The World at My Feet

by Catherine Isaac

  My head swims. It’s been so long since I saw her in person. We were both so young when we were together that if I’d been relying on memory alone I don’t think I’d ever recognise her, no matter how important she was in my life back then. But I’d kept the picture of the two of us on my bedside for a long time after I moved to the UK and Dad gave it to me; it came to university with me, then back here when I moved into the annexe and has been in that plastic crate in my wardrobe ever since.

  ‘I think it could be,’ I tell her. ‘Just wait here a minute.’

  I pull off my wellies and go into my bedroom, standing on the dressing-table stool to pull down the box. It takes me a couple of minutes to find the picture and when I do, my heart clenches. There are no smiles. We simply look small and skinny and lost, which I suppose is exactly what we were.

  I take it back to Mum and we put the two images next to one another. There’s no question: it’s her.

  ‘What’s this piece about anyway?’ I ask. ‘Have you translated it from the French?’

  She hesitates. ‘It’s about the homeless living in tunnels under Bucharest’s main railway station. A lot of them had had an institutional upbringing. They’d previously lived in the orphanages.’

  The images depict a nightmarish existence, cramped, overcrowded and dirty.

  ‘As you know, I contacted the Romanian authorities about Tabitha years ago and she’d disappeared off their radar. I really didn’t know whether to show you this.’

  She looks up at me, sees my expression and takes the article from me, placing it back in the folder. ‘I was genuinely torn about it, especially after what your dad said. But you made me promise when you were a girl that if I ever discovered anything about Tabitha I’d tell you. So I have.’

  I nod. ‘Thank you. I… it’s good to know that at least she was still alive.’ But my voice wavers. Tabitha might have been alive when that photo was taken. She might have been free. But that was years ago. Contemplating her chances of survival in those conditions makes me feel sick with despair.

  Chapter 32

  The following morning, I’m editing a post when someone bangs on my door. ‘Ellie!’

  I open up to find Oscar on the doorstep in red wellies that appear to be three sizes too big for his feet.

  ‘Have they grown yet?’ he asks, stepping inside.

  ‘Have what grown?’

  ‘My tomatoes. I’m having them for lunch. I don’t normally like tomatoes but I’m making a deception.’

  ‘I think you mean an exception?’ I suggest, looking up to see Mandy attempting to tiptoe her way through a puddle in cork wedges, rain battering her hair.

  ‘Oi! Mister! Don’t go running ahead like that!’ She reaches my door and steps inside. ‘Honestly, these flippin’ tomatoes. They’re all I’ve heard about today.’

  ‘I’m afraid they won’t be ready for a while yet,’ I tell Oscar. ‘It will probably take until September.’

  He holds out the fingers of one hand and starts counting down on them. ‘January, Decembuary, June, Octember…’ He pauses and looks up. ‘That’s ages away.’

  ‘Yeah. Sorry. But the plants have grown!’ I say brightly, turning to his mum. ‘Leave Oscar here and we’ll potter in the greenhouse, if you like.’

  Mandy doesn’t get the chance to contemplate the offer before Oscar runs towards the greenhouse, bursts through the door and rushes to his tomato plant, which I have been nurturing with the care you’d devote to a rare, prize-winning orchid. He peers at it and frowns.

  ‘Where are the tomatoes?’

  ‘You’ll have to give them a chance to grow, but they will. Look, they’re starting to flower – can you see? That’s what they do first.’

  ‘I didn’t want flowers,’ he adds, sullenly.

  ‘Well, I’m afraid you’re stuck with them if you want them to become tomatoes. Wait here, I think the rain’s stopping.’

  I go into the shed and return with the children’s gardening set I ordered online last week. It wasn’t expensive, just a little canvas carry bag, with a hand trowel and fork, gloves and a matching bucket. He accepts it with such effusive thanks that I’m almost embarrassed and dives outside to test it out.

  He’s a bit disappointed that I refuse to allow him to do his favourite job – turning on the sprinkler – given that the grass is already like a swamp. Nor will I let him loose with the hosepipe – the last time it was he and I who were left hydrated, rather than the plants. Instead, I suggest we do a little weeding, which I discover after popping to the loo for a couple of minutes was a reckless idea, judging by the number of bedding plants he’s uprooted.

