Francine watched the darkening grey landscape drift past, the rise and fall of the road, the steep drop to their left scattered with young oaks that led down to the river below. Her mind a haze of lost sleep and guilt, the collision of past and present, she’d crossed a boundary, with rules on hold. Soon it would all return to normal: Simon would leave, she’d go home and pick up her life with William and all would be as before. But not yet, not too soon, she found, as they bolted themselves in against the night. Simon had planned to catch the last flight home and go straight to work in the morning but it didn’t happen.
‘I could stay,’ he said, running a finger down the side of her neck as they lay once more among the flour sacks. ‘Help you out here. Finish clearing the bakery.’ It was only half in jest.
‘And the shop?’ Francine said, propping herself up against the cupboards. ‘My business? Not to mention William, my life – my family.’
‘I don’t want to complicate things, but it strikes me you’ve a lot to deal with here.’
‘I can manage, it’s best if I manage alone. This would never work. I can’t risk the fallout – especially from the girls. With Evie, I skate on thin ice as it is.’
Simon looked at her, then turned away. ‘I never expected anything, you know. When I agreed to come, I did just want to help, nothing more. But this,’ he waved his hand between the two of them, ‘this is a bonus.’
‘Staff bonus?’
‘If you like.’
‘I’m sorry it can’t be more.’
‘Me too,’ he said.
Simon left the following morning, clambering into the tiny car and puttering off long before dawn to catch the red-eye back to London. Francine stood shivering in the dark street as the car disappeared. She wondered who might be watching, whether there would be more night visits. Then she returned to the house, locked the door firmly and went back to her still-warm bed.
Twenty-Seven
Each day that Helena comes, my time passes in a state of calm, she moves quietly about the house ordering, arranging, tidying. Each day she’s here I manage a little more: an hour or so in the workshop, a short walk to the park. I even fix the car seat in the van, though driving with Edward is still unthinkable. Sometimes I can take a shower, leaving him quite safely lying awake in his cot. I find too that I can go to him and pick him up, thinking he might just need to be held. Holding him, I find, is not so very hard.
It’s not been easy keeping all this from the family. Francine is still in France, and hasn’t made contact since I last phoned her. It surprises me she’s stayed away so long, I’m not sure either why my father hasn’t gone over there yet. Clearing the house and bakery will be a huge task. I keep Joanna in check with a pack of lies so she now believes I’ve signed up to a whole string of classes: Mindfulness for new mothers, swim-fit, baby yoga and anything else I could find in the local paper. She’s mercifully not at home much – Andy’s Dad seems to take up much of her time. I’ve promised to take Edward to see her just as soon as he’s over a fictitious chest infection. In fact, his chest grows healthier by the day, so far removed from those early days when he fought for every breath.
One afternoon I have a visit from Rose. She says it’s just a drop-in to check I’m ok, though I know it’s to discover whose car is parked daily across the street. I hesitate to let her in, but I’m indebted to her kindness and cannot turn her away.
‘I won’t stay long,’ she says. ‘Had a few minutes to spare before my next shift.’ She stops and turns expectantly when she sees Helena. ‘Hi, I’m Rose. From next-door.’
Helena looks up from the ironing. ‘Hello, Rose,’ she says. ‘Evie’s told me a lot about you.’
‘All good, I hope!’ Rose beams at both of us and peers into the pram in the corner. ‘My, he’s grown! Solid little thing, isn’t he? Takes after his Dad.’ Again, Rose looks for confirmation, some hint as to who it is that’s ironing in my living room.
But Helena puts the iron in the rack and gives nothing away. ‘Would you like some tea?’ she says.
‘Thanks, but can’t stop. Just popped in really, make sure everything’s ok?’
I thank her and tell her I’m fine. Rose smiles again and has the tact to leave us, but I know her cogs are whirring. She’s met Joanna enough times; she will work it out. I look at Helena, small, dark and neat at the ironing board. Rose cannot fail to realise who she is. It’s mean to say nothing, what harm could it do? It’s not like keeping it from my family. But I know it’s not time to give her up. I will not betray her again.
