by Ruth Heald
‘She looks so peaceful, fast asleep,’ she says, stroking her head.
‘What happened?’ I direct the question at Matt and Emma. ‘I was watching from the kitchen window… It all seemed to happen so suddenly. One minute the buggy was still, the next minute it was rolling.’
‘I don’t think the brake was on,’ Emma says. ‘There must have been a gust of wind. Or someone knocked it, and because the brake was off it just rolled.’
‘What?’ Matt turns to me, his voice a roar. ‘You left the brake off?’
He looks at me incredulously.
‘I…’ I think back, remembering Ruth asking me to bring the buggy nearer to the pond. I remember feeling uneasy about bringing Olivia closer to the water. I was distracted, caught up in my fear of the water. Had I set the brake?
I can’t remember. But it must have been me who forgot. I was the one who moved the buggy.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, my face flushing.
‘She could have died.’ Matt puts his head between his hands, unable to look at me.
‘I’m sorry,’ I repeat, his words sinking in. This is all my fault. I could have killed her. I’ll never forgive myself.
Emma puts an arm on my shoulder. ‘It could happen to anyone,’ she says.
Emma reaches down and strokes Olivia’s face, and I hold my daughter closer. She’s so precious, so small. I don’t want anyone to touch her.
‘How could you have forgotten the brake?’ Matt studies my face for answers, but I have none.
‘I don’t know,’ I whisper.
‘Claire, this can’t go on. You’re so absent-minded… it’s putting our daughter in danger. We can’t ignore it any more.’
‘Go easy on her,’ Emma says. Her voice has an authoritative edge, and I’m grateful to her for stepping in.
She turns to me. ‘Don’t blame yourself, Claire. We all forget things.’
‘But… she could have drowned,’ I reply, unable to process what’s happened. I shiver and try to block the memories from my mind. I can’t bear to think about it.
‘She’s safe and sound now,’ Emma continues. ‘That’s all that matters.’
Matt paces back and forth in the small cubicle.
‘That’s not all that matters,’ he says. ‘It could happen again. If you keep imagining things, getting confused, forgetting stuff… it could happen again.’
A nurse appears at the curtain and I redden. What if she overheard? What if she thinks I’m an unfit mother? Will they take my daughter away?
I stand, presenting a sleeping Olivia to her.
Matt turns to Emma.
‘You can go,’ he says, bluntly. I see the hurt expression on Emma’s face, as she shakes her head.
‘I was there when it happened. I can help explain.’
‘I want her here,’ I say softly, needing her support. I need someone here who’s not angry with me, who doesn’t blame me.
The nurse turns to me and Emma.
‘Which of you is Mum? Can you remove the blanket and lie her down?’
Emma has automatically moved forward to help, but then she catches herself and steps back.
‘I’m Mum,’ I say.
As I take the blanket off Olivia and lie her down, she wakes and starts screaming.
The nurse looks down her throat, listens to her heart and chest and checks her temperature and oxygen levels. As she examines her, she asks what happened and we explain how Olivia fell into the pond.
‘I think she’ll be fine,’ she says. ‘Anything else you’re worried about?’
I shake my head, relief flooding through me.
‘She swallowed a lot of water. Is she OK?’ asks Matt.
‘She seems fine. But the doctor will need to check her over,’ she explains, going to the sink and washing her hands. ‘Just wait here and the doctor will be with you when she’s finished with her other patients.’
I dress Olivia, and Emma sits down on one of the two plastic seats in the corner of the room. Matt chooses to stay next to me, stroking Olivia’s soft baby hair.
He puts his arm round me and I feel grateful for his touch.
‘Are you all right?’ he asks.
‘Yeah,’ I reply, although I still feel shaky. ‘I just can’t believe what’s happened. I feel awful.’ Tears prick my eyes.
He nods, and we both stare at our daughter. ‘We need to do something, Claire, you’re not well.’
‘I’ll go back to the doctor,’ I say.
