Go to Sleep (21 page)

I try supplementing his final feed of the evening with a few inches of formula and in between feeds I tease watered-down baby rice into his mouth. His gut is too immature for solids and I’m aware of the damage I’m wreaking but I’m desperate now. He puts on weight but still, sleep resists him. He will not sleep.

* * *

I want my daddy. I need him. I need Dad like I’ve never needed him before. I call to invite him round for dinner, leaving as upbeat a message as I can manage. And I’m shot through with a dizzy rush of love for him when he phones back and says: ‘Rachel!’ Then – ‘Are you okay?’

I’m not okay. I’m totally and utterly lost, and I tell him so, more or less.

‘Listen. You come to me,’ he says. ‘Get Joey settled, put your feet up and let
me
do all the running around. Deal?’

I smile through my tears.

‘Deal.’

I walk Joe down through the park and, even though it’s always been there and even though I’ve been wanting to take him since he was born, it thrashes through me, stops me dead still when I see the lake ahead.

‘Oh my God . . .’

It’s flat and stark and beautiful, cans and plastic bags floating as though laid with utmost care upon, or minutely just above, its surface. The lake. Our lake. It floors me. I drag myself up by the handles of the buggy and swallow hard, suck down one deep draft of dank November air and I march onwards, downwards.

But this is good, being with Dad. Joe keeps to his side of the bargain by nodding off halfway there. There’s something warm and lovely about the dim amber lighting as Dad opens the door to us that immediately makes me
calm again and so much more secure. I back the buggy in over the step and push Joe through to the sitting room. Dad starts pouring from a decanter of wine.

‘I’ll leave it just now if that’s okay, Dad.’

‘Oh?’ He turns, disappointed. ‘Come
on
! I got it in specially for you. It’s your favourite Rioja. You’re allowed one glass, surely? Your mum always did.’

I smile him off.

‘Maybe a bit later. Just let’s make sure the baby isn’t going to give us a hard time first, hey?’

‘Sure thing, kid. You know best.’ I kiss him on top of his head and I can see he’s placated. ‘You just sit tight, there. Put something on. I’m just going to flash-fry the courgettes, and then . . .’

I follow him into the kitchen.

‘I’ll help.’

‘You sure?’

‘Well. Not
help
help.’ He smiles. ‘But I’ll watch.’

‘Good girl.’

He softens the radio – must be Radio Four, they’re talking about different types of compost – and fishes out a copper pan so worn it’s almost silver. The centrepiece of their kitchen is a clunky old range – black, solid iron – and seeing it reminds me of Jan. I lean the small of my back against it, facing Dad.

‘Dad?’

‘Darling?’

I can feel my voice receding. I clear my throat, but it’s barely a whisper when it comes out.

‘I’m
really
sorry about Jan.’

He hesitates.

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘Yes, you do.’

He disappears into the pantry, comes back with a splendid, fat courgette. He forces a kindly smile.

‘Well. We all say things we don’t mean.’

‘I know, but nonetheless.’

He sighs, begins chopping quickly and expertly. I didn’t know my Dad could slice veg like Jamie Oliver!

‘She only really gave me the gist of it. She deleted the message before I got a chance to . . .’

‘Dad.’

‘Let’s say no more about it.’

‘Okay. But two things. I’m really, really sorry. Yes?’

‘Accepted. Thing two?’

I shake my head.

‘I really, really have not been sleeping. At all.’

Dad places the knife down on the chopping board and removes his spectacles.

‘Why didn’t you say?’

He comes over, puts his arms around me and cradles my head. I speak into his chest.

‘Because I didn’t . . . I don’t want to go running to people with every little mishap or quibble.’

‘
People
? Darling – I’m your father!’

‘I know, I know. But you know.’

He steps back, goes to turn down the heat on the front burner.

‘Your Mum had that. Dreadfully. With you.’

I squeeze an apologetic smile.

‘How on earth did she cope? How did you?’

He chuckles at the recollection.

‘Phenergan.’

‘Finnegan?’

‘Knockout drops.’

He turns, starts scooping up the sliced courgette and transferring it to the pan. There’s a delicious sizzle as it hits the hot butter. ‘Well, it was supposed to be a decongestant, I think. But let’s just say that Phenergan helped put you to sleep – when we
really
needed it!’ He gives the pan a little shake, moves the courgettes around with a wooden spatula before snapping off the heat, leaving the pan on the burner for the last few seconds. He winks at me. ‘Now you just go and sit down, young lady. Dinner is served. Almost!’

