Ursula's Secret

by Mairi Wilson

  “Sing, Mama. Sing me to sleep.” The thumb tucked into the pink lips, the flushed cheeks dipping as she sucked. Helen reached down and gently pulled the thumb from her daughter’s mouth, then leant forward and kissed the blonde head nestled against her chest. There’d be no need to sing, Helen knew. In seconds Izzie’s breath had evened to a rhythmic pulse, the slender limbs had fallen relaxed and heavy against Helen’s own. The doll dropped to the floor, where Rusty was sniffing at it with interest. Careful not to disturb the sleeping child, Helen reached down and picked it up, safely out of the dog’s reach. If only it were so easy to put the child herself out of harm’s way.

  “Here—” The nun stopped abruptly as she took in the Madonna and Child-like tableau at the table. She closed the outside door gently behind her, dropped the pile of soiled and tattered garments onto the far end of the table and came towards them, arms outstretched. “I’ll take her back to bed.”

  “No. Not yet.” Helen spoke softly, held her daughter closer, eyes filling with tears. “Look in the pockets. For a shoe. A doll’s shoe. Like this one.” Helen’s free hand lifted a leg of the doll she’d laid in front of her on the table.

  Frowning a little, Sister Agnes pulled the remains of Helen’s dress out of the bundle, shook it out. One patch pocket hung ripped and open, the fabric folding back like the corner of a page turned over to mark the reader’s place in an unfinished book. Helen held her breath as the nun reached into the other, shook her head.

  “Are there any other pockets?”

  Helen shook her own head now, slowly, heavily.

  “You didn’t see it when you were … the bed … or … or …”

  “No.” The nun was frowning still, as she tried to work out why Helen was so concerned about a doll’s shoe.

  “He’s taken it. He knows.”

  Helen pulled her daughter closer still, the tears that were now sliding down pale cheeks dropping softly onto the dishevelled curls. After a moment she looked up at Sister Agnes. Helen knew what she had to do.

  “Take her.”

  Helen’s arms crossed over her empty chest as the nun carried the sleeping girl away.

  * * *

  Watching her daughter being driven away the next morning had been the hardest thing she’d ever done.

  “Bye darling,” she’d said casually, desperate to sound like she did every other time her daughter had climbed into the dusty white Mission car, hardly with a backward glance, excited at the prospect of having other children to play with. Helen had kissed her lightly on the cheek, resisting the urge to pull her in close and hold her tight. Izzie usually wriggled out of her mother’s embrace on Mission days, her mind already on the games that she would play, the fun she’d have, the stories she’d have later to tell her mother.

  That day, though, Izzie had been a little clingy, almost reluctant. Helen had marvelled at first at her child’s intuition, her ability to pick up on her mother’s mood no matter how hard Helen tried to hide it. But then the real reason for Izzie’s reluctance had scampered out from under the verandah steps, snout dusted red with the dry earth, a forgotten tennis ball clenched tight between drooling, chewing jaws.

  “Rusty!” Izzie had raced towards him. “I’ll be back soon – promise!” She’d hugged the excited puppy as tightly and as enthusiastically as Helen longed to hug Izzie herself.

  “Come on, Izzie,” Sister Agnes, said, her eyes locking onto Helen’s. “Rusty will be fine here without you today. Mama will look after him.”

  “Why can’t I take him? He could play with the others.”

  “He’ll stop Mama getting lonely.” Helen said, her hand rising to her neck as she felt her throat tighten on the words, wincing as she brushed the bruises from yesterday, hidden by the high-buttoned collar of her blouse.

  “But I’m only going to the Mission. I won’t be long. Mama …” Izzie’s face took on a puzzled look as a new thought struck her. “Why am I going to the Mission again? I only went yesterday.”

  “I … I know, darling. But you see …” Helen couldn’t think what to say.

  “There’s a special treat today,” Sister Agnes cut in, and Helen wondered at the nun’s unexpected fluency in the lie. “A trip for you and some of the other children. You’re going to go away for a little while.”

