Lullaby (16 page)

He looked at me.

‘
My
baby,’ I repeated fiercely. ‘I mean, they must be mad. Mustn’t they?’

‘Not mad, I don’t think. More like desperate.’

In silence, we both contemplated the possibilities,
until Silver excused himself and went to pay the bill. I thought about the weeks after Louis’s birth and flinched. I drained my drink but I couldn’t block the memories, the relentless bloody memories that were crushing me. Shouting at the screaming baby when he wouldn’t feed, terrified he’d starve; my bosom a flaming tennis-ball of fire, suffering from mastitis, desperate to stop the pain, afraid it’d harm my son if I did. My tears: the stream of endless, terrified tears; feeling there was no one to turn to, to ever tell me what to do, to assure me I was doing whatever I did do okay. Leigh occasionally turned up to see us, dispensed a bit of advice that I’d fall on like a starving woman, but she was done with babies by that time. And anyway, she didn’t really do boys. Too much trouble. She preferred her girls—and her beautician. My mum flew over once, but she spent most of the time wandering around, spaced-out, in awe of Mickey’s house, and shopping for things she couldn’t get in Spain. I dug the palms of my hands into my eyes. ‘A penny for them.’ Silver swiped his car-keys from the wooden table. I jumped.

‘You don’t want to know, I promise you.’

He looked at me closely. ‘Are you okay?’

‘Just got a bit of a headache, that’s all.’ I trailed after him to the car.

My bosom throbbed emptily; my guilt stalked me like a great black shadow. The kids on the green were screeching with laughter in the fading light. I didn’t look back.

The next morning, I finally gave in. The German psychotherapist had very shiny hair, that was the first thing I noticed. Coppery bright as a new penny coin, the light from the ceiling bounced off it. To shield my eyes against the gleam, I stared instead at the carved wooden Buddha sitting plumply in the corner, oddly out of place among the yellowing leaflets about HIV and stress.

Actually she seemed quite nice, the therapist, quite genuine, but I wasn’t going to get sucked in. I was noncommittal, monosyllabic in the main. Mostly I was fascinated by her centre-parting—it was so straight. She managed to ascertain that no, I wasn’t really suicidal; no, I didn’t have a death wish; yes, I was just desperate for my son back. She said that four days of enforced separation from your child was bound to destroy anyone. Yes, I was suffering from the worst kind of guilt imaginable—the feeling I had failed my son-although of course I hadn’t, she hastened to add. That my postnatal depression had been quite normal, that
thousands of women suffered from it, a lot of them untreated. That it didn’t mean I was a bad or unfit mother, or that I deserved this fate. I nodded blankly to show I understood all this, while she said that yes, it was quite natural in the circumstances to feel this way, and then she suggested, rather tentatively it seemed to me, that if I needed more medication I should give the pills to someone ‘responsible’ to hold on to for me.

‘Like who?’

She looked slightly perturbed, pushed her rimless glasses up her small nose with one neat movement. ‘You have someone to lean on a little, Jessica? It is vital at this time,
ja
?’

No, I wanted to say, there’s no one I really want to lean on, no one I’m really allowed to anyway—but I just wanted to get the hell out of there, so I agreed. I said what I thought she wanted to hear.

‘Yeah, of course,’ I said, ‘there are lots of people around. My best mate Shirl, my sister Leigh.’ And there were. I had lots of friends and all sorts of well-wishers getting in touch. It was just that I felt like a battered little island in a ferocious sea, under relentless elemental attack. So absolutely and utterly alone, despite the crowds. I smiled slightly. That was probably what she would like to hear. But I couldn’t bear to admit it.

‘What makes you smile now, Jessica?’

‘What?’

‘You’re smiling a little now.’

I shook my head. I waited. Eventually she continued.

‘And your parents? The baby’s grandparents?’

I shrugged sadly. ‘Mickey’s mum and my—my dad—
are both dead. Mickey’s dad’s senile, unfortunately, and my mum’s in Spain. She lives there now. I think she’s coming over, she’s meant to be. I hope so, anyway.’

‘That’s good, no?’

‘Well, yes.’ I thought about it. ‘Actually, it’s a bit late in the day really. I would have liked it if she could have come straight away. But she’s not that well.’ I thought some more. ‘And the thing is, honestly, she’ll be about as much use as—’

‘As?’