I hear him, but I’m not listening. I run upstairs and, with desperate excitement and fear, I haul out the old shoebox and scrabble my way through the photographs. And there it is. There she is. A beautiful young lady smiling, so happy, next to my dapper young father. The girl from down by the river.

‘
You’ll be fine, love. Really. It’ll all be fine
.’

* * *

I’m deaf to Dad’s pleas to run us home. I want to walk. We
have
to walk.

‘If that’s what you want, honey.’

I nod.

‘Honestly.’

‘Very well.’

He pauses, gives me an anxious smile.

‘I thought we might take Joe on the ferry.’

The idea fills me with a weird exaltation.

‘Yes! When?’

‘Soon.’

‘Supposed to be a cold snap coming, isn’t there?’

‘So much the better. Your mother loved the river most at its least hospitable.’

I kiss him, zip myself tight and head off into the night. Joe is still asleep and the river fog enshrouds us, its salty spray giving off the stink of tar. Still, I park the buggy and take a seat on the bench. The bench where Mum was. Way upriver, a foghorn sounds, sinister yet self-confident, like the lowest note of a cathedral organ.

‘Mum? Mum, come and see me.’

The foghorn blares out again. I’m smitten with an impulse to climb up on to the promenade wall and step right out into the dense inky stillness below. I think it, then drive the thought down, down. I snap my eyes open, jounce up the brakes on the buggy and quickly head away from the water’s edge. Come on, Joe. Me and you. Me and you, baby.

I’m punished for my selfishness, letting him sleep all that time while I sat with Dad, talking like I didn’t have a care in the world. As soon as I shut the front door and before I’ve decided how best to finesse the stairs, Joe twists himself awake – and he’s off. Nothing I do will console him. I take him up to my bed and lie down with him, Joe working himself up to a spluttering frenzy as he’s unable, or unwilling, to draw succour from my hopeless tit. I try him with a bottle. He’s not interested in that either. I’m gone here, absolutely fucked. I lie there and exist and wait for the next thing to happen.

Later, simply for the sake of doing something, I take Joe back downstairs, change him and set him down on his baby mat. I snap on the TV. It’s just gone four in the morning and I’m staring blankly at the screen, listless,
the undead. I’ve come to anticipate the new dawn’s telly with the same fevered excitement that rushed me home for
The Chart Show
or
The Hit Man and Her
when I was a teenager. Here, I know I can put Joe down. From our third morning home, he seemed to respond to something about the kids’ TV. Could it be that the colour schemes, the voices, even the pitch of the volume is all lab-tested to assure a cosy response from the pre-school multitudes? Whatever it is, it works with Joe. He will slump back in his sprung bouncy chair, and I will rest my yearning eyes. It’s not sleep, but it’ll do. Any rest will do. The countdown commences. 4.35 a.m. That’s nearer to five than four, and once we get past five . . . 5.11. Close enough to 5.15, and once that’s behind us we’re sailing. And before you know it, 6 a.m. is upon us, and Channel Five’s garish reveille will hold him in thrall. I know all the programmes, have already seen every repeat from hours and hours of devoted viewing with my insomniac son. I know
Peppa Pig
inside out (how does Mrs Rabbit hold down all those jobs and manage to make salad for her indolent husband every day?); I note that the Wise Old Elf from
Ben and Holly’s Little Kingdom
sounds very much like Grandpa Pig; and after sitting through
The Little Princess
,
Roary the Racing Car
and
Fifi and the Flowertots
I am puzzled as to why so many animated characters, from diminutive yet demanding royals to scheming and vituperative bumblebees all speak with a Wigan accent. Day after day I stumble around in a
zombie-like state, my head so heavy it feels like it’s going to fall off my shoulders – and all the while, the constant, nagging refrain of a cursed, catchy jingle haunts me. Day after day of the theme from
Humf
, or the song about the harvest from CBeebies. Mellow fruitfulness? My arse. I lie back on the couch and watch Joe watching telly, something I swore he’d never do. And I am so, so tired.

