by Ruth Heald
‘But he hurts you.’
‘I deserve it.’
‘You don’t deserve it.’
‘I’m not good enough. I used to have a good job, in the city. But I don’t do anything any more. I’m no one. Just a mother. The only thing I have that means anything to me is my daughter. And she needs a father. I can’t take her away from him. I can’t.’
Eighteen
I lie wide awake in bed, straining my ears to listen to the faint beeps from the loft. I can only hear them when the house is completely silent, when Matt and Olivia are asleep and when the creaking and grunting of the central heating has calmed.
I can’t sleep. Matt lies comatose beside me, breathing peacefully. The image of him and Sarah deep in conversation at the pub has been circling round in my head all night. They looked so cosy together, like a couple. I’m sure there’s more to their relationship than I know. He prioritises her over me. He left me alone with our baby to go for a drink with her. He let me walk home on my own while he stayed with her. I’m sure he could see my distress, and yet he chose her over me. I felt like such a fool.
I should have spoken to him about it when he got in, but I couldn’t shake off the fear of being in the cottage on my own, and the relief that he was home overshadowed any other emotion. I was exhausted. I didn’t want an argument. I just wanted to rest my head on the pillow and let sleep take over.
But sleep hasn’t come. I look at Matt lying peacefully beside me and I’m jealous. How can he sleep so soundly?
Olivia screams.
I get out of bed noisily, grumbling. I want Matt to wake up, to share the work of looking after our daughter. But he doesn’t even stir.
When I go to Olivia’s room, she’s still half asleep, trapped in a nightmare. Her eyes flick rapidly from side to side below her eyelids and she screams again. I can see her chest rising and falling, her breathing fast. I put my hand to her forehead. It’s hot and clammy.
I shouldn’t have taken her out in the cold. I should have put a hat on her. I go downstairs, find the medicine and then go back to Olivia’s room. I lift my baby out of the cot to administer it through the syringe, into her mouth. She screams louder and pulls her head away. The syrupy mixture spills down her sleepsuit, a sugary mess.
I check her nappy. It’s full. I place her on the nappy mat, undo it and retch. I try to swallow my frustration as anger bubbles up inside me. Matt should be dealing with this too.
Olivia tries to roll over and I lay one hand on her tummy to stop her. The bruises on her thighs have turned to a pale yellow. Yellow circles like thumbprints. Could I have done that? Held her down too forcefully while changing her nappy? I inspect her for more bruises, looking at her legs, then her arms, her stomach, her back. There are none.
I carry her into the bedroom and put her down beside Matt’s sleeping body. She screams, almost in his ear, and he stirs ever so slightly and rolls further away. As usual, he has his earplugs in.
I shake him awake.
‘Matt!’
‘What?’ he mumbles. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Olivia’s not well.’
‘Give her some Calpol.’
‘I have done.’
‘Well there’s not much more I can do about it.’ He turns away.
I put Olivia on my breast and she calms.
‘Why were you in the pub with Sarah?’ I ask, unable to hold it in. I’m so angry I can’t stop myself.
‘Do we need to talk about this now? It’s the middle of the night.’
‘Just tell me why.’
‘She was upset.’
‘About what?’
‘Nothing, Claire. It’s nothing to do with you. Just something that happened a long time ago, that’s all.’
‘The miscarriage?’
‘No.’
‘Matt. When are we going to talk?’ I don’t like the sound of my voice. It’s pleading and desperate. It doesn’t sound like me.
‘Look, Claire, we can talk tomorrow.’
‘When? You’re always busy at work.’
‘Why don’t you meet me for lunch? I’ve got a quiet day. Not enough customers, no matter what I do. So meet me for lunch.’
‘OK then,’ I say. It’s a small concession, but it will have to do. We need to talk.
He rolls away from me, letting me know the conversation is over. I let Olivia feed for forty-five minutes, until she falls asleep against me. With my child and my husband fast asleep, I lie awake, unable to drop off, listening to the beeping from the loft.
