The Sea Horse Door

by Gina Rossi

  I turn into the forecourt and stop. Jay’s Automotive—repairs to all makes and models—has a clearly demarcated way in and, likewise, a way out. In between those, a white picket fence with a little gate encloses the husk of an old Model T Ford, without doors, painted powder blue and hung with baskets of petunias and fuchsias, drawing the eye away from the modern petrol pumps in front of the station. Inside the car several chickens with scarlet combs and beaks, and black and white barring, a bit like guinea fowl, peck about, looking impossibly picturesque. Alice retrieves the crust from the pocket of her dress and, arm stretched between the pickets, crumbles it on the ground much to the delight of Queenie, I presume, who most definitely rules the roost, strutting with confident grace to peck elegantly at the offerings.

  A man comes out of the workshop in ancient white overalls done over by Picasso in every shade of grey, black and brown. “Hiya, Alice. You wanna egg?”

  Alice, shy, hangs back, an arm around my leg.

  “C’mon! Queenie laid this morning, and she’d sure like you to have one of her eggs for supper.”

  He ducks into the old blue Ford and holds up a large brown-pink egg, smooth as a beach pebble. “Hold out both ya hands, Alice.”

  She does, and he gives her the egg like he’s handling fine china.

  “Careful now,” he says.

  She nods, eyes shining.

  “What’s the magic word, Alice?” I ask.

  “Thank you, Jay. Can Molly come and play?”

  The man glances at me. I remember the name Molly Sawyer on Alice’s list of special friends in the red file.

  “I’m Lara Fairmont,” I say. “Alice’s nanny.”

  “Jay Sawyer.” He doesn’t offer his hand. Maybe it’s greasy. “Is Dalton away?”

  Dalton? “He is, yes.”

  “How long for?”

  “About six weeks. Would Molly like to come home from school with us on Wednesday?”

  He hesitates. “Sure. Okay.” He rests a hand on Alice’s head. Did he mean to say no?

  We say more thank-yous for Queenie’s beautiful egg and leave. Alice won’t give up the egg so I strap her into her car seat, telling her to hold it tight, yet not tight, hoping the Jesus airbags will do the trick if sudden braking is required.

  The rest of the way home I run the day’s experiences through my mind. Maggie, owner of the diner, was sweet to us. There’s no ulterior attitude there. Helen at the grocery store came across as remote—but perhaps she’s always like that. Sawyer was reluctant. Is it because I’m a stranger, or is it to do with Lucas? Am I working for the black sheep of Lobster Cove, the pariah? Do people hold back?

  Or maybe they’re not used to me yet in Lobster Cove because I’m an outsider. I’m foreign and talk funny.

  I hope it’s only that.

  Chapter Five

  The clear blue afternoon darkens, and rain spatters the windscreen. By the time we get home it’s pouring. A sudden squall rattles along the cliffs, passing as fast as it arrived. The sun comes back, bathing the clean-rinsed world in mellow afternoon light. Alice and I are out on the sea porch admiring the golden sparkles on the water when I remember the washing. I bring it inside, cross with myself. What the hell use is that? All that trouble to hang washing in the sunshine and then to bring it in wetter than it started out. There’s a brand new tumble dryer in the laundry, but it’s still crated. Briefly, I consider breaking it open but unfold the drying rack instead and peg the sodden items to that. That’ll do.

  Alice has her egg, scrambled, for supper, along with green beans, carrots and some cucumber and tomato salad.

  “I never tasted this.” She points to everything except the egg.

  “What does Daddy cook for you?” I ask.

  “Pizza.”

  I thought so. Although, taut and toned Lucas is living proof that a pizza and beer diet has merits. Mmm.

  After supper we go upstairs and run Alice’s bath, adding liberal amounts of bubble bath. She spends ages playing in the water and chatting to me and her bath toys until, eventually, the bubbles melt away and it’s time to get out.

  “Where are red pyjamas?” She glances at the yellow and pink ones I’ve laid out on her bed.

  “You mean the blue ones you had on yesterday?”

  She nods, watching my face with worried eyes.

  “I washed them today, Alice, so they’re wet.”

  “But I want them.”