Matt nods. ‘Be assertive this time. Insist you need help.’
‘I will.’
Matt seems calmer now. He looks down at Olivia.
‘She’s so beautiful, isn’t she?’
When I look at her, for once I can see what other people see. Her features are delicate and her lively eyes twinkle. She’s beautiful. I feel an unfamiliar surge of love for her and I want to hold onto it forever. But somehow I know I can’t. A voice deep inside tells me that I don’t deserve her.
* * *
It’s 9 p.m. before the doctor comes in. Both Matt and I have told Emma she can go multiple times, but she wanted to stay. She’s such a good friend to me. She insisted that Dan keep Lizzie a bit longer today, so she could be with us at the hospital.
The doctor looks frazzled, her eyes bloodshot, her hair falling out of her messy bun. But she greets us with a warm smile. ‘I’m Dr Rajah. Which of you are the parents?’
‘We are,’ I say, pointing at Matt.
The doctor turns to Emma. ‘And you are?’
‘A family friend.’
‘Right. Great. I know it’s getting late, so I’ll take a quick look at…’ She consults her notes for a moment and then continues. ‘… I’ll take a quick look at Olivia and then hopefully you should be able to go on your way.’
I put Olivia back on the bed and undress her as the doctor instructs. She examines her and asks me to explain again what happened. I go through the story and she listens patiently, occasionally asking for clarification.
She turns to me. ‘Good news. Her general health seems fine. And I can’t see any ill-effects of what’s happened. It must have been quite a shock to you.’
‘It was,’ I say. ‘Thanks so much for looking at her.’
‘No problem. There’s just one more thing.’
She turns to Matt and Emma. ‘Would you two step outside while I speak to Claire for a minute? There’s a vending machine in the adults’ A&E. I imagine you’ll need some refreshment.’
Matt looks at me uncertainly. ‘Is that OK with you?’
I nod and look at the doctor nervously. My heart beats faster. Does she want to talk to me about my postnatal depression? Or my previous mental health problems? What if she thinks I can’t look after Olivia? What if she’s right?
The doctor holds the door open for Matt and Emma. ‘There’s space in the waiting room for you to sit,’ she says smiling.
Olivia squirms and the doctor holds open her legs. I see two bruises, one on each inner thigh. There are the size of five pence pieces, a shade of dark purple.
‘Have you noticed these before?’
I frown. The bruises would have been right in front of me every time I changed Olivia’s nappy. I should have spotted them. But I can’t recall seeing them. I often change the nappy on autopilot, in a daze.
‘I don’t think so,’ I mumble.
‘OK. Do you know how they might have got there?’
‘No. Umm… I don’t know. She must have bumped herself.’ I feel sick. Have I hurt Olivia by mistake?
The doctor looks directly at me and sighs. ‘Claire, babies do bump themselves. They hit their heads, they roll off beds, they bump into things. But babies this age very rarely get bruises in this kind of position unless someone else has caused them.’
I swallow. ‘Do you think I could have hurt her when I was changing her nappy?’ My voice is small. I feel like I’m confessing to some awful sin.
‘Possibly. But I doubt it. You’d really have to be quite rough with her
to cause that.’
‘Maybe I’m not gentle enough?’
‘Claire. You need to think about whether anyone else could be hurting Olivia. Your husband perhaps? Is he happy to be a father?’
I recall our conversation the other day. He said he’d gone along with my desire to have a baby, that he hadn’t wanted her as much as I had. But that doesn’t mean he’d hurt Olivia. He loves her. I push the doubts back down.
‘He’s like anyone,’ I say. ‘He has good days and bad days.’
‘OK,’ the doctor says. ‘I’m going to refer you to social services. It’s nothing to worry about but they’ll visit in the next few days. In the meantime, I suggest you keep an eye on things and if at all possible, supervise anyone who’s looking after your child.’
