the final bell. She imagines the screech of it inside, the simultaneous sighs of relief, her daughter carefully placing books back into her bag. They’d bought her a new rucksack just this Christmas, a dark red leather one with thin, rope-like straps. A world away from the badge-studded satchel she carted around before.

  Ashley wraps her arms more tightly around Holly, grips her against her body. Lucy’s drunken eyes flash in her mind. Has her daughter really grown up this fast? Is Holly going to be the same?

  She isn’t sure what she is looking for when the stream of teenagers begins. They pour past her too quickly; she sees flashes of badly dyed hair, triangles of ties. The smell of cigarette smoke reaches her nostrils. A group of boys pushes past her, kicking at a stray stone on the concrete, jostling each other with their shoulders. She squints at them, feels a rush of nausea as she imagines them crowding around her daughter, imagines Lucy’s arms around their necks, her tongue in their mouths.

  ‘Mum?’ All of a sudden her daughter is in front of her. She looks confused; Ashley sees the momentary flicker of concern pass across her face like a shadow.

  Ashley looks closely at her daughter. Lucy is we
aring more make-up than usual. Her lips are slick with gloss, eyes spiked with mascara. Around her neck is a scarf Ashley hasn’t seen before, it is bright yellow, almost fluorescent. She feels as though she is seeing Lucy through a fairground mirror – distorted, too bright. Close, but not quite there.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  The words are accusatory; Ashley feels guilty.

  She takes a deep breath.

  ‘Got the afternoon free. Thought I’d save you the bus trip. Come on, let’s go home. Good day?’

  ‘Is Hol OK?’

  ‘She’s fine. She’s just tired out. June wasn’t in earlier so I had to take her to Colours with me.’

  Her daughter stares at her for a few more moments, tips her head to the side in a surprisingly adult gesture. Finally, she seems to accept it, shrugs, falls into step beside Ashley as they walk to the car, their footsteps tapping away from the school. As they reach the car, Lucy turns around, stares back at the gates, scans the grey pavements. She reaches up, pulls the yellow scarf tighter around her neck, ducks her head into the back seat. She doesn’t answer Ashley’s question.

  In the car she is quiet, reaches out to put the radio on. As the pop song fills the car, Lucy’s face brightens.

  ‘Hey, it’s Ryn Weaver!’ she says, ‘I love him.’ She lifts her iPhone aloft, pulls a silly face and snaps a picture of herself, giggling and tapping the screen. Immediately the phone pings back and she gives a little snort of laughter at some unknown joke.

  ‘Did you just take your own picture?’ Ashley asks, but it is as though the joy that came over her daughter’s face disappears when her mother speaks, vanishes with the click of the iPhone camera. Ashley sighs. They aren’t getting anywhere.