* * *
The next day, I wait in the doctor’s surgery, fidgeting on a hard chair. Olivia’s still feverish this morning. Since we found the bruises on her thighs, I want to get every little thing checked out.
We’re called through and the doctor smiles at me. It’s a different doctor from the last time I went to the surgery. I should have booked the same one, then she’d remember me.
I sit down.
‘So, what can I do for you?’ the doctor asks.
‘My daughter’s got a fever and a temperature.’
The doctor turns to her computer, pulls up Olivia’s notes and then examines her, looking in her eyes and ears and listening to her chest. Olivia giggles and smiles, trying to grab the doctor’s pen from the desk.
‘She’s very lively,’ the doctor says.
‘Yes, but she’s been up all night.’ It’s a white lie. I want them to take Olivia’s health seriously. It’s me who’s been up all night, worrying about Matt and Sarah. Worrying that I’m going crazy, or worse, that there’s really something going on.
‘OK,’ she says. I can tell by the way she looks at me that she thinks I’m just another nervous first-time mother.
‘It just looks like a virus,’ she says. ‘All she needs is lots of rest and plenty of paracetamol.’
My chest tightens. I’ve given her so much children’s paracetamol that her breath smells sugary sweet.
‘Are you sure?’ My voice is high, panicked.
The doctor smiles gently. ‘Motherhood’s hard. I have two kids. It’s easy to google things and get scared, but really your daughter is fine. And you’re doing just fine too.’
I feel hot all of a sudden, as if I might faint.
Because she’s wrong. I’m not doing fine. I’m not.
‘Is there anything else?’ the doctor asks, looking up from her computer.
I should ask her about the counselling. Matt said I needed to follow that up, to speak to someone. I’m on the waiting list, and I haven’t heard anything yet.
But she’s standing now, moving over to the door, holding it open for me.
‘No,’ I say, as I stand. ‘Thank you.’
I manage a quick smile, before I push Olivia’s buggy out of the door and burst into tears in the waiting room.
* * *
It’s raining when I leave the doctor’s surgery, but I’ve arranged to meet Matt for lunch. I put my umbrella up, but it’s too difficult to hold it over me and manoeuvre the buggy, so I give up, instead shoving it in the shopping basket underneath and pulling my hood over my head.
At the bus stop people grumble as they stand uncomfortably close under the shelter. They’re all waiting for the midday bus. If they miss it, there isn’t another one for three hours. When the bus arrives it’s packed, but I manage to squeeze on. My hands grip the buggy tightly in case Olivia gets knocked by the mass of swaying passengers. I check the brake compulsively. I wrap her blankets a bit tighter around her. It’s so cold, she could easily catch a chill.
I get off the bus near Matt’s practice and walk the rest of the way in the rain. When I push open the door of the surgery the bell rings loudly and Olivia screams.
‘Shush…’ I say.
There’s no one behind the reception desk, so I take a seat on one of the armchairs and wait. I take Olivia out of the pram and put her on my breast. Matt has done a good job of the decor. It’s understated, but warm, with pictures of countryside scenes dotted round the walls. I won
der if Sarah helped him. Certainly, more thought has gone into the decoration of the practice than the decoration of our cottage. This practice is Matt’s love, his passion. Our cottage is just where he comes home to sleep.
Sarah breezes through into the reception area, clutching some paperwork.
She jumps when she sees me.
‘Oh, hello,’ she says. ‘How are you?’
‘I’m well. And you?’ I remember what Matt said about her being her being upset last night.
‘Good, thanks,’ she replies, clutching the papers closer to her chest. ‘We’re picking up a few more clients, which is great. I’m sure Matt’s told you all about it.’
There’s an awkward pause and I can see that she’s about to ask about Olivia, but then she sees that I’m breastfeeding and she glances away.
‘Make yourself at home,’ she says and then reddens, as if she thinks she’s said something wrong.
‘I won’t be here long. I’m just waiting for Matt. We’re meeting for lunch.’
‘Oh, he just left. The man in the house just up the road came in to see us. A fox attacked his chickens last night. He wanted Matt to take a look. I don’t know how long he’ll be.’