Seventeen
Social services are unexpectedly efficient and arrive the next day. I put on an act for their benefit, pretending to be a competent, loving mother. I’m shocked when they believe me. They look at the bruises on Olivia and tell me to watch out for more. But then they leave. They leave her with me. For some reason they trust me. They’re not going to take her away.
I tell myself that everything’s going to be all right.
But now it’s 9 p.m. and Matt’s still at work. It’s been such a long day and I’m exhausted. I’m still on my own, Olivia’s still screaming and I’ve done everything I can possibly think of to calm her. I’ve fed her until my nipples ache, I’ve changed her nappy, I’ve rubbed her back and burped her, I’ve hugged her, I’ve held her, I’ve whispered to her, I’ve sung to her, I’ve rocked her. But nothing works.
I started to think she must be getting sick of my voice, so I played her nursery rhymes on my phone. When that didn’t work I tried white noise. And now I’ve resorted to bringing her downstairs to watch television with me. Maybe the flickering light of the television will stimulate her to the point of exhaustion.
On days like this all I want is a glass of wine. I can imagine the tang of a cold glass of Sauvignon as it rests on my tongue before hitting the back of my throat. But Matt won’t allow alcohol in the house. He says if it’s in the house then we won’t be able to control ourselves. That once we start drinking we won’t be able to stop. When he says ‘we’, I know he really means me.
Olivia keeps screaming and I turn the volume up on the television. I’m trying to watch a new crime drama that I’ve been meaning to watch for ages. I watch a man attack a woman on the screen, his hands crushing her throat. I turn Olivia’s face away from the image.
I look at my daughter in my arms. She’s beautifully fragile. But so angry at the world. Angry at me. Her little lungs must have almost run out of breath from screaming. The back of her throat must be red raw.
Then Olivia seems to tire, pausing for a second, her eyes staring towards the ceiling. In the silence, I hear a noise. A very faint high pitched sound that I’ve been hearing on and off for the last few nights. I think it’s coming from the loft.
I’ll have to look into it when Matt’s around. There’s no way I’m going up there on my own.
There could be mice up there. Or worse. Rats.
Olivia’s screams restart and drown out everything else.
If there was something in the house, or someone, I wouldn’t even know.
I shiver. On the television, the man has taken the woman’s body into the woods and is meticulously cutting her into tiny pieces with a chainsaw.
I don’t want to be here on my own any more. I have to get out of the house. I get up from the sofa and turn the TV and light off. The pure darkness alarms me and I quickly turn the light back on.
It’s so cold this winter, and the threat of snow has been on the horizon for a couple of days, but I can’t stay inside. I pile Olivia into her snowsuit and then into the buggy and leave the cottage, waiting until the final moment to turn the lights out once more.
Olivia’s screams lessen as the cold air hits her. I know I should have put her hat on but we won’t be out long. There’s nowhere to go in the village at night. I’ll just walk her long enough to get her to sleep and then return home.
The bulb in the porch has gone and so our driveway is pitch black. I can just about make out the bramble bushes that line the entrance to the cottage. From this position, standing on my doorstep with the cottage looming above me, I can’t see any other signs of human life. But that doesn’t mean there’s no one there. Anyone could be watching.
I had forgotten how different the countryside feels at night. In London there was always light. The streetlights. Car lights. Light streaming from people’s windows. But here it’s different. The dark is all embracing. The stars above watch, but they’re so far away they don’t feel part of my world.
When you lose the ability to see, every other sensation is accentuated. The crunch of the gravel under the wheels of the buggy. The cold air circling my fingers as they grip the ridged plastic of the buggy’s handle. That unique country smell. Fresh air, they call it. But there’s more to it than that. Manure and hay and grass.
The lane that leads to our cottage seems longer at night. When I reach the end I look left and right as if I expect to see a car. But the road beyond is empty. It seems narrower than it did, constrained by the tall trees on each side. The footpath starts just ten metres or so from the end of the lane and usually I don’t give a second thought to the short walk on the road. But now I realise that no car would be able to see me if they came around the corner. And I don't have my phone with me to light the way.