  ‘Look how many I’ve got, Ellie!’ he says, pointing to a heap of lobelia. ‘Did I do well?’

  I turn to Google for suggestions and come up with a worm hunt. Obviously, there is no horticultural merit in this, but he’s certainly entertained and soon we are on our hands and knees, arm-deep in soil.

  ‘I’m going to keep this one as my pet,’ he says, holding it in his palm. ‘I’m going to look after him for ever.’

  ‘For ever is quite a long time in worm years,’ I point out.

  ‘He needs a name.’

  ‘How about Wriggles?’ He scrunches up his nose, unimpressed. ‘Wormy?’ I suggest.

  ‘Those names don’t suit him.’ Then he peers at the creature, searching for inspiration from his appearance. ‘I’ll call him Ellie.’

  Mandy appears on the patio, clearly not going to risk the path this time. ‘All done. Have you been good for Ellie?’

  ‘Yes and I’ve got a pet.’ He runs at her, brandishing the worm somewhere in the area of her nose. Mandy shrieks and suggests that he should get that bloody thing away. I step in and tell Oscar that Ellie – Ellie the Worm that is – needs to live here but he’s welcome to visit again. Mandy pulls a face that indicates doubts about my sanity, but decides not to argue if it means she doesn’t have to take it home.

  Oscar lifts up the palm of his hand to address it directly. ‘Make sure you are good for Ellie,’ he says earnestly, handing him to me.

  ‘I’m sure he will. But I’m just going to put him back down in the soil for a little while. Worms like their freedom.’ I lower it to the ground so it can wriggle away.

  ‘Thanks for my bucket and tools,’ Oscar says.

  ‘Thanks for helping in the garden,’ I reply.

  Then he reaches out and throws his arms around my waist, squeezing me as tight as he can manage. A surge of warmth rushes through me, despite my knowledge that his filthy, wormy fingers are pressing into my back. ‘What’s… what’s this for?’ I ask.

  He pulls away and looks at me. ‘Because I love you.’

  Then he marches towards the gate, swinging his new gardening kit by his side.

  Chapter 33

  Guy arrives at eight and my heart swoops at the sight of him on my doorstep. He plants a slow kiss on my cheek and I invite him inside as Gertie hurtles out of the bedroom. He automatically reels back, but I scoop her up by the flanks before she can reach him, tickling her under her ears until she settles and trots off. I fix us some drinks while he sinks onto the sofa; my chest is knotting in anticipation of the conversation I’ve been steeling myself for ever since sending my email. I still haven’t resolved how much I’ll tell him and now find myself deferring the entire thing in favour of small talk.

  ‘Have you seen Elijah lately?’ I ask.

  ‘I’m having him this weekend. She’s off to a festival.’ I’ve noticed that his ex – Stella – is never referred to by name. It’s almost as if to say it out loud would be to acknowledge not merely that they had a past, but the dreadful reality that, as Elijah’s mother, she will inhabit a small corner of his life for ever more.

  ‘Are you doing anything special with him?’

  ‘You know, he’s happy just watching Kung Fu Panda. He must have seen it a hundred times but it never seems to get old.’

  I hand him a glass of Sauvignon Blanc. ‘I’m told it’s
very good.’

  ‘Not that good,’ he grins. He takes a sip, then puts the glass down on the table. ‘Sorry I’ve been elusive lately. It wasn’t intentional – things are just crazy right now.’

  I wait for him to expand on this, but he doesn’t, instead stretching his arm across the sofa as he looks at me, taking me in. ‘You look utterly gorgeous.’

  He reaches around to the back of my neck and gently caresses my skin with his fingers, before pulling me towards him for the sheerest kiss. My heart surges at the touch of his lips, but I remind myself that I must not get into anything physical with him until I’ve broached the issue I’ve promised I would. But as I open my mouth to speak, he does too and we end up in a verbal cha-cha-cha of ‘you first’s and ‘after you’s. It’s he who eventually concedes.

  ‘Did you see what happened to my account this week? My followers jumped by over a thousand.’

  ‘Oh, I did notice actually. That’s great! What do you think prompted it?’

  ‘Popsugar ran an article called “Shirtless Men Meditating”,’ he replies. ‘I was number twelve.’