In the early evening, I’m sitting on my bed feeding Edward, his skin is soft and fragrant from the bath, his body warm against me.
My bedroom is small, strewn with clutter and dust like the rest of the house, though less so now than before. Downstairs, Helena is ironing again; my clothes have never been so neat. I’m growing used to her being here, there’s a new normal, I’m almost whole again.
Helena brings another pile of ironing upstairs and leaves it next to me on the bed. ‘I’ll let you to put it away,’ she says. ‘I don’t like to rummage.’ She sits down, and watches as Edward falls asleep in my arms.
‘When you and I met again,’ she says, taking Edward’s tiny foot in her hand, ‘you know Jack told me to stay away. Told me to make do with what I have, what I’ve discovered.’
‘But you didn’t. So why was it different this time?’
Helena shakes her head. ‘Maybe I’d had enough of making do. Maybe now I’ve earned the right to a little more.’
Later, when Edward is settled in his cot, Helena prepares to leave. Thick fog has fallen and I look out at the darkness and tell her it’s not a good night to be out. ‘The roads are bad – it’s easy to get lost.’
Helena picks up her keys and checks her bag. ‘I’ll be fine,’ she says, kissing me on the cheek. ‘Get some sleep now, while it’s quiet.’
‘You don’t have to go, you know.’
‘Oh, I think I do,’ Helena replies. ‘Best not to take chances.’
‘Text me when you’re home.’
‘I will. Now go to bed.’
Helena crosses the road to her car parked on the grass verge opposite. The fog hangs between the houses, drapes over rooftops, drifting in the dim street lights. The journey to the flat will be long and slow. When she’s disappeared into the darkness I stand a moment then close the front door against the dank stillness of the night. Away to the south I hear the rasping screech of a barn owl.
By the time I go to bed, there is still no text from Helena.
I stand with Edward at the window in the small front room. Rain is falling: clear heavy rain unlike the damp, foggy mizzle of the past few days. Helena didn’t send a safe arrival text last night. I waited up for it, but then decided, with the fog, she must have arrived home too late and then forgotten. There’s no text this morning either and I’ve already tried to ring, several times, but each time the phone goes straight to voicemail.
At ten-fifteen I put Edward in his pram and begin to fold some laundry that’s lying on the table. At ten forty-five I try Helena’s number again, leave yet another message and carry on the rhythmic task of folding, thinking of the hours ahead and what we’ll do when she arrives, how we’ll spend the time, and the next few days, before Mark comes home again.
My phone pings. I grab it, flick open the screen, but it’s only Joanna. Hi passing through this pm will swing by x
I don’t want to see Joanna. I abandon the folding and try Helena’s number yet again, without success. It’s now eleven o’clock. Edward stirs, his feed is due, he makes slurping noises on his fist. Panic again, crawling up from the pit of my stomach. I’ll manage the feed, but then what? In the shed, working again, I have felt the touch of an old life, a moment of competence. But how can I do this alone? Where can I put Edward? Why is Helena not here? Why has she not let me know? Unless somethin
g is wrong, something has happened to her. Or worse: she has changed her mind. She has gone away again, broken her promise.
The house is too small, bearing down on me. I step into the garden and breathe, rapidly at first, great gulps of wet air. Rain falls on my head, on my shoulders; with no coat I’m soaked already, the clean, ironed clothes put on that morning drenched, stuck to me like soggy cling film. I’m five years old again, confused, abandoned at the top of the stairs, the precious miracle that brought Helena into my life now washing away, beating with the rain into the sodden earth and lost from view.
I go back into the house, pick Edward up and begin to pace, holding him tightly to me, only this time I hold him for comfort, to still the fear and anchor my flailing heart.
I stop pacing, check my phone again, try Helena’s number. Nothing. If something has happened, I must go to her. But I’ll have to put Edward in the van and drive to wherever. How can I do that without help? And I’ll have to explain – the truth wrenched from me by Joanna if no-one else. And Mark? What will he think – or do for that matter? Then there’s my father.
