While My Eyes Were Closed (27 page)

‘Yeah.’

‘So how do you work that one out?’

I see Dad swallow, his face contorted. ‘Because I can’t bear to see you suffer like this. Because same way Ella’s your little girl, you’re still mine and I know that might sound soft or whatever but it’s true. I’m supposed to
protect you but I didn’t, did I? I didn’t protect Ella either. I’m supposed to be head of our family and I’ve let you all down. I lie in bed every night feeling so bloody useless and hating that there’s nowt I can do and then this happened and I realised I could do summat to help. I just wanted to try to make it better, to make him say where she is, like. Put you out of your misery and get our little princess back, even if she’s not even alive any more. I wanted to get her back for you.’

A solitary tear rolls down Dad’s left cheek. He wipes it away but not before I see it through my own tears. I step towards him and he throws his arms tight around me, squeezes me harder than is comfortable as he sobs great, big Yorkshireman tears on my shoulder. And right now I hate this world. I hate God or whoever it is who’s in charge, who could do this to a grown man. I hate the man who called my mobile in the park, the people writing horrible things about us on Twitter and Facebook and most of all the man who took Ella and took away our lives in the process.

I can hear Mum crying on the stairs behind me. I look up to gesture Tony to go to her but he is already there.

‘She’s gone, hasn’t she?’ asks Dad when he finally looks up at me.

‘Yeah,’ I whisper. ‘I think she has.’

*

I am still there when the police come and arrest Dad on suspicion of causing criminal damage. I think Claire
has had a word with them after my phone call because they knock very politely as if they are collecting for charity, not about to arrest someone.

And they have done what I asked and sent an unmarked car. The officers are still in uniform and no doubt some of the neighbours will talk anyway but it makes it a little easier for Mum.

I step forward and kiss Dad on the cheek before he goes. He clings on to my hand, his eyes looking like they have been punched into the back of his head.

‘Sorry,’ he says.

‘Don’t be a daft bugger,’ I reply.

Mum sits on the stairs with Tony. I am not sure she has moved from that spot since she broke down, and for once she doesn’t seem to care that she is in her nightie and hasn’t done her hair. I think it is the first time in my life I’ve known her allow strangers to see her without make-up on. It doesn’t matter any more. The same way the weather doesn’t matter any more, or that someone forgot to get the milk, or what we are having for dinner later, or that the garden gate needs oiling. None of it matters or will ever matter again.

‘No. It’s a G. Come on, you know that. Where are you today, dreamland?’

The child looks down and swings her legs from the piano stool. Her fingers appear stubbier than I remembered. Certainly when compared to Matthew’s. She is not concentrating. To be honest she seems incapable of concentrating. I start to wonder if she has that attention deficit disorder that so many children seem to have these days. I’ve always thought it was poppycock. Giving a medical name to what used to be known as downright disobedience. Maybe they have a point, though. Perhaps the genes have mutated and there is a generation of children who simply can’t physically sit still for five minutes. I remember when I went on a school trip with The Grange last Christmas. Admittedly
Jack and the Beanstalk
in Halifax wouldn’t have been my choice of theatre experience, especially not with a cast of talent-show and reality-TV people I had never heard of. But the fact was not one of the children was capable of sitting still for the duration of the performance. Umpteen toilet visits, complaining when their sweets and ice creams had been eaten, talking and fidgeting throughout the whole thing. And these were children from good homes. I dread to think what other children would be like. I told Mrs Cuthbertson straight afterwards that I wouldn’t be accompanying them there again. As it happened, I left not long afterwards anyway. It wasn’t my doing. I didn’t see what the problem was, but Mrs Cuthbertson was always very touchy about parent complaints. One over-sensitive child says something to a parent and the next I knew, she was calling me into her office for ‘a word’. I didn’t give her the satisfaction, mind. Told her I was taking early retirement before she had the chance to say anything. She said she totally understood in the ‘difficult circumstances’, that she was surprised I hadn’t taken the decision sooner. She even had the gall to try to pat me on the hand as I left her office. Not that I was having any of it. The fact is several of the children from The Grange still come to me for private lessons, so she didn’t manage to turn all the parents against me. Not everyone believes the gossip you hear in the playground.

‘I don’t want to play any more,’ the child whines.

‘Well you won’t get better if you don’t practise.’

‘When’s Otis coming for his lesson?’

‘He won’t be coming any more.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I’m too busy looking after you.’

‘But I want him to come. I want to see Otis. And Daddy will bring him and he can take me home afterwards. I want to go home now.’

I sigh and shake my head. ‘This is your new home, remember?’

‘I don’t want to live here.’

‘That sounded rather ungrateful, you know. You’re very lucky that I’ve taken you in when no one else could look after you. Often children get put in a home if their parents aren’t fit to look after them.’

‘Like Little Orphan Annie in the film?’

‘Yes, just like that.’

Her face brightens for a second. ‘Will I get a dog called Sandy?’