I wonder if I should go back to get it, but when I turn back towards the cottage, my stomach knots. I don't want to go back in. I wish Matt would hurry up and come home.
I take the few steps to the edge of the footpath and stand there with Olivia in the buggy. She’s quiet now, as if even she realises that something is not quite right, as if even she is aware that her screams might draw attention to us.
A car comes from nowhere and its headlights illuminate us.
Matt? Is it Matt?
It speeds by.
I keep walking towards the village. It’s deserted at this time of night. I pass the post office and make out my reflection in the glass. I pass the quaint thatched houses, their front windows looking directly out onto the pavement, thick curtains tightly closed for privacy. I see the amber glow from a pub window. A place with people and noise. Away from the silence of the night. Welcoming.
The car parked outside has a shade over the back window to protect a baby from the sunshine. It has a smiling cat motif, the same as the one we’ve got. I look closer. It’s our car. Matt’s car.
At first I feel relief. I’ve found him. He can take me home and look after me. He can tell me the noises in the house are in my head and hold me in his arms until I fall asleep.
But why’s his car here? His practice is a few miles away. Isn’t he meant to be working?
I peer through the window of the pub. It’s almost empty, except for a couple sitting in a corner, a glass of red wine and a pint in front of them, talking animatedly.
Matt. And Sarah.
Before I can think, I’ve rammed open the door and pushed the buggy inside.
Matt doesn’t even look up.
But the man drying glasses behind the bar does.
‘No children after eight p.m. I’m afraid, love.’
‘Oh,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry… I… I just need to speak to my husband.’
‘You’ll need to leave. He’ll have to come to speak to you outside. We can’t have the little one in here.’
He indicates Olivia, who’s now sound asleep and looking angelic.
I see Sarah glance over and then whisper to Matt.
He stands and comes over.
‘Claire,’ he says. ‘I… I was just having a quick after-work drink with Sarah. We had things to talk about… About the practice… I hope you don’t mind.’
Of course I mind. I’m alone in that house and I need you.
But I can’t say that.
‘When will you be home?’ I ask.
‘I’ll be back after I’ve finished my pint, it won’t be long.’
‘Can’t you come now?’
‘I need to speak to Sarah about something. I’m sorry, Claire. But I’ll be back in half an hour. I promise.’
He gives me a peck on the cheek and then turns and walks back to his table.
‘Matt?’ I call after him. ‘Can you be quicker?’
He doesn’t answer and I feel my fists clench in anger.
‘You’ll need to go now, miss,’ the barman says, coming out from behind the bar.
I look at him, considering shouting across the pub at Matt, telling him to come home. But I don’t want to make a scene. I don’t want anyone else in this village to think I’m crazy.
I smile tightly at the barman.
‘I’m going,’ I say.
I open the door and step back out into the darkness.
My daughter is napping and I settle down on my bed and ring the helpline. I need to talk things through with someone. I feel like I’m finally starting to figure things out.
She seems tense today, as if she wants to rush our conversation.
‘Did I interrupt something?’ I ask.
‘No,’ she says. ‘Of course not.’
‘Sometimes I wonder why you listen to me.’
‘It’s my job.’
‘Oh.’ I wanted more than that. ‘Do you enjoy it?’ I know I’m looking for validation, but I need to know our conversations mean something to her. They mean so much to me.
‘Yes. Well, not all the time. But I enjoy speaking to you.’
My face flushes. I’m so glad she feels the same way.
‘Do you think—?’ I’m embarrassed to finish the sentence. ‘Do you think in real life; do you think we might be friends?’
She laughs lightly. ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘Definitely. I feel like I know you.’
I grin. ‘I feel like I know you too.’
‘Why do you stay with him?’ she asks. ‘When he hits you?’
‘Because he’s good to me. Because he puts a roof over my head. Because he looks after me and works hard and loves me.’