I wait another half hour. There must be a good reason, there must be something that’s keeping Helena. It doesn’t have to be something bad. A traffic jam – they’re digging up the A10 in places, there are always queues. Or problems with the car – it is ancient after all. Or she could be unwell and not want to worry me by making a fuss. Or an unexpected visitor, or perhaps…?
Perhaps.
I’m cold now, and Edward damp from being held. I fish dry clothes from the pile on the table, change and feed him. I surprise myself.
At midday, I try Helena’s phone once more. Sorry I can’t take your call right now. Please leave a message. As I listen, my phone pings again – another text from Joanna: be round at 2, tho have to dash Livvi has dance after school x
I cannot deal with Joanna. Even if Helena doesn’t turn up, even if something has happened, Joanna is the last person I want to help. With Joanna it’s not a question of help, it’s a takeover. It’s not time to include Joanna. Not yet.
I text back: Sorry out this pm. Catch up soon x. I push my phone out of sight behind the pile of laundry. Watching won’t make it ring.
I pull out the bouncing chair and set it on the floor in the middle of the room. There’s a strap to fasten round Edward’s waist and a gusset with space for his legs either side. When Joanna arrived with it, she went into great detail about kite marks and durability and web-ratings. It hadn’t looked complicated then. But later, home alone with Edward, the effort of fitting him into it, the thought of leaving him so exposed, filled me with horror, my mind racing with all the perils that could harm him.
Now as I ease Edward’s legs either side of the gusset, he lies back and his head settles into the soft blue fabric, his quiet burbling and the dripping tap in the kitchen the only sounds in the room. I watch him, the chair rocking gently with his movements. I reach out, stroke his face with my finger and as his smile breaks, a smile so familiar, so full of Mark and my father and even Joanna in the tiny dimples, it’s as if a cocoon has pierced and something trapped and beautiful is slowly set free. And with it comes the smallest flicker, a weak candle of faith that some joy may be found in this new place.
I’ve been sitting on the floor with Edward for over an hour leaning against the couch. When he grows tired of the chair I lift him out, go to the kitchen to fetch a bottle and feed him. I watch as his eyes close, the teat falls out of his mouth with a trail of white milky dribble and he burps obligingly.
When the phone warbles, I scramble to my feet to find it.
‘Hello?’ An unknown male voice is speaking. ‘Is that Evie?’
My heart begins its knock. ‘Yes, who’s calling?’
‘My name’s Jack Hammond. You don’t know me but I’m a friend of Helena Watson.’
I register a pause before the word friend. ‘Yes, I remember, she’s mentioned you.’
‘I’m sorry to trouble you but I just wondered if she’s still with you? I’ve been trying to contact her since last night.’
‘I see.’ The knock in my chest grows stronger.
‘Nothing important,’ Jack continues, ‘only she usually calls, you see, in the evening and last night she didn’t. I’ve left a couple of messages but, like I say, I’m sorry to bother you.’
‘Oh.’ I struggle to process what I’m hearing. ‘I…, she’s not here I’m afraid.’
‘Ah, well, that’s a shame.’
Jack falls silent, I begin to pace.
‘Hello?’ Jack’s voice again.
‘I’m here,’ I say. ‘Helena’s been with me for a while, coming up every day since the beginning of the month. Last night she left as usual about nine.’
‘And have you heard from her?’
‘No, I haven’t. She always texts when she gets home but last night she didn’t. And there was nothing this morning either. I suppose she had… other things to do.’
‘Oh,’ Jack’s voice drops. ‘I see. Were you planning to see her today?’
‘Yes, about ten as usual,’ I glance up at the clock, ‘but it’s gone twelve now.’
‘Ok. Well no doubt she’ll be in touch soon. I’ll keep trying her phone – battery’s probably flat. Sorry to disturb you.’
‘It’s fine. When I hear from her, I’ll tell her you called.’
