Dark Place to Hide (12 page)

Marion turns to the doctor. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know where this is coming from.’ She touches Clara’s shoulder. ‘Can you answer the doctor’s questions, honey?’ she says calmly.

‘What big eyes you have, Grandma,’ Clara says in reply.

The doctor asks if Clara has been sleeping properly, eating well.

‘Not in the last week.’

‘Since the incident?’

‘Well – she was fine immediately afterwards. Then…it must have hit her harder than I thought…’

Clara turns to Marion and points her finger sharply. ‘I
told
you not to go into the woods, little girl.’

Marion bites her lip as the GP writes something down on the lined pad in front of her.

Clara is silent after that. She sits on her hands and doesn’t even nod or shake her head.

‘I think I’ll have Dr Pike take a look at her. She’s a child psychiatrist at the Queen Elizabeth Hospital. I’m sure it’s just a phase, but just to be certain. Keep a close eye on Clara in the meantime, won’t you.’ Marion sighs at the impossibility of the task. It sounds so simple, but Marion’s eyes aren’t what they were. They keep closing when she least expects them to.

The next day she takes Clara to the Saturday morning kids’ session at the library. Clara is developing a crush on Helen Golding, the storyteller, and usually takes her a card or handmade present, but there is no gift today. Marion usually leaves Clara sitting at the front of the group, eager and wide-eyed at the prospect of another story, but today she sits at the back, cross-legged on the floor, with her thumb in her mouth. Marion can’t understand it. This isn’t like Clara at all. She’s tried on several occasions to drop the episode at the castle into conversations at meal times or during journeys to and from the supermarket, but Clara isn’t following through. The headmistress is right – Clara keeps quoting from stories instead of engaging with her.

Marion stays in the library this time – she usually leaves Clara and does her shopping – but she wants to watch her and see how she behaves. She lurks behind the bookshelves so her daughter can’t see her. At first, Clara looks tired and reluctant to be there, then after a while she starts walking her fingers across the floor in front of her. She turns to the side, facing away from
the other children and appears to be talking to herself. Her hands are running through some enactment of their own, like a little puppet show, and she’s clearly not paying any attention at all to Helen’s story. When the children get up to go at the end of the session, Clara barely notices.

Helen can see something is wrong; apparently Clara is known for making her presence felt in these story readings – laughing, chipping in, asking questions. Marion stays behind the palaeontology rack to see how Clara reacts as Helen, looking concerned, walks over to her. Clara gets to her feet, blinking fast and looking lost. Before Helen can open her mouth, Clara buries her face in her skirt and clutches at her legs, as if she’s just been told Helen is going away for a long time. Helen strokes her head and looks up, perplexed. Marion steps out of the aisle and joins her.

‘Is she okay?’ Helen whispers with alarm.

‘Clara’s had a recent experience…’ Marion explains in two sentences what has happened. ‘I think it’s upset her more than I thought.’

Clara is crying; a soft, keening sound. Her mother bends down beside her. ‘Sweetheart – what’s the matter?’

She gurgles something into the pleats of Helen’s skirt that Marion can’t make out. Helen bobs down alongside them.

‘Don’t run, because if you fall over, the cake will get dirty and the bottle will break, then Grandma will get nothing…’ Clara garbles in one breath.

The adults look at each other.

‘Is this a story?’ asks Marion, lightly.

Clara pulls away from Helen and stands between them. ‘Gretel isn’t here,’ she says, earnestly, her face wet. Marion hands her a tissue and Clara wipes the tears herself. She takes off her Alice band and sets it straight.

‘Who’s Gretel?’ asks Helen.

Marion glances over at Helen and shrugs. ‘She has more imaginary friends than real ones.’

Helen faces Clara. ‘You mean Hansel and Gretel?’

Clara wipes her nose on her sleeve. ‘They don’t belong in that story,’ she says crossly. ‘It’s time to go, Mummy, or we’ll miss the bus.’ She takes Marion’s hand and pulls her towards the exit. With an apologetic grimace Marion turns to thank Helen, who puts out her arms as if to say, ‘Who knows?’

Dr Pike has crayons. About a hundred of them, all different thicknesses and shapes, in a shallow box on the table in the centre of the room. Clara walks in and her jaw drops, like she’s been invited into heaven. The room is like a toyshop: on wall-to-wall shelving there are dolls, dressing-up clothes, books, boxes of Lego, plastic figures and teddy bears – a cornucopia of delights for a seven year old.