Joe starts up the witches hiccup and, automatically massaging my breast as I swoop to pick him up, I hold him to my nipple, hating him as I wander around the room. My head feels giddy, like it’s spinning off my neck, and the need to slash and harm something smashes through me with its violent promise of release. I force my nipple angrily into his mouth.

‘Take it, for fuck’s sake! Take it!’

And this time, he does. He gulps and slurps and I flop down on the couch and for a while the whole thing feels nice; but then he gets himself mad again, he’s frustrated with the pace and the flow, he’s greedy for more and he sucks too hard, flashing a stab-sharp pain through me. I cry out and pull away but his jaw clamps tighter. I release the suction with a finger. A trickle of milk runs down over his cheek, taunting him. There’s a jab of self-pity, before he slams his loathing back to me as his tiny fist reaches out to pump the futile breast.

I try again. He seems to latch on but then seconds later I’m flinching from another lightning burst of pain.
And now he’s gone again – he’s really gone. The pitch and tremble of his cries pull my stomach taut like a wire. Through it, those monstrous notions come flooding back.

‘Please stop crying, Joseph. Please stop!’

I screw my eyes tight shut, will the furies away. I offer Joe the breast again, but he wriggles himself off it. He’s hysterical now, struggling to gasp for breath between hiccuping rasps of rage. Only the sound of my buzzer prevents me from hurling him down and walking away. I stride across the room. Whoever is stupid or selfish enough to be calling here at this time of the morning is getting it – even if it’s Dad. The buzzer sounds again before I, before anyone, could possibly get to it. I’m so mad now I don’t even answer it. I just hook up my bra, put Joe on my shoulder and march down the stairs, my anger mounting with every step.

‘What?’ I spit as I yank open the door.

And the young man standing there in the soft drizzle looks as shocked as I do.

‘James. Fuck . . . How did you find me?’ We stand there on the empty street sizing each other up through the mist of drizzle. He’s wearing a thin, almost transparent cagoule, so completely wet through it’s slapped tight to his chest. Rain drips from the tip of his nose. ‘James?’

He ducks the question, tilts his head to Joe.

‘Hello, mate.’

And something about the way Joe’s eyes soften as James taps the tip of his nose with his thumb just melts me. I’m a sucker for anyone, anyone who responds to my baby.

I ask him again, much more controlled now. ‘How did you find my address?’

He just shrugs, discards the question as though it were too daft, too simple to merit an answer. He unzips his jacket, delves inside and pulls out a small package wrapped up in a Tesco’s plastic bag. It takes me a second.

‘Ah. Thank you, James. I was wondering when I’d get this back.’

‘There’s no damage,’ he says. ‘Everything what you’ve got from the hozzy, it’s sound.’

I shake my head, angry all over again.

‘Why did you feel you had to just
take
it without even—’

He cuts me off mid sentence.

‘I never just took it, did I? You was asleep. Gone. Right out of the game.’ He looks me up and down. ‘And I needed it. Bad.’

‘How come?’ He narrows his eyes like a child might, ready for rejection. I’m cross with him, but I start to melt. ‘Come on in out of the rain . . .’

‘Nah. Thanks anyway. Gorra get back to our Lacey.’

‘Lacey? But . . . the hostel. What?’

He nods to the camera.

‘That’s what this was all about, weren’t it? I needed proper evidence.’

‘Of what?’

He drops his head. ‘Of what me mam was doing.’

And finally the penny drops. I remember – back on the maternity ward – James trying to tell me all this. Shit!

‘Jesus Christ! She had her out there?’ James nods, slowly. ‘Fuck! Did you call the police? Does Andy know?’

He holds his hand up.

‘Look, Rache. That’s what I’ve come to tell you. It’s
dealt with, yeah. It’s done and dusted. Proper.’ He starts stroking the back of Joe’s head, addressing the baby as he talks. ‘Me and Lace are getting took in – together. It’s going to be sound. But I couldn’t have done none of it – nothing – without you.’

My God. I’m overcome. Not one of my kids has
ever
mentioned what I do, in the way that it affects
them
. It’s just a given.

He pulls back now and takes a step away from me. ‘So I just wanted to say thanks and that.’

He doesn’t move. His face is etched with fear and tension, as though of all the hardship and trauma he’s survived, this is the hardest trial James has ever had to face. I wink at him. ‘All part of the service.’