‘I don’t know. I can’t think how to say it politely.’

‘Don’t be polite then. Why should you?’

‘Cos she’s my mum?’

‘I’m sensing a lot of hurt here, Jessica. So, tell me, she’ll be as much use as what?’

‘As a slap in the face.’

Her face almost lit up. I cursed myself.

‘A strange analogy, no?’

‘No, not really,’ I said, rather crossly. Well, she’d asked me to say it. But I knew it was dangerous to let my secrets out, and I hated analysing with a passion. Boyfriends had always loved the fact I didn’t do deep chats.

‘She’s just a bit—out there, if you like,’ I said. ‘My mum.’

The therapist stared at me expectantly, until I felt obliged to say some more. I muttered, ‘Well, you know, she’s—she’s had a hard life. I don’t blame her for anything. I guess it’s just sort of—wounded her. She was never very good at showing love, you see.’

‘Ah. I do see, yes.’ Finally. I sat back. She’d got what
she wanted. The therapist breathed a great whistling breath of understanding over her immaculate teeth. I wondered if she shared a dentist with Silver. I didn’t like the way his name kept cropping up in my head. I resisted the urge to ask her to please explain the mother thing to me, because I certainly didn’t see, couldn’t see in fact, had never really seen the truth between us. Whenever I needed my mum, she wasn’t ever there, and she never really had been. Simple as that.

The therapist wanted to talk about Mickey. I didn’t.

‘This makes your despair worse, no, Jessica?’ she asked, all pat, and I nearly laughed with frustration. ‘You are fearful for him.’

Yes, I was fearful, but more of him than for him. I was fearful that he felt like such a stranger since his injuries. I was fearful that I found his vulnerability so odd. Like a snail, he suddenly seemed to me, stripped of its shell. Soft and utterly defenceless. It frightened me—and worse, I was violently ashamed of these new feelings.

There—I’d finally admitted it. My head snapped up to look at her. Had I spoken aloud? She sat patiently, watching me still, so I guessed not. Anyway, if we went down the Mickey path, we’d be here for hours. We could get on to why I’d married him, why he’d chosen me when every girl in the office was panting after him, was I actually good enough for the man? What I was most fearful of, in truth, was that if the floodgates opened, the flood would never stop.

‘You are angry with him?’

‘I was.’

‘I think it is an absolutely natural reaction. To hold him responsible, even if he wasn’t.’

‘But I’ve dealt with it.’ She stared at me. ‘Really, I have.’

I thought of telling her about my premonition—the premonition I’d had when Louis was first born four weeks early. I’d sat in the hospital, tucked away in the private room that Mickey had insisted we’d have, even though I protested, rather delirious from all the drugs, that I’d quite like the company of all the other mothers out on the ward, to make some new friends. But I’d held my baby in my arms when he came out of the incubator and I’d felt the most unexpected, the most huge, the most gargantuan surge of love. It was quite breathtaking; it knocked me nearly sideways. And I was terrified as it bowled me over, swept me in its wake. The only love I’d felt anywhere near this before was for my dad, for my little brother—and look what happened there. They’d both gone and deserted me; left me all alone. And I knew, I knew in that moment in that bed clutching my new love, that I could never trust this feeling, this pure emotion that was stronger than anything I’d ever felt. I knew then that this tiny person with his little tortoise face, his scrunched-up soft skin, his wise old eyes that already seemed to know a thousand things, his warm body like a puppy, bunched-up and not yet unfurled, clinging to my chest as though his life depended on it—I just knew right then that something bad might happen to him, and I wouldn’t cope, I couldn’t cope without him now. I’d fall apart and die. And after that realisation followed
the terror and the sleepless nights, the struggle to breastfeed, the hormones rampaging at the heart of it—the knowledge that I loved my baby too much to see straight any more. To be an able mother.

A long time later that panic finally subsided and I learnt to trust the love; to go with it and not keep battling. But I’d been right, hadn’t I, all along? It was too perfect, that love, to keep on going unspoilt.

In the end, I didn’t mention it. She’d think I was mad, madder still than I must already seem, discussing postnatal premonitions. And as soon as I could, I made my excuses and left. I reckoned she must have got her paperwork on me all filled in by now; I promised to call her if I felt like I was about to lose control again. She held on to my hand as she gave me her card; asked me to ring her any time, and I managed to resist the temptation to fall on the floor and admit I didn’t have a clue how to keep on coping. Just about coping. So instead I squeezed her hand back very gently.