  “But … but …” Izzie looked panicked as she turned her head from side to side, from Rusty to the nun and back again to the dog, now hunched down on the shade of the mimosa tree, ball between paws, jaws working at a loose flap of yellowed rubber. Helen’s heart lurched. Her daughter didn’t even glance in her direction.

  “Mama will take care of Rusty, Isobel. Don’t you want to go on an adventure with the other children?”

  Izzie’s face broke into a grin. She ran over to the dog and hugged him and then, in a fit of exuberance, hugged her mother too. Then she took the nun’s hand in hers and started to walk over to the car. As the nun turned, she looked back over her shoulder at Helen.

  “I’ll take care of her.”

  Helen nodded and stood there watching the dust the car threw up behind it as her daughter was driven away, praying she’d be safe. Praying she’d done the right thing for her in giving her up. Wondering if she would ever be able to reclaim her, would ever even see her again.

  It was another twelve days before Cameron came back. It was evening and Helen was sitting, as she’d taken to doing, in the room that had once been Izzie’s but which now was stripped bare, robbed of all traces of the presence of a child. Rusty sat at her feet. It was his ears pricking up and the low rumble akin to a growl that emanated from deep inside the small body that had alerted her to the sound of a car. Rusty might turn into a protector yet, she thought, even as her stomach clenched and her skin prickled with revulsion at the memory of the thick fingers probing, pinching.

  When Cameron pulled back the screen door, he saw her waiting for him, knife in her hand, small dog at her feet. He laughed. Laughed loudly, his face reddening as his mirth brought tears to his eyes and he threw himself down on one of the sofas.

  “Ah, Helen.” He dabbed at the tears with a pressed white handkerchief he’d pulled from the top of the cream linen jacket he wore, despite the heat. “You never cease to amuse me.” Helen watched the eyes narrow into slits as he looked her slowly up and down, and then he looked down again, to Rusty sitting quietly at her feet, strangely still and cowed.

  “What’s that? A guard dog?” He laughed again and in one fluent movement rose from the sofa and crossed the room, grabbing her wrist and twisting till the knife fell from her grasp. He kicked at it, kicked Rusty instead, laughing again as the animal yelped and scurried away. “Well, I think we can agree your defences don’t amount to much. But there’s no need. Fun though it was, I’ve other things on my mind tonight, and look at you anyway. My, how you’ve let yourself go. Hardly the society beauty I married. I doubt even Gregory would be tempted now.” He tossed her wrist away and turned his back on her as he strode back to the screen door. “No, I’ve a pretty young thing tucked up in bed – our bed – back in Blantyre, waiting for me later tonight. So relax. It isn’t you I’ve come for this time.”

  He slid a hand into a jacket pocket and pulled out the tiny shoe. Helen couldn’t suppress the small gasp that escaped her lips. She heard Cameron chuckle. He turned to face her, threw it down on the floor between them, a parody of a gauntlet but the challenge clear nonetheless. “A deal, dear Helen, a straightforward trade. A child for a child. What could be fairer than that? Oh and of course, you and Ross stay dead.”

  “I don’t know what you mean—” Helen began.

  “Don’t provoke me, dearest. You know what I’m like when I’m cross.” He picked up the shoe, rubbed it between thumb and forefinger, then crumpled it into his fist. “I won’t ask politely again. Bring her out.”

  “I … Who?”

  The slap was sudden and harsh, the force of it spinning Helen’s head round until a yank on her hair stopped its momentum. Cameron pull
ed harder, forcing her head back as he loomed over her and spoke through clenched teeth.

  “Fetch her. Now.” He released her and pushed her in front of him towards the corridor leading to the other rooms in the small bungalow. Helen tripped over the edge of the rug and fell onto her knees, but he caught her arm and pulled her upright before pushing her forward again. She shook her head, pulled back, refused to move.

  “Come on. Move.” He dragged her behind him as he started down the corridor, kicking open her bedroom door, striding in and pulling at the wardrobe handles, wrenching back the mosquito net and lifting the cover to look beneath the bed. “Izzie? Izzie, sweetheart! Uncle Cameron’s come to take you home.”