  A laugh bursts out of me, which I quickly suppress. ‘That’s brilliant. Gosh, what a coup.’

  ‘I know!’

  He looks so happy that I feel happy for him, recalling that same feeling I had when my account started to take on a life of its own.

  ‘Overnight, I’m almost at four thousand followers. If I carry on like this I could be at the ten K mark by autumn, which means I’m this close to getting my posts sponsored.’ He begins to remove his sweater and as he pulls it over his head a scent rises, half warm skin, half essential oils. Something stirs inside me. ‘I was wondering if I could come and take some photos in your garden?’

  ‘Oh sure,’ I reply, flattered and a little surprised. ‘Whenever you want. It’s looking really photogenic out there at the moment.’

  ‘It would also mean you could maybe re-post the pictures to your account,’ he tells me. ‘You wouldn’t mind, would you?’

  ‘No, not at all.’

  ‘Hey – why don’t we do a series?’ he suggests. ‘We could do some stories together, then you could do a video about me, introducing me to your followers.’

  I shift in my seat awkwardly, trying to work out if there would be any way to do this that didn’t jar. But I can’t help coming to the conclusion that, from the perspective of my own followers, it would look a bit odd.

  ‘Yeah, I’m sure we could come up with some ideas,’ I say, diplomatically. ‘I’ll get my thinking cap on. I just… I need to bear in mind that my own followers are only really there for plants.’

  ‘Right, right,’ he nods, then turns a frown on me. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, if I suddenly switch focus and start writing about wellbeing and yoga, I’ll start losing people. They’ll wonder what’s going on.’

  When it becomes clear that the knot on Guy’s forehead is not going to fully unfurl, I curse myself for being so selfish. ‘Forget I said that,’ I reply, waving my hand dismissively at my own stupidity. ‘I’d love to help. In any way I can.’

  His gaze makes a sultry drift across my face before settling on my mouth. ‘Thank you, Ellie. I’m really just starting this journey. It means the world that you’ll be there with me for it.’

  He picks up a strand of my hair and lets it slide through his fingers. He’s about to move in to kiss me again, when I feel an urge to address the issue I’ve been avoiding. ‘Guy, I promised I’d explain about what happened on my birthday.’

  He pulls back. ‘Oh yes.’

  All the words I’ve been thinking about for most of the afternoon start jostling in my head and I suddenly don’t know where to begin. ‘I need to give you some context first.’

  ‘Sure,’ he says gently.

  ‘When I was younger, before I came to live with my mum and dad, I… was initially brought up somewhere else.’

  He ponders this for a moment. ‘They’re not your real parents?’

  ‘Not biologically, no.’

  ‘You’re adopted?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Cool,’ he says, reaching out to pick up his glass. ‘So what’s that got to do with what happened on your birthday?’

  ‘Well, I thought maybe I ought to start from the beginning.’

  He takes a sip of his drink. ‘Okay.’ He smiles.

  ‘So the thing is…’ I continue, but then I notice his eyes slide to the right and realise that he’s subtly checking the kitchen clock. ‘Though… No, I’ll get straight to the point, shall I?’

  ‘Whatever you think is best.’

  I decide I must have imagined it.

  I inhale deeply and look at him. ‘Sometimes I feel weird when I go out. You know. Panicky.’

  He looks concerned. ‘Oh, is this an anxiety thing? I can show you some exercises for that if you like. So, what… it’s when you’re in a car?’

  ‘Well. Yes.’ For some reason, implying that my issues are confined to when I’m in a vehicle, as opposed to just everywhere, feels slightly easier.

  He leans forward and puts down the glass, then returns to pick up my hand. ‘Ellie, I understand.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Absolutely.’ He starts to stroke my knuckles. ‘My mum was involved in a car accident a couple of years ago.’

  ‘Oh… God, really?’

  ‘It wasn’t anything serious, fortunately, but she hurt her pelvis and, even when she recovered, for years she hated getting in the passenger seat of a car. She took the train everywhere. It’s all good now though. It passed. I’m sure it will for you too.’

  His fingers have now made their way gently up my arm and are tracing my collarbone. ‘You know, you’d have loved the Mind and Body show.’