Disappointment flushes my face. I check my phone and see the message from Matt. He only sent it a few minutes ago.
Been called to an urgent appointment. Sorry. We’ll have to do lunch another day. xx
‘Where’s the farm?’ I ask Sarah.
‘It’s not a farm, just a man retired from the city living the rural dream. He keeps a couple of chickens for eggs. If you turn right, it’s a few houses down.’
She opens the door and points out the house to me.
‘Thanks,’ I say. I remove Olivia from my breast and bundle her back into the pram.
Luckily the rain has stopped. I walk quickly over the bumpy pavement, avoiding the puddles. The grounds of the house stretch out alongside the road, blocked only by a waist-height hedge.
I see Matt in the garden. He stands next to a man in jeans, arms crossed, surveying a chicken pen with one bird lying dead, the other twitching. I can see from here that it’s badly injured, its head twisted unnaturally to the side.
I think about shouting hello, but I don't want to interrupt. I can wait.
The man says something I can’t hear and Matt laughs, nodding.
He bends over the pen and picks the live chicken up by its legs. It twitches and twists under his grip, its wings flapping feebly. It’s half-dead. Matt moves one hand to its head. He pulls it quickly, then twists the neck. The wings flap wildly in a burst of energy. I swallow. It’s still alive. But then the bird stills and Matt tosses it back into the pen. He and the man return to the house without a second glance.
I feel a bit queasy. It’s not that Matt’s done anything wrong, it’s just that when I imagine him doing his job I think of him curing sick animals. I try not to think about the times he puts them down.
I wait outside the house for five minutes. I think about knocking and going inside, but I don’t know what I’d say. There’s no reason I need to see Matt urgently, and besides, he cancelled our lunch.
When it starts to rain again, I decide to leave. It’s far too cold to stand outside getting wet, and I’m not even sure I want to see him. I can’t stop thinking about last night, seeing him cosying up with Sarah at the pub. Do I even know the man I married any more?
* * *
I walk to the bus stop and wait, shivering, for half an hour before the bus finally arrives. I’m windswept and soaking wet and miserable and Olivia is crying as usual. I lift the wheels of Olivia’s buggy up into the bus, push it into the allocated space and go to pay the driver. There’s another buggy beside me and the woman holding it leans over and smiles at Olivia.
‘She’s pretty,’ she says.
‘Thank you.’ Politely, I look into her buggy, ready to say the same.
‘She’s––’ But I pause mid-sentence. I recognise the baby. It’s Lizzie. She’s wearing her distinctive red winter coat. ‘She’s lovely,’ I stammer.
The woman must be Dan’s new girlfriend. Emma has told me all about her. How she split her and Dan up. How she slept with him when Emma was pregnant. I know Emma hates the thought of her looking after Lizzie.
I listen to the woman talking to the baby, cooing at her and comforting her.
I feel angry with her on Emma’s behalf and I want to say something, to confront her about taking another woman’s partner, taking a baby away from its mother. But instead I turn away and watch the raindrops slide down the bus windows. I’m in no mood for a fight.
* * *
That evening Matt arrives home early, full of apologies about cancelling lunch. For once he’ll be around to put Olivia to bed. For once, we’ll be able to have a conversation over dinner. These moments feel precious, fragile threads between us, holding our marriage together. I don’t want to talk about Sarah. Not now. I don’t want to ruin the only chance we’ve got to have a conversation.
‘I’m so sorry about lunch,’ he says again. ‘There was an urgent appointment. A new client.’
‘It’s OK.’ I don’t tell him I already know. I can’t explain why I watched them and then left without saying anything. I’m not quite sure myself.
He doesn’t say any more and I don’t ask. He’s already left the room and gone to the kitchen. I hear him turn on the tap and pour a glass of water.
I breastfeed Olivia while Matt starts heating up our dinner. As I sit on the sofa, I google Sarah on my phone. It’s become a habit. I go through pages and pages of results, but nothing comes up other than the website for Matt’s practice. I look at her publicly available photos on Facebook, but they’re all old. It’s not enough. I need to know more. I click on ‘add friend.’ It seems justified this time. After all, I’ve met her a few times and she’s come to my house. She could think I want to be friends.