  Pushing past Helen where he’d discarded her on her knees at the threshold of the room, he kicked open the door to the bathroom opposite, then strode on to the next room, where Rusty sat growling in front of the door. Cameron’s foot swung and the dog yelped again as it slid over the floor to collide with the dresser standing in the corner.

  “Guarding your little mistress, are you? Very noble.” The room was empty. Bare. The bed not made up, the mosquito net knotted and hooked back, the shelves and surfaces clear. And clean, Helen realised with a start, as she stepped into the room behind Cameron and scooped up the whimpering puppy.

  Too clean for an empty, unused room.

  “Well, well. Had a bit of a clear-out have you? Pity. Looks like you’ve nothing to bargain with, doesn’t it?”

  “Wait, Cameron.” Helen grabbed his sleeve as he pushed past her, dropping Rusty as she did so, tripping over the puppy as he danced to run from their feet.

  “What have you done with her?”

  “I … She … Izzie died. In the mudslide. I tried to save her but—”

  “Don’t make the mistake of taking me for a fool, Helen. I know she was here. Was she hiding when I visited last time? Did she hear us? Hear her mother screaming in passion and lust?”

  “No! No, she was …”

  “Was where? Same place you’ve hidden her now?”

  “She was killed in the—”

  “Mudslide. Yes, you said. Only problem is, Helen dearest, I don’t believe you. You always were a hopeless liar.”

  “I saved the doll. I … sometimes … help with the Mission children. They, one of them … I gave her the doll, you see, just that day you came. Sister Agnes had been here with some of them. And the shoe, it must have fallen off and … and I found it. I know it’s stupid, but I wanted to keep it. It reminded me—”

  “Is that where she is, then? The Mission?”

  “No! Aren’t you listening? Izzie’s gone, dead.” Even saying it made Helen feel sick. But she had to convince him. Had to. Or he’d never give up. He’d find a way of—

  “Wait! Cameron, where are you going?”

  “I will find her, you know. Wherever you’ve hidden her. Right now, though, Ross and I are going to the Mission. Seems as good a place as any to start looking.”

  “Ross? He’s here?”

  “In the car. A child for a child.” The pause hung between them, like an empty noose dangling as it waited for a neck. “A child for a child, Helen. The child you tried to kill, your firstborn, in exchange for your daughter.”

  Helen’s mind raced. Why would Cameron want to give her Ross but take Izzie away? It made no sense. Izzie was as entitled to inherit as Ross, both of them her flesh and blood so both of them legitimate heirs to the estate David was set to inherit, unless the truth came out. She forced herself to think, to muffle the static of panic that was interfering with her ability to process information, to work out Cameron’s game.

  “A wasted journey then. Such a shame. Especially when the boy gets so hopelessly travel-sick, just like his mother. Well, we must away again.”

  “Is he really here?” She hated the needy desperation in her voice.

  “Of course. Would you like to see him?”

  Helen couldn’t speak, bit her bottom lip to stop it from trembling.

  “Come on then.” He led her out to the verandah. Pushed her down into a rattan chair. “Stay there. Move and you won’t see him.” Helen realised he was being literal. She was to see but not touch or kiss or hold her son.

  “Richard,” Cameron shouted into the growing darkness. A passenger door opened at the back of the car and a slim, tall man emerged. Helen recognised him instantly. She should have guessed. Wherever Cameron went, his trusty fixer Richard Chakanaya was never far behind. Had he been there last time Cameron had come calling? Had he heard, watched, laughed at her humiliation, her pain? Had they joked about it on the journey back to Blantyre, chinked glasses and smirked at the Club as Cameron told and retold the thrills of his conquest? She was sickened. These men had Ross, her innocent, darling boy.

  “Show her the boy.”

  With a mocking half bow in her direction, Chakanaya slammed his door shut, sauntered slowly round to the other side and reached in. He dragged out a boy, but whether it was Ross or not was impossible to tell. The car was almost the same height as the boy. All Helen could see was the crown of a dark-haired head, dropped forward onto the boy’s chest so she couldn’t make out the features. Was it Ross? It could be anybody.

  “Bring him round. Let her see.”

  Chakanaya pulled the boy round to the front of the car.

  “Show his face.”