  ‘I saw the videos. It looked wonderful.’ He begins circling the nape of my neck. ‘I’m really sorry, Guy. I’ll give you the money for my ticket. I really do feel awful about it. Here, let me get my purse—’

  But he grabs me by the arm and gently pulls me onto his knee. He turns my head towards him and softly, oh so softly, sinks his mouth into mine. My entire body goes fuzzy, my limbs weak with longing.

  ‘Ellie, stop worrying,’ he says, between kisses. ‘There’s no way I’m going to let you pay. It’s all fine. I promise.’

  ‘You’re sure?’ I whisper.

  ‘Absolutely.’ Then he kisses me again and soon we are on our feet and he’s leading me to the bedroom, where I usher Gertie out and close the door.

  * * *

  Afterwards, Guy sleeps. He always does, as if whatever cocktail of chemicals he’s just released has a narcoleptic effect on every limb and organ in his body. It never lasts for more than ten minutes, which I usually spend on my phone until he rouses. But this time, I close my eyes and sink into sleep too.

  I dream about the orphanage. About its mould and rust, layers of dirt and stench of fear. This time, it isn’t about the day Tabitha jumped out of the window, but the time Visinel beat her, after she’d refused to go with him into his room.

  They’re in our dorm, his eyes fixed on her fragile frame as he moves towards her. But now, I am not eight years old. I am caught in a slipstream of time, watching the scene unfold not as a child, but the adult version of me. Who knows more, has seen more, who understands what’s happening and has the ability to stop it.

  He yells and grabs at Tabitha’s clothes. I run towards them. The air around me is cinematic, rushing past at high speed. But, no matter how fast my legs move, I’m not getting anywhere. The realisation that I can’t reach her, I can’t save her, hits me like a tsunami and I stumble to a halt. ‘Get away from her,’ I scream. Tabitha’s thin arms are trembling. ‘Get your hands off her.’

  Visinel raises the stick, bringing it down so hard that the air whistles. ‘NO!’

  ‘Ellie!’

  I wake up with sweat soaked into the hair above my neck. I register Guy’s expression and the acid burn in my chest.

  ‘Sorry,’ I mutter.<
br />
  He runs his hand through his hair, blowing out his cheeks. ‘Christ. You’d have thought the house was on fire.’

  ‘I had a bad dream,’ I mumble.

  He looks genuinely worried. ‘Ellie, you were… hysterical.’

  ‘Sorry,’ I say again, pushing myself up as I feel the blood return to my cheeks.

  He inhales, pecks me on the cheek, then turns away to grab his pants from the floor. ‘What time is it?’ I ask, as he stands and pulls them up over his buttocks.

  He picks up his phone. ‘Eleven. I need to go.’

  ‘You could stay over,’ I suggest hopefully.

  ‘Not tonight, I’m afraid. I’ve got too much on tomorrow.’ He bends to kiss me again, this time on the lips. He pulls away and holds my gaze, tucking my hair behind my ear. ‘Still beautiful.’

  ‘I’ll come and see you out,’ I say, starting to move.

  ‘No, you stay there. And don’t let any more of those nightmares disturb your beauty sleep, will you?’

  Then he opens the door and heads outside as Gertie jumps on the bed and I snuggle into her neck instead.

  Chapter 34

  Harriet, 1992

  Until the moment Harriet had entered the UK with an eight-year-old Romanian child, she had never considered herself to be one of life’s risk takers. Ironic for a war reporter, perhaps, but she prided herself on it. It was what had kept her alive all these years.

  Yet, even before they’d started the adoption, it felt as though something fundamental had changed in her, that some mysterious internal procedure was recalibrating her system. The feeling was most acute when she arrived at Heathrow, clutching Ellie’s hand while Colin guided them towards Customs. There, they calmly announced that yes they did have something to declare and presented officials with a mountain of accumulated paperwork. Everything suddenly felt very risky indeed.

  To reach this stage had taken six months and scores of meetings with child protection services in both the UK and Romania. Between the translators and the home visits, the bureaucracy sometimes felt overwhelming and the pace glacial, leaving the ‘honeymoon’ phase of Harriet and Colin’s marriage scarred by a simmering anxiety that their plans might crumble at any moment.