Your Guilty Lies (ARC)

by Ruth Heald

  ‘I’m sure he’ll fly back as soon as he gets the message.’

  I nod. ‘And then Mum and Melissa can visit once he’s back. I think I’d feel more comfortable then.’

  ‘Maybe best to let them know about the babies when Ian’s back, then?’

  I nod. ‘Yeah. I think I’ll wait.’ I feel a bit guilty about it, but it only seems fair for Ian to meet his daughters first. And I need a bit of time to recover before I’m faced with my family.

  ‘It won’t hurt to leave it a day or two for Ian to get back. I usually recommend parents have a whole week to bond with their children before they have any visitors. Unwanted guests can really disrupt establishing a routine.’

  ‘I just think I’ll need some help with the babies,’ I admit. ‘Is there any chance…?’ I trail off, too embarrassed to ask her directly if she’ll help me. Ian and I had agreed that Paula would help me prepare for the births, but we hadn’t talked about afterwards. We’d assumed he’d be at home with us.

  ‘Do you want me to stay with you for a few days to help you adjust?’

  ‘Yes please. But I’m afraid I won’t be able to pay you until Ian’s back.’ I look down at my feet, embarrassed.

  ‘No problem. I’ll just need to check my calendar.’

  She pulls out her phone and I see her eyes scanning her appointments. I hold my breath. I’ve got no idea how I’ll cope if she can’t help me.

  She smiles. ‘I haven’t got any clients this week. I’m free to help. I can come home with you from the hospital and get you settled.’

  It’s the nights I’m worried about most, alone with two screaming, hungry newborns. ‘Can you stay overnight?’ I ask.

  ‘Of course.’

  Relief floods me.

  * * *

  I’m discharged that afternoon, and by the time we get back to the house I’m exhausted. After we’d tracked down a taxi with two baby seats, I spent the journey wedged between my newborns, their screams reverberating around the car, with me powerless to comfort them. Now I’m back home, they’re still screaming and I don’t know where to start; whether to feed them, or change their nappies, or just hold them. I’m suddenly furious that Ian hasn’t been in contact. How could he not get back to me? Why on earth did he go to Thailand so close to my due date?

  Luckily Paula takes control and I go upstairs to wash while she looks after the babies. The shower drowns out the screaming and I clean the remaining specks of dried blood off my legs, the sweat out of my hair. I’m so glad Paula will be staying tonight. My fury’s replaced with a twinge of longing for Ian, but I push it back down, and it’s quickly replaced by worry. What if something’s happened to him? What if he’s not coming back?

  I tell myself not to be so ridiculous. He’s probably just lost mobile reception in some remote area of Thailand. He’ll get back to me as soon as he gets my messages. And besides, with Paula’s help, I’ve got things under control. I can manage for now.

  I step out of the shower and wrap the warm towel around me, feeling so much better now I’m clean. I know my babies are safe with Paula downstairs.

  I pad down the corridor to my bedroom, taking in the two tiny cots beside the bed. Tonight my babies will be sleeping next to me. I feel overwhelmed but excited. I can hardly believe this is my life. I’m a mum to twins. No matter how many times I say it to myself, it still doesn’t sound real.

  I brush my hair quickly, keen to get back to my babies. On the way to the stairs, I pass the spare room where Paula will sleep and stop still in front of the door.

  The leak. I’d forgotten about the leak. I didn’t have time to get it fixed before I went into labour.

  I push open the door and stare into the room, gagging at the damp smell. The ceiling has a pale yellow stain spread across it and the corner looks like it might collapse. Crumbs of plaster have fallen down onto the floor below and the bucket I put out has overflowed, a sodden circle of carpet around it. There’s no way Paula can sleep in there.

  I go down the corridor and peer into the box room. Full of junk. The two bedrooms upstairs are the same. It would take days to clear them.

  There’s nowhere in this house for Paula to sleep. I’m going to have to ask her to go home. I’m going to have to spend the night on my own with two screaming babies I have no idea how to look after.