  “You can have them tomorrow.”

  “I want them!”

  “Tomorrow. You can have them tom—”

  She bursts into tears, and this is an understatement. It’s more a tantrum of profound grief, an anthem of heartbreak.

  Alarmed to say the least, I try to gather her in my arms but she fights me.

  “Want my red pyjamas.”

  “Alice. Alice! Alice.” Eventually I break through the vicious cycle of full-on weeping. “Be quiet and you can have your pyjamas. I’ll make a plan.”

  Now what have I said? She looks at me, everything streaming. I dry her face with a towel unable to meet the unbearable distress in her eyes.

  “First…” I hold up the rejected pink and yellow pyjamas, you must put these on.”

  She won’t.

  “Just for now, Alice. Then we can go downstairs to see if your blue pyjamas are dry.”

  She won’t, and that’s definite.

  I think, fast and wild. “What about one of my tee-shirts? That will be fun!”

  “No.”

  What now? Shall I take her in the damp towel? And what are we going to look for anyway? The pyjamas are still wet, wet, wet. I know it.

  “Okay then. What about one of Daddy’s tee-shirts?”

  She considers this and nods her head. Phew. We’re hardly progressing through this crisis in leaps and bounds, but here is a glimmer of hope.

  We go into Lucas’s room, and Alice shows me where he keeps his tee-shirts. “You choose one,” I suggest.

  “Red one.” She points to a black one and I pull it out of the pile, shake it open and put it on her before she changes her mind. Of course it’s vast, pooling around her feet, slipping off her shoulders. I bunch the fabric in her hands and she follows me back to my bedroom, tripping up like a desolate baby penguin. It breaks my heart, even though she’s stopped crying. The large safety pin I find, left discarded in the bottom of my suitcase is a godsend. I don’t know how it got there, but it’s been there forever, like a weird kind of talisman and now I know why. It’s a sign that life may possibly return to normal, one day. I use the pin to make the tee-shirt neckline smaller for Alice, hooking up the back hem like a mini bustle.

  “Let’s take a picture to show Daddy.” I take out my phone, take a picture of Alice drowning in Lucas’s tee-shirt, and send it to Lucas’s email address with the title Blue Pyjamas Disaster. Alice even manages a watery smile.

  That done, I say, “Let’s go and have a look in the laundry room. Let’s go see how your pyjamas are doing.”

  We hold hands and go downstairs. As I thought, the pyjamas are wet. In fact I’m pretty sure they are wetter.

  “Alice, I think you must sleep in Daddy’s tee-shirt tonight.” I show her how wet the pyjamas are.

  “Noooo!”

  What now? I glance at the crated dryer. “Does Daddy have tools?” If I’m going to break into that baby, I’ll need more than a teaspoon.

  Alice shakes her head.

  Uh-oh. “Does he have a hammer?”

  “Yes.”

  “Let’s go and get it, shall we?”

  She takes me into Lucas’s studio and shows me a cupboard at the far end containing man-stuff.

  “Oh, Daddy has many tools! Look at these lovely hammers, Alice. These will help us get your pyjamas dry.”

  She nods, but her forlorn eyes convey the message that I have let her down badly, that it might take forever to deserve forgiveness.

  I select my weapon and we go back to the dryer. I put Alice on the counter, well out of h
arm’s way, and attack. It’s like prising a reluctant oyster from its shell. I use the opposite side of the hammer—that double-pronged thingy, to haul huge metal staples forth, screaming, from splintery wood, straight into my splintery hands. My nails split. I break out in a sweat, but I’m on it. I will do this. Eventually, I expose the back of the machine. Yay, cord and plug. We’re on the home straight, except there’s no way I can shift the machine by myself, or can I? Because the plug won’t reach the wall-socket. I face my nemesis, pushing and shoving, ramming it with my hip, my other hip, even my bum—at least it makes Alice laugh—until the plug can be plugged in.