And actually, I did want to see Mickey now. I might be finding his vulnerability hard to fathom, but I had questions and I wanted answers. Something had been going round my mind since the other night.

I sat by Mickey’s bed and held his hand. His breathing was shallow and he was back on the oxygen. Sister Kwame hovered and, despite her calm smiles, I felt an underlying anxiety I hadn’t sensed before. They were waiting for the consultant with the little ears.

‘Has anything come back to you?’ I tried to sound as level as I could but Mickey must have seen the
desperation in my eyes. He shook his head and winced.

‘Oh, Mickey.’ I clutched his hand a little tighter. ‘Are you still in that much pain?’

He grimaced. ‘’Fraid so,’ he muttered.

‘Can I do anything?’ I plumped up his pillow helpfully, but when I’d obviously just made things worse, I gave up again. He tried to get comfortable, and I waited for him to settle again, until I couldn’t hold it any longer.

‘Mickey, why did you have your passport on you?’ I blurted out. He looked confused; forgotten, my hand slipped from his.

‘When?’

‘When they found you—after Louis—after you were attacked.’

‘God only knows. I wish I could remember.’ There was a pause. His brows knitted. ‘My passport, you say? Are you sure?’

I nodded, didn’t trust myself to speak.

Then relief crossed his face. ‘Sure, I always have my passport on me, don’t I?’

‘Do you? Why would you?’

‘For work. I don’t know. I had some big cash transaction for some trip I guess. There’s nothing odd about it, Jessica.’ For the first time since he’d woken he sounded like the old Mickey. Impatient. Slightly on the edge. My heart did a tiny somersault. Glutton for punishment, me; it was what I both liked and hated about my husband: his certainty; his utter refusal to suffer fools.

‘If you’re so worried, ask Pauline.’

‘I will. I think she’s still away though. No one’s got hold of her yet.’

Sensing my discomfort, he reached for my hand again. The least-affectionate man in the world. I knew I should revel in this new Mickey, but actually I felt like I was on a rope bridge, trying to get a footing and slipping, constantly slipping, swinging above the heads of normality.

‘The police never mentioned it, you know.’

‘What?’

‘The passport.’

‘Yeah, well,’ I drew my shoulders back, ‘there’s lots of things those coppers seem to forget.’

He laughed softly. ‘I’d forgotten how much you hate them.’

‘I don’t hate them,’ I said, although I remembered talking into the early hours with Mickey when we were first together, more than a little drunk, not knowing I was pregnant, telling him about my parents, about my shattered teenage dreams. About DC Jones. I thought of Silver now. ‘I just don’t really trust them. You know why.’

He squeezed my hand. ‘Yes, I do. But come on now, Jessica. Don’t wind ’em up. You need them on your side.’ He coughed and winced again. The Irish tang was more pronounced than usual. ‘Our side, I should say.’

Our.
Only I didn’t feel like there was an ‘our’ right now. There was just me.

DC Kelly had interviewed the three ‘crackpots’—with little success, in my eyes. Deb, permanently by my side
these days, opened the door to him. Wearing the same sweat-stained pink shirt from yesterday, the poor man was obviously exhausted. His little belly was even diminishing a bit, though the dried egg-yolk on his tie did nothing for his appearance.

He explained that of the three calls they’d taken seriously, one could definitely be discounted, because she’d turned out to be a constant caller to the police. The other two, however, both down in East Sussex, had said similar things to one another—but there was still really nothing conclusive. One was an elderly lady: she’d been weeding her front garden when she’d seen a metallic-coloured car pull up, driven by a blonde woman who looked harassed and ‘frightened’, the lady said. Apparently the woman had been reading a roadmap, and had then made a call from her mobile, a young baby screaming in the back the entire time. The old lady had remembered it because the woman looked so worried and so helpless, like she had no idea at all what to do with the crying baby, and was practically shouting down the phone, though it was impossible to hear what she was saying. The woman had then tried to give the baby a bottle, and though the old lady hadn’t been able to see properly into the back, she got the impression the baby wouldn’t take it, kept pushing the milk away.

I didn’t feel amazingly optimistic about any of this news. ‘Every new mother looks worried and frightened, don’t they? I know I did, all the time,’ I said gloomily.