  Fourteen

  ‘Maybe it’s best you don’t stay,’ I say to Paula when I get back downstairs. I try to sound casual, but my voice is choked. ‘I can manage on my own tonight, and then see you tomorrow.’ Frances starts screaming and I falter and then continue. ‘I’ll pay you the same, of course.’

  ‘Oh,’ Paula says, confused. ‘You’ve changed your mind?’ She picks up Frances and holds her close.

  ‘There’s nowhere for you to sleep. There’s been a leak in the second bedroom.’ I flush, ashamed that in this huge house, there is nowhere to put a guest.

  ‘I don’t mind that. I won’t be sleeping much anyway. I’ll be looking after the babies. They tend to scream a lot at night.’

  I wince, imagining the night ahead of me. But I can’t let Paula sleep in that room. She doesn’t realise how bad it is. ‘Honestly, I wouldn’t want you to sleep there. It’s not in a fit state.’

  Paula frowns. ‘You know, I’d really prefer to stay in the house with you. You’re very vulnerable when you’ve just given birth. What if you had an accident? New mothers get so exhausted, it’s easy for these things to happen. I’d like to be here to look after you, just for a night or two, to get you settled.’

  ‘I’m sure Ian will be back soon,’ I say, sounding braver than I feel. ‘Then he can help me out.’ But I have no idea when or if he will be back. I feel a bit sick when I think about it.

  Paula continues to rock Frances and she calms. ‘Babies are always the most difficult at the beginning,’ she continues, smiling down at my daughter. ‘And Frances in particular had a traumatic entry into the world. I’m happy to stay wherever suits you.’ She waves her hand to indicate the house. ‘There must be somewhere.’

  Alice starts to scream, and her cries are even louder than Frances’s. I’m not convinced I can cope on my own. I think quickly. ‘You’ll have to stay in the main bedroom. I’ll sleep in the spare room.’

  ‘But you said there’d been a leak…’

  I think longingly of the king-size bed in the main bedroom, the two little cots beside it.

  ‘It’s only a small leak,’ I say reassuringly. ‘I’ll be fine.’

  ‘Well, if it’s only a small leak then I can sleep there,’ Paula says, reaching out to touch my shoulder to reassure me.

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ I say. ‘Really, it’s not a problem. You’re helping me out so much. It’s the least I can do.’

  * * *

  Upstairs, my bedroom is a mess. I tidy up a bit and strip the bed, replacing the sheets. As I bend over, I feel my stitches tug and I wince. My body is battered and bruised. I grab some clothes out of the cupboard, take my toiletries off the dressing table and chuck everything in the second bedroom.

  I start to move the tiny bedside cribs, but I realise that’s a crazy idea. My babies can’t sleep in a room with a leak. The damp air could damage their lungs. Or even worse, the crumbling ceiling might cave in on them. I’d never forgive myself if anything happened.

  I sit down on the edge of the bed and my tears flow freely. Nothing has turned out as I planned. I had imagined the babies being next to me from the beginning, Ian’s comfortingly warm body beside me.

  I’ll have to sleep downstairs in the living room. I can sleep on the sofa, then the babies can be in their cribs beside me. I’ll get the leak fixed first thing tomorrow and then we can switch round the bedrooms. I go downstairs and explain the plan to Paula.

  ‘Are you sure that’s a good idea? Your body’s been through so much. You need to sleep in a bed.’

  ‘But the girls can’t sleep in a damp room.’

  ‘They can sleep in with me. I often do that for new mums,
sleep next to their babies to allow the mum to get some rest.’

  ‘But I want to sleep beside them, to be there when they cry.’

  ‘I understand. But why don’t you let me do some of it? I can sort out nappy changes in the night, and I’ll bring them to you when they’re hungry. How does that sound?’

  ‘That sounds good,’ I say, relieved I’ll still be there if they need me.

  Paula puts her hand on my shoulder. ‘Don’t worry. It will only be one night. You’ll get the leak fixed, and then be back with the girls in no time. You can get some rest tonight and be refreshed for looking after them tomorrow.’ She puts the babies down and gives me a hug. ‘It’ll be fine. Remember, caring for new mothers and looking after babies is my job. That’s what I’m here for.’