  Chakanaya stood behind the boy, one hand on his shoulder; the other grasped the boy’s chin and raised the face. Helen felt the colour drain from hers.

  Ross.

  But the face was distorted, the eyes even from this distance unfocused black wells. What was wrong with him? She stood and took a step forward.

  “Ross! It’s Mama!”

  “Sit.” Cameron snapped the command as if to a dog. In her shock she obeyed, hearing the rattan protest as she dropped back down into her seat.

  “You want him, Helen?”

  “What have you done to him? Why is he so … so … ?”

  “Vacant?” Cameron laughed. “Well he never was the brightest in the pack now, was he? He’s still a bit under the weather from the accident, you know, and the sedatives help keep everything under control.”

  “You’re drugging him?”

  “Richard and I do our best of course, but we haven’t the time or the skills – or the inclination, to be honest – to mollycoddle better. And we can’t have anyone else come in and find out our secret now, can we?”

  “But Evie’s letter said there was a woman …”

  “That addled alcoholic? She rather overdid it one night so we had to … let her go. No. Poor lad. He could do with a bit of motherly love. So what do you say, Helen? Your choice.”

  “I don’t have a choice. I’ve told you. I don’t have Izzie.”

  Cameron’s eyebrow raised as he looked at her. “Interesting. You don’t have Izzie. A few moments ago, Izzie was dead; now, you simply don’t have her.”

  “Because she’s dead, Cameron. Dead. How many times do I have to tell you?”

  “Don’t distress yourself, dear Helen. Take some time. Calm yourself. I’ll be back.” Cameron waved a hand in Chakanaya’s direction and the tall man bundled the boy back into the car. Ross showed no emotion, barely moved of his own volition, allowed himself to be pushed and prodded like a piece of meat. Senseless. Unfeeling.

  “Why are you doing this, Cameron? Why are you bartering like this with our children’s lives?”

  “But they’re not our children, are they, Helen? They’re yours. Yours and dear old Greg’s. Which means I might not get a look in. David, on the other hand, now there’s a son a man can be proud of, a chip off the old block. We had an interesting conversation the other day. You know he’s just at that age where he really begins to grasp things, to understand the wider implications, the nuances of what’s being said. No child any longer, that one. No. Not at all.”

  “You’ve … Oh God, no Cameron. You’ve told him.”

  “Well, I rather think he had a right to know, d
on’t you? There he was, the poor lad, mourning his mother, or so he thought. He needed to know. Soften the blow of your loss if he realised you weren’t his mother at all. So of course I told him. And do you know what he said? The first thing he asked when I’d finished our sorry little tale? ‘Who else knows?’ he asked. ‘Who else knows?’ ”

  Cameron’s laugh was chilling to Helen, who was still watching the sleek black car, all its doors now firmly closed, the tinted windows as black and concealing as the night-time sky that was even now beginning to darken around them. Ross.

  “We’ll work well together, me and my boy. He’s a bright kid. More like me than I’d thought. But more … obedient. And young enough still to mould. I like that.”

  “So why would you want Izzie?”

  “If she were alive, you mean?” he mocked. “Backup. Insurance. Never does any harm to have a Plan B. I’d love that child as if she were my own, of course, and I’m sure she’d do everything she could to keep her dear father happy. Including letting me control the small matter of the family fortune. And a daughter can be useful in cementing an alliance. A Chakanaya alliance, perhaps.”

  “No, Cameron. I won’t let you do this.”

  “Really? And just how are you going to stop me?”

  “I’ll come forward. I won’t stay dead. Then the company’s mine, the money’s mine, the children too.”

  “And much good it will all do you from a prison cell.” Cameron smiled at her. “Attempted murder of your own child. That I’m sure will carry a very, very long sentence. And make for a particularly unpleasant time of it inside. I understand the criminal sorority are not too keen on baby killers.”

  “That’s not what happened, Cameron, and you know it. I’ll tell the truth. That you fired the gun—”

  “That the gun discharged after you recklessly pushed your child at me, using him as a weapon at worst, a shield at best. That I did everything I could to help the boy after you’d dropped the gun and run off, intent on saving your own skin as the mudslide began, without a second thought for any of your children—”