  Done. I cut the thick plastic away from the front of the machine and twiddle the dials. In seconds, the machine’s going with the pyjamas inside, the lonesome remaining buttons pinging against the drum. We are not exactly saving the planet by putting a tiny set of pjs into a tumble dryer on the hottest setting, but when needs must, the devil drives. I’m going to put Alice to bed now, phone Julie, and have a big glass of wine. Except I’m not. She won’t be left. In the end after much—failed—cajoling that only makes her cry all over again, I get into bed and cuddle her. After a while, her sobs turn to hiccoughs, her breathing evens out and she goes heavy in my arms. Asleep. Asleep and peaceful at long last, poor little thing. I stroke her back, murmuring “Shhh, shhh,” again and again until she is fast asleep.

  Alice has framed photos on the shelf next to her bed, and I gaze at them in the half-dark while she sleeps, her face pressed into my neck. They’re all of her and Lucas—one when she was a baby, one at about a year old, she with a ponytail on the very top of her head, the hair falling outwards like leaves of a pineapple, he with suntan, shades and a big grin, and so on. He’s nice. I could like him. A person, a woman, could love that sort of man, they could. Coupled with what little I know, I can see the type of man he is. A keeper, as Holly would say, I bet. There are several more photos, always the two of them, Alice and Lucas, hugging each other, father and daughter. Alone.

  Why no pics of Mummy? Why no mention? Alice never mentions. What would I say if she did? I’m certainly not going to mention. There’s no evidence of Mummy anywhere, no reference, no clues. Whatever, I’ll steer well clear of the subject. I’d hate to risk releasing another torrent of despair. What would that be like, given the pyjama anguish? I close my eyes, emotionally exhausted. I’m tired, arms and back aching from carrying Alice. She shifts, moves her head and snuggles closer, if that’s possible, her light breath warm on my shoulder. I don’t think about it, but it’s there…the fragrance of Lucas all around me, that clean man smell when I opened the closet door and placed my hand on the cool cotton of the tee-shirt pile.

  Ah. Ooh. Pins and needles. My arm’s numb. Where? What? I try to sit up, but Alice is lying on my arm. The Hello Kitty clock next to her bed says 02h30. I extricate myself, taking care not to wake Alice, but no worries on that score—she’s like a big ragdoll. She flops onto her pillow. I cover her and go to bed.

  If I weren’t so tired, I’d ring Julie and tell her how tired I am.

  Chapter Six

  Alice wakes me early, a good half hour before my alarm is set to go off. It’s Monday, it’s school—and Alice is enthusiastic about school, long may it last.

  There’s a message from Lucas on my phone, a reaction to the photo I sent. He’s not amused, and I get a cryptic little lecture on making a joke out of his child’s distress. Like I would do that! I’m at a loss for words, so even if I shouted back at him—which is what I feel like doing—I wouldn’t know what to say. I stare at the letters of his text considering my feelings Actually, I’m mortified that he’s taken it the wrong way. I look at Alice, curled next to me, studying the detail of a Winnie the Witch illustration. I touch her on the shoulder.

  “Come here, Alice.”

  She slides up the pillow next to me and puts her arms around my neck.

  “Look up,” I tell her. “Smile.” I hold the phone at face level and take a selfie.

  “Why did you do that?” she asks.

  “It’s for your daddy.”

  “Why?”

  “To show him how happy we are.”

  She hugs me tight. “I love you.”

  “I love you too.” It’s the truth.

  “I love my daddy. Do you love my daddy?”

  I take a deep breath, change my mindset to professional, and text the photo to Lucas. Lucas, I’m really sorry I gave you that impression. Yes, Alice was distraught—” I close my eyes briefly, quailing at the memory of her sorrow—“but she was very brave and we trucked through the crisis together. She’s so happy this morning in that same tee-shirt of yours, believe it or not, and looking forward to school. It would have helped to know about the blue pyjamas. Sorry again. Hope you have a great day in that hellhole. I delete the bit about the blue pyjamas and the hellhole and send.

  “Do you?”

  “Do I what, Alice?”

  “Love my daddy?”

  I hesitate.

  “I love him this much!” She spreads her arms wide.

  “That’s lovely.”

  “How much do you love him?”

  Not much, right now, although—

  “How much, Lara?”

  “Um, as much as this pillow here,” I say.

  “That’s small.”

  “Not very small.”