  * * *

  That night I toss and turn, unable to sleep despite my exhaustion. I feel empty without my babies beside me and I miss Ian more than ever. Why hasn’t he called? It’s been over twenty-four hours. Even if he has no mobile reception, surely he should have found some way to check his messages or contact me by now. He must have been so busy with work that he hasn’t found time. He probably doesn’t even know his babies have been born. So much has happened in the last twenty-four hours it feels like a lifetime, but for him it will have seemed like just another day.

  I stare up at the crumbling ceiling and wonder if it’s likely to cave in on me. None of the emergency repair people I rang before I went into labour ever called me back. I phoned and left more messages for them before I went to bed this evening, explaining that it’s urgent.

  When I shift my position on the bed, damp rises up from the mattress and catches in my nose. I cough. I keep my face close to the single pillow I took from my bedroom, so that the smell of washing powder blocks the smell of damp. Outside the open window I can hear two neighbourhood cats fighting.

  My stitches sting and I go to the bathroom and splash cold water on them to stop them getting infected, as the midwife suggested. On my way back from the bathroom, I go over to Paula’s room and stand by the door. It’s shut. I long to see my babies, but I can’t go in and wake them all. The house is silent, and I feel even more alone than I did before the twins were born.

  I tiptoe back to my room and stare up at the ceiling. Water drips down the wall behind my bed and the wallpaper is starting to peel. Behind it I can see small line markings. I sit up and look closer. I can see they are pencil drawings of stick people. A picture of a family. A mother, a father and two girls holding hands. I wonder when they were drawn. What those girls’ lives were like. When they lived here. The house has been standing since Victorian times. The children could be long dead. The drawings make me feel uncomfortable. I think of what the neighbour said about the man who lived here, the man who became ill and died. The house has a long history, and I’m just a tiny part of it. At one time there was a family here. Two little girls in this room. Like my two little girls down the corridor.

  * * *

  I wake to desperate, agonised screams. Alice. Her lungs are strong, whereas Frances’s cries are more like a weak mewling. I stare at the door, expecting Paula to bring Alice in so I can comfort her. My whole body is tense, and I can’t rest until I know she’s OK. When my bedroom door doesn’t open I get up, go to Paula’s door and pause outside. The cries continue. I can’t hear any words of comfort or movement. Why isn’t she responding to them?

  With rising alarm, I knock on the door and then quickly push it open.

  Paula holds a screaming Alice to her bosom, rocking her back and forth.

  ‘I’m sorry to interrupt, I—’ I stop, not sure what I’m apologising for.

  ‘It’s OK,’ she says, as she stares down at Alice. I feel a pang of jealousy. I want to hold my baby.

  ‘Do they need feeding?’ I ask, going over to the remaining crib and looking in at Frances. She’s so tiny, her chest rising and falling in sleep.

  ‘No,’ Paula says. ‘Alice is starting to calm down. And Frances is asleep. You should never wake a sleeping baby. If they’re asleep, they’re fine.’

  ‘Should I hold Alice? Perhaps she wants her mother?’ I ask uncertainly. I’ve read that babies recognise their mother’s smell and it calms then.

  ‘I’ve got things under control. She’ll be back asleep in no time. You get some rest. You’ll need it for the morning.’

  ‘OK,’ I say, staring into Frances’s crib, reluctant to leave. I just want to pick her up and give her one cuddle.

  ‘Don’t worry. You’ll get the hang of things soon enough.’

  ‘You’ll bring them to me when they need feeding?’ I ask.

  ‘Of course,’ Paula says. ‘I’ll wake you up. Now go back to bed. Get some rest.’

  * * *

  I wake up to a hand on my shoulder.

  Ian? Is he back?

  I come to groggily, for a moment unsure where I am.

  ‘Katie? Katie – wake up.’

  When I see Paula, I quickly sit up. She strokes my hair back from my face gently and places Frances in my arms.

  ‘You looked so peaceful asleep, but I knew you wanted to be woken up when they needed a feed.’

  I pull down my nightdress and put Frances to my breast.