* * *
I hear the bath taps running upstairs. I carry Olivia to the bathroom and hand her to Matt. I watch as he undresses her. I remember the bruises on her thighs and feel a shiver of doubt wash over me, my anxiety building. I observe him closely. He’s gentle enough with her, but something is bothering me. It’s like my brain is screaming ‘No!’ trying to warn me.
I remember my dream. Matt holding Olivia down, submerging her. I remember watching him wring the chicken’s neck without a second thought and then discard it like rubbish. I think again of the yellow bruises on her thighs.
Matt hands Olivia to me, and then checks the temperature of the bath water with his hand.
My pulse quickens and I look down at the tiny, naked baby in my arms. She’s totally dependent on me. It’s my job to keep her alive.
Fear grips me. Every instinct tells me not to hand her back to Matt. I feel too hot, the air in the bathroom seems too thick. I can’t think straight.
Deep breaths. I must take deep breaths.
Breathe in, I tell myself.
Matt reaches out his arms and takes her from me.
No. No. No. My scream is silent inside me.
He starts lowering Olivia into the bath.
I see her touch the water.
‘No!’ I hear a shout.
It’s my voice.
I can’t let him bath her. I don’t know why, but I can’t. I just can’t.
I snatch Olivia from him and cradle her in my arms.
Matt looks at me in confusion.
‘I’ll bath her,’ I say.
‘But––’
‘I’ll bath her.’
At that moment, I realise that I no longer trust Matt with our daughter.
Nineteen
The snow has finally come. Outside the window, the fields behind our house are a never-ending blanket of pure white. I shiver as I slip into my dressing gown and turn up the radiator. Matt’s car is blocked in by a snowdrift and we’re trapped in the cold cottage together.
Matt changes Olivia’s nappy and then asks where we keep the spare packs.
/>
I look at him. I’ve been meaning to buy nappies for ages. But the nearest shop that sells them is four miles away. We’d need the car.
‘We don’t have any?’ he asks.
‘No,’ I say, checking the downstairs cupboard. We’ve run out.
The only thing to do is walk. I don’t want to go alone and I’m not convinced Matt will be able to cope with Olivia’s screaming if I leave him on his own, so we agree to set off together. Matt goes over to Ruth’s to borrow wellington boots, but I remember mine rubbing when we cleared out the pond, and so I opt for trainers, even though I know the snow will soak through. We dress in layer upon layer of jumpers and jackets, hats and scarfs. We double up Olivia’s baby grows and add a jumper and snowsuit, before strapping her to Matt in the baby carrier.
I know it was my anxiety talking last night when I wouldn’t let Matt bath Olivia and I’ve tried to put it to the back of my mind. I look at her now. She’s completely calm strapped to Matt. He’s her father and he loves her. I can’t believe how ridiculous I was being.
I start down the lane to the village, but Matt knows a shortcut and we ease ourselves through a narrow opening, into a field. The landscape around us is more beautiful than any Christmas card, and I drink it in. I reach for Matt’s hand. This is what I imagined when I thought about our lives in the countryside. Long, romantic walks through vast, stretching emptiness. Space to ourselves. Space to be us.
I hadn't thought of the cold bite of the winter air that seeps through my clothes and into my bones. I hadn't thought of the isolation and the stretching, endless loneliness.
We're completely alone here. The three of us.
I grip Matt’s hand tighter, our fingers interlocking through gloves. I can't tell how he feels underneath. If he’s warm or cold. He’s staring straight ahead, his expression tight. Does he want to be here with me? Is he just thinking of getting back to his paperwork? Missing the surgery? Missing Sarah?
I think of them in the pub the other night, their faces close, co-conspirators. I know I should bring it up again, ask him why. But we feel so fragile at the moment, so distant, that I feel my words might break us. We are cracked and it will only take one more blow to break us completely. I don't want to do that. Instead I just want to pretend we're the couple I imagined we'd be, walking hand in hand down a country road. A romance story. An album cover.