  “Small.” She stares at me, eyes big and so full of doubt she looks scared.

  “I meant the bed,” I say quickly. “The whole bed. In fact the whole room, even the house.” Please God, no more paroxysms of angst.

  “Or the whole world?”

  Uh, I’m in the quicksand! “Okay.”

  My phone chirps. Okay, Lucas says.

  “Yay!” Alice claps her hands and bounces on her knees on the bed.

  Okay what? Okay is more of a positive word—a yes word—than a negative isn’t it? Let’s hope so.

  “Come on.” I throw back the bedding and get up. “Up we get or we’ll be late.”

  Subject firmly changed. We get dressed, have a proper breakfast and brush teeth, during which activity Alice asks me why she hasn’t got a mummy.

  “Because you have a nanny.” I don’t know what else to say.

  “We have to draw our family at school today.”

  “Well, you can draw Daddy and Buster and you.”

  “Buster isn’t my mummy.”

  Indeed not.

  “What can I draw for Mummy?”

  An angel? A butterfly? A fairy? I have no idea.

  “What must I draw?”

  “Anything beautiful. Anything you love. That will be Mummy. Are you all ready for school now?”

  “Yes. I have my backpack, and my lunch and my reading book, and my best panties.”

  “Always a good idea, sweetheart.”

  I find my way to the school without a hitch. At the end of our road I do a left and right onto Maple, cross over First and there we are. Mothers and fathers—and nannies, I presume—are taking children right inside the school. We follow suit, and Alice leads me to her classroom where Teacher Pick, round and smiling, hands folded over a pinafore covered in yellow suns and daisies, greets her charges.

  “Hello, Alice dear, run along and put your things in your locker!” She looks at me and her smile fades. Hand on throat, she says, “Do we know you?”

  “I’m Lara, Alice’s new nanny.”

  Teacher Pick’s chins vibrate. She purses her lips, long-suffering. “It would have been real nice of Mr. Dalton to let me know that someone else would be dropping Alice off at school this morning.”

  “There was a bit of a mix-up. The agency—”

  “Lara loves Daddy as big as the whole world,” Alice sings out, windmilling her arms and cracking my shins with her backpack in the process.

  Teacher Pick’s double-take is almost imperceptible, but it’s there, nevertheless spectacular. The eyes of respectable parents burn holes in every part of my back.

  “You run along,
Alice,” I say, through teeth gritted for a number of reasons. I bend to kiss her, straighten up with face aflame. I blame Lucas entirely for this embarrassment. If he materialized in front of me, teleported from that wonky old Trident…whatever it’s called, I would cheerfully throttle him.

  In front of the kids, his own included. Yes, I would.

  “We keep a strict list of people with authorized access to our children. You must be listed.”

  “I have the relevant clearance from the child protection authorities if that’s what you—”

  “Those are not necessarily our clearances. It’s highly irresponsible. We don’t even know you.”

  I look past her into the sunny schoolyard, where Alice is tumbling about with a friend, best panties on display. “No,” I say, and go back to the car, thoroughly reprimanded, passing listed custodians on the way. No one meets my eye with even the faintest glimmer of support or sympathy. Pick has clearly got everyone under the whip.

  Before I get to the exit, I’m waylaid by a really big woman. I take back what I said about Pick. This one makes Pick look merely a little curvy. She’s draped in robes and paisley scarves, and emerges from a door off the hallway marked Head.

  “Hi,” she sings, advancing, with hands outstretched like she’s going to read my palm. “I’m Cherri with an I. Cherri Chandler. You must be the new nanny up at Blue Rocks.”

  “I’m Lara Fairmont.” I stand my ground. She advances on a wave of patchouli and takes my extended right hand in both of hers.

  “You are soooo welcome, honey. Would you like a cup of tea? Sure you would.”

  “Er, I don’t want to keep you from your class.”

  “I do infants. They come in half an hour later.” She surges around me, beads clanking, bangles ringing, earrings swinging, and spirits me into her office, which looks more like a coffee shop in Marrakech, than the ops room for an educational institution. In a second, we’re in velvet armchairs doused in shawls, facing each other over a quaint, inlaid table.