  ‘I’ll leave you in peace,’ Paula says. ‘Let you have some bonding time.’

  I nod gratefully. As soon as Paula leaves, Frances’s eyes drop closed and she seems to fall asleep. I try again once more, pushing her firmly to my body, but her eyes are still closed.

  I stare at her, unsure what to do. Around me the house creaks and the radiators clunk. Frances begins to scream. For the next hour I alternate between rocking her and trying to feed her. But nothing works. She won’t take any milk. We can’t seem to bond at all. Tears of frustration and exhaustion are running down my cheeks by the time Paula comes back in with Alice.

  ‘How did it go?’ she asks.

  ‘I can’t seem to do it.’

  ‘Maybe she’s not hungry after all.’ Paula takes Frances from me. ‘Do you want to try feeding Alice?’

  I already feel defeated, but I take Alice in my arms anyway. Paula advises me on how to position her, but she still won’t latch.

  ‘She fed in the hospital, didn’t she?’

  I nod. ‘They both did.’

  ‘It might not be working because you’re too stressed. The babies can sense it. Why don’t we try again in the morning?’

  I frown. I’m sure the midwife said I needed to feed them every four hours. But I might be wrong. Everything’s a blur. ‘Will they be OK until the morning?’ I ask.

  ‘Of course they will. I’ll be right beside them if they need anything.’

  Paula takes a screaming Alice into her arms, lifts Frances up from the bed and returns to her bedroom with my twins. Once again, I’m alone.

  7

  The knock on the door is quiet, as if whoever’s knocking isn’t really sure they want to knock at all.

  Only the postman ever knocks. And only when he has a parcel. But it’s mid-afternoon and my sister and I have just returned from school. It can’t be the postman. We creep to the top of the stairs and peek down.

  ‘Answer the door,’ Dad screams at Mum.

  A second knock comes, even more timid than the first.

  ‘Answer the bloody door!’

  Mum scurries from the kitchen, removing her washing-up gloves. A smattering of soap suds lands on the floor. She’ll be in trouble for that later.

  She opens the door. My sister and I peer down, but we can’t see more than the shadow of a jacket behind Mum. We can just about make out the sound of a male voice.

  Dad stomps into view and we scramble back to our room, keeping the door open to try and catch the conversation.

  We can’t hear the words, but we can hear the tone. Dad’s voice is angry, Mum’s worried. The other man sounds nervous, his voice high, as if he’s afraid.

  The door shuts and we hear footsteps going through the hall and into the kitchen. Dad’s l
et him into the house.

  My sister and I look at each other. Who is he? Is this one of the occasions where we’re supposed to be polite and go down and introduce ourselves, or should we stay upstairs? We never know what’s the right thing to do. We agree without speaking that we’ll stay where we are. We’re excited and afraid. I see the thought occur to my sister too. What if Miss Kingdom’s told the police about us and he’s a policeman coming to help us? What if we’re about to be rescued?

  Fifteen

  Light streams through the windows as Paula pulls the curtains back.

  ‘What time is it?’ I ask.

  ‘Ten o’clock.’

  ‘Ten?’ I say, panicking. The twins will be long overdue a feed. How can I possibly have slept so long?

  ‘You needed your sleep, so I let you have a rest.’

  ‘What about the girls?’

  ‘They’re fine. There’s no need to worry. I’ve fed them, changed their nappies and kept them happy.’

  ‘You’ve fed them?’

  ‘I gave them some formula.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say, disappointed. ‘I wanted to breastfeed.’

  Paula smiles at me sympathetically. ‘A little bit of formula won’t do any harm. Just topping them up until you’re ready to feed them yourself. It was more important for you to rest.’

  I tense up, concerned I’m already going against the midwives’ advice to breastfeed. ‘I feel like I’ve messed things up already.’

  ‘Of course you haven’t. I saw how hard you were trying last night. And besides, you have two babies. Most people have just one. Do you really think your breasts are going to be able to make enough milk for two? You’re being far too hard on yourself. Do you want to try again now?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say, relieved.

  ‘Right, I’ll help you. Do you mind if I have a look?’