‘Thanks. Bye now.’
When I hear from her. When, not if. Now I’m the one trying to reassure. I stand in the middle of the room, not calm – a long way from calm – but the knock is steady now. I wait for the panic to arrive as it does whenever change is needed, the move from A to B, from here to there. I stand and breathe the memory of Helena’s tender therapy, feel it alive in the room. Then I pick Edward up and hold him, and hope that whatever has happened, whatever it is, I can meet it now; that this painful road I’ve travelled since Edward’s birth has led me somewhere new and beautiful, a changed landscape. My old boots moved on without me but with Helena’s help, I’ve found them again, clean and shiny, waiting for me.
Twenty-Eight
The police, when they come do not ring the bell but thump loudly on the door like an early morning courier.
‘Evie Gardner?’ Two officers stand in the street, a shock of luminous yellow and misting breath. ‘Can we come in please?’
It’s not a request. I stand aside as they step into the hall and squeeze past me into the living room.
‘Sorry to bother you.’ The woman speaks, taking out a notebook and pencil, eyeing the pram, the pile of laundry, the baby in my arms. In some wild corner of my brain, I’m thankful the room is clean, that they didn’t come weeks ago, before Helena.
‘We’re making enquiries about an incident yesterday evening.’
I stare at them, clutching Edward so tightly he begins to protest.
‘We’ve had a report from South Hertfordshire Police about a road traffic incident on the A10 involving a woman driver by the name of Helena Watson.’
My heart beats in the hollow box, my ears rush. I swallow and nod.
‘We’re trying to trace her last movements, to get a picture of what might have happened. We found your contact details among her belongings and wondered if you might be able to help.’
I stare at the officer poised with a pencil. ‘What’s happened?’ I manage to ask. ‘Is she…?’
‘She was found in the early hours of this morning and taken to St. Jude’s Hospital in London. We’re trying to locate her next of kin.’
The room spins, I start to sway, the officer catches my arm and I drop onto the couch.
‘So you know her then?’
Know, not knew. Present tense. ‘Yes,’ I whisper, ‘I know her.’
‘And in what capacity might that be? Is she a friend?’
I clear my throat and look up at the two shapes filling my livi
ng room, a mass of black and yellow. ‘Yes, I know her. But her name isn’t Watson, it’s Gardner, Helena Gardner, and she’s my mother.’
When the police have gone, I glance at the clock. 6.30. My knees are still weak but I put Edward down, move around the living room, find nappies, sacks and wipes. I pluck clothes from the clean pile on the table and stash them in Edward’s bag. I take the made-up bottles of feed from the fridge, and some others, ready-made ones Joanna brought me, six in all.
In my own bag I pack a few essentials, remember my phone charger and the satnav, then set about folding the pram and loading Edward into the van. The car seat is still in place on the front seat, I struggle to strap him in, his bulk increased by the layers I’ve wrapped around him. I’ve practised these past weeks with Helena patiently looking on.
I check the house, leave a low light in the front room, and shut the front door behind me. Next door, apart from the porch light, Rose’s house is in darkness. It occurs to me I could have asked Rose to mind Edward while I go to the hospital, but there’s no plan here, I’ve no idea how long I will be or even what will happen when I get there. It’s simply the only thing to do, as if all the progress of the past few weeks has been a preparation for this exodus now. In leaving the house, I am somehow set free. I start the engine and move off.
The night is damp, mist hangs over the fields on either side of the road. I glance at Edward, bundled in his seat, hat and hood obscuring his face. Have I overdone the layers? I try to focus on the drive, to keep away thoughts of what the police have told me: multiple fractures, serious head injury, intensive care, and seat belt – something about the seat belt – what was that? I heard it all from a long distance as the room span and my world yet again tilted off course.
A few short weeks ago, I found my mother, weeks of light and shade, randomly split. Now it seems I might lose her again. Helena’s life is in danger and I cannot begin to fathom what I’ll do if the worst happens.
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