‘Hello, Clara, I’m Dr Pike and we’re going to have some fun.’

Dr Pike is tall, slim and far too glamorous to be a psychiatrist. Marion thinks her first name must be Selina or Marina – something silky and sensual. She has long buttery-coloured hair tied back in a ponytail and wears tight-fitting black trousers. The only concessions to her profession are the white pumps she’s wearing. Presumably, so she can work with children more easily and get down to their level. Stylish court shoes would fit the look far better, but Marion assumes these are tucked under her desk somewhere.

The doctor has already explained that she’d prefer to have half an hour with Clara on her own, so Marion is waiting for a signal to indicate she should leave.

‘Mummy’s going to be just outside while we play, is that okay?’ prompts the psychiatrist.

Clara has always been the opposite of clingy and insecure and she nods without hesitation. Marion heads for the door and finds a seat in the waiting room. She hates hospitals and finds herself having to be inside one more and more often as the months go by. Tests for this, checks on that, blood infusions, chemo, follow-up appointments – and now Clara. She wants this over with and wonders what Clara is doing, saying, behind the closed blue blinds and what Dr Pike will conclude about her behaviour. While she waits she tries to read the novel she’s brought with her, but she isn’t taking it in. She keeps looking at the blocked windows of Dr Pike’s office and hopes there is nothing wrong with her only child.

After half an hour, Dr Pike invites her back inside again. Clara is sitting at the table with drawings in front of her. She has a fat pink wax crayon in her hand and waves as her mother comes in.

‘Clara, do you want to stay here a few more minutes while I have a quick chat with your Mum?’

Clara nods gleefully at the chance to carry on and reaches for a fresh sheet of paper. Dr Pike leads Marion through an interconnecting door into a smaller office. It smells of nail polish and there is a banana on the desk. Dr Pike offers her a seat and begins speaking before Marion has settled.

‘Can I ask you a few questions, Mrs Delderfield?’

Marion swallows and adjusts herself in the chair. ‘Of course.’

‘Clara didn’t say much in our session, but she did draw scenes from stories. When I asked her to draw her own family, she drew Goldilocks and the three bears.’ She hesitates. ‘Does she read a lot?’

‘Yes. All the time, especially recently.’ Marion smoothes her hand over the thin scarf that covers her scalp and hopes she doesn’t have to spell everything out to the specialist. ‘She’s always liked her own company and gets swept up into story ideas…’ Marion wants to sound like she’s fully aware and on top of the situation. ‘She…creates intricate and complex fantasy worlds.’

‘Clara spends a lot of time making up stories?’

Marion clucks and rolls her eyes. ‘Oh, yes. She spends most of her time in cloud-cuckoo-land.’ She stops, concerned that she’s making her child sound deranged. ‘What I mean is, sometimes it’s hard to tell fantasy from reality with Clara. She tells stories, but she’s not lying, she thinks they’re real in her head. She’s always been like that.’ Marion takes her eyes down to her tight hands. ‘I envy her sometimes – most times, if I’m honest – she’s able to live her life in a special, magical place and make it how she wants it to be. In her world, it’s always somebody’s birthday.’

Dr Pike nips her lips together in professional sympathy. ‘Clara is doing fine on one level,’ she says, ‘but there might be some cause for concern.’

Marion has had enough of bad news delivered by doctors. In a savage flash she remembers her own specialist telling her she probably had a life-expectancy of four or five years, six at best, before the myeloma they’d discovered devoured her bones. That was eighteen months ago. Marion feels dizzy at the thought of how little time she might still have left and puts her hand out to touch the desk.

Dr Pike appears not to notice. ‘At this stage, I think Clara is suffering a form of post-traumatic stress following her fall into the pit.’

‘She didn’t fall,’ Marion corrects in a brittle voice.

Dr Pike looks down at her notes. ‘No…that’s right…but she was trapped all night, wasn’t she?’

‘Yes…’

‘And this is the only incident that might have upset her, recently?’

Marion nods without needing to consider. ‘Yes – there’s nothing else.’

‘I’d like to see Clara again, next week, but at this stage I’d say she’s suffering from Dissociative Paracosm.’

Marion’s brain mists over. ‘What?’

Dr Pike makes a steeple with her index fingers, her elbows on the table. For a second, Marion thinks it would make a nice photograph. ‘Let me explain,’ she says. ‘It’s normal for a child Clara’s age to develop a “make-believe” world.’

‘That sounds like Clara.’

‘This normal dissociation happens when children play, but it can also occur when they are trying to block out something unpleasant – a painful injury, for example. It would appear that Clara is using fairy tales as a form of escapism – but it’s got a bit extreme.’

Marion nods – it makes sense.

‘I think it’s because Clara is so intelligent and imaginative that the incident has affected her in this way. Some children become temporarily mute or have serious anger problems after a trauma like this – but a smart child like Clara uses resources she already has inside herself for protection.’

Marion feels the sparkle of pride prick her eyes. She doesn’t want to cry.

‘So this
dis…disasso
…’

‘Dissociative Paracosm,’ Dr Pike adds, helping out. ‘This is where there’s some abnormal adaptation. It’s a survival technique. I think it’s moderate in Clara’s case. She’s found a way to “escape” by blocking off – dissociating herself from the terrifying event in her memory.’

‘But…she didn’t seem to find it
terrifying
…’

‘Sometimes responses take time to emerge and come in forms we don’t expect.’ Dr Pike sucks in her cheeks. ‘At the moment, Clara is hiding inside the stories. She’s living her life there, more than she is in the real world.’

Marion is confused. ‘When Clara came out of the oubliette, she was subdued at first – the police were there and she thought she’d done something wrong, but afterwards – she said being down in the pit was great fun.’

Dr Pike hooks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. ‘Like I say – it could be a delayed reaction.’

Marion finds herself shuffling forward on the seat. ‘You don’t think it’s because she lost her father…and now with me…being ill…it’s not
that
, is it?’

Dr Pike trails her finger through her notes and stops. ‘Mmm…four years ago – and now your myeloma,’ she taps the immaculate nail on the paper. ‘It’s hard to say.’

Marion nods, not wanting to look at her.

‘What kinds of story does Clara enjoy most?’ asks the doctor, moving on.

‘Oh, anything and everything – princesses, fairies, talking creatures, Mary Poppins, The Jungle Book – Walt Disney has his perfect target audience right here with my child.’

‘So, for Clara to imagine that she’s living inside the story of
Little Red Riding Hood
would feel safe to her?’

‘Oh, yes. Absolutely. That’s one of her favourites. And she saw
The Sound of Music
on a big screen at Easter and she’s been going through a Julie Andrew’s phase ever since. She keeps singing the
Doh-Re-Mi
song.’

Dr Pike puts her hands flat on the desk and Marion knows she’s not out of the woods yet.

‘Well – this is a preliminary assessment. There are other conditions I need to consider. We’ll have to see.’ She gives Marion a transitory smile – one that’s well-rehearsed and says
that’s settled then
. ‘I’ll need to monitor Clara for a few weeks and see how she gets on. What usually happens is that children gradually re-acclimatise to the real world given time. Clara will shift out of this reactive behaviour once her world feels safer’.

‘Does she need medication or anything?’

‘Not at this stage. Let’s see how she gets on. It’s the end of term, so at least she won’t have to cope with school.’ Dr Pike leans forward and her eyes stray to the place where Marion’s eyebrows should be. ‘You’ll be able to look after her at home over the summer vacation?’

Marion feels that familiar jolt of panic. She’s terrified Dr Pike is going to tell social services she can’t cope and Clara will be taken away. ‘Yes. Of course. That’s no problem,’ she gulps. ‘I have my mother and babysitters…and friends – we can all make sure she’s okay.’

‘You don’t need to do anything differently – in fact, that’s the point, really. Try to keep everything the
same
as normal. Same meal times, same bedtimes, talk to her, spend time with her. Join in with her games if she’ll let you. Initiate, but don’t push if she wants to be on her own. Keep doors in the house open, so she isn’t isolated. Watch
The Sound of Music
together. Join in with her as best you can and bring her friends round, if she’d like that.’

‘What about going out? Going to friends’ houses?’

‘I think at the moment it’s best that Clara is always supervised by an adult, so if she visits a friend’s house, make sure a responsible person is present. Don’t let Clara wander off on her own. Not for a while. Keep her close.’