‘No, of course not. That would hardly be fair on Melody, would it?’

She shakes her head.

‘What I’m trying to make you understand is that you should count your blessings. I’ve given you a lovely home to live in, lots of toys to play with, and I’m taking you on holiday.’

She is quiet. Thinking for a moment.

‘Will Grandma take Otis on holiday and get him new toys?’

‘I don’t know. She might not be able to afford it.’

She fixes me with a look. ‘Do they have donkeys where we are going? Can I have a donkey ride?’

I stare down at the child looking up at me expectantly. Smell the salt in the air. Feel the unwelcome sensation of sand between my toes.

‘Why of course they do. Don’t you remember Ted?’

The child looks at me blankly.

‘He’s your favourite donkey. He’s chocolate-brown and all the others are grey. You picked him out especially. You give him sugar lumps. The man lets you. Remember how you hold out your hand?’

She hesitates before slowly extending her arm.

‘That’s right. Hand flat, fingers straight. The opposite of what we do on a piano. And then he comes and takes it from you.’

‘Does he bite?’

‘No. Of course not. I wouldn’t let you do it if he did. It tickles. You said it tickles and his muzzle feels all soft and velvety in your hand.’

The child smiles at last. A small uncertain smile but a smile none the less.

‘Now,’ I say, ‘why don’t I go and get you a drink and then we can go upstairs and start packing?’

The child nods. ‘Ribena. Please can I have a Ribena?’

‘Of course you can,’ I say, smiling back. I go to the kitchen and get one of the little cartons which the shopping man delivered yesterday. I wonder again whether
he glimpsed the child. Maybe he told someone back at the depot. Perhaps they check people’s orders to see if they’ve bought anything unusual. It would all come up if they did. The Magnums, the SpongeBob Squarepants thing. The Ribena. Maybe we need to go away before Saturday. Friday, if I can find somewhere. The cottage brochure usually has quite a few places which start on a Friday, I will have a look later. I need to get away. I’m not sure I can face being in this house on Friday.

I go back in. The child is staring vacantly out of the window. I pierce the carton with the straw before handing it to her, reminding her not to squeeze too hard as she takes it.

‘The shopping man brought some crumpets too.’

I wait for the shriek of delight but it does not come. She nods solemnly. Her mind appears to be somewhere else entirely.

I walk out into the hall. Matthew’s photos line the walls. He tries so hard to keep me going, to spread joy when there is none. To fill the house with good memories when the floorboards creak under the weight of the bad.

I go to the bread bin, get out the crumpets and turn on the grill. The flame roars and then quietens as I adjust the knob. I turn towards the fridge to get the butter out and almost bump into her. She shuffles out of the way only to stand right in front of the cutlery drawer, where I am going next.

‘Run along and play,’ I say. ‘Go and find Melody. I can’t have you under my feet in the kitchen.’

She goes without a murmur. I don’t know what has got into her. I thought she would be excited about the holiday. I sigh and busy myself with the crumpets, pour the child a glass of milk.

‘Your snack is ready,’ I call out once the butter has melted sufficiently. She doesn’t come. I am reminded that six days ago she practically snapped my hand off. I call again. Nothing. I go out into the hall. She is sitting on the front doormat with a leaflet in her hand, silent tears streaming down her face. I see the West Yorkshire Police logo. I rush forward and snatch the leaflet out of her hands.
MISSING
is emblazoned across the top, along with her name and a large photo of her.

‘Where did you get that from?’

‘It came through letter box.’

‘Yes, well you shouldn’t have picked it up.’

‘It’s got my picture on it.’

‘It was meant for me.’

‘Why has it got my picture on it?’

‘It doesn’t matter. It’s nothing to do with you.’

‘It’s got my name on it and it says I’m missing.’

I look up at the ceiling. I’d been hoping she didn’t know the word. Wouldn’t be able to read it.

‘You said you didn’t know your letters.’

‘I see them on lamp posts with the doggy pictures.
Mummy said it’s when doggies get lost and they’re trying to find them.’

My mouth feels dry. I stare at the floor, unable to look her in the eye. It is all unravelling. Falling apart around me. I wish Matthew were here. He would help me find some way out of this mess.

‘Your mother has told the police you are missing to cover up the fact that she has been a bad mother and lost you. They think someone naughty took you.’

She wipes her nose on the back of her hand.

‘The naughty boys?’ she asks. ‘Do they think the naughty boys took me?’

‘Yes. Yes, they probably do.’

‘Are you going to take me back now?’

‘Of course not. You know I can’t do that. Your mummy isn’t capable of looking after you. Anyway, we’re going on holiday. We’re going on Friday instead of Saturday.’ We’ll leave early, very early. She might even go back to sleep, which would be a blessing for the journey.

‘I don’t want to go on holiday. I want to go home.’

The silent tears become an audible sob.

‘Enough of this nonsense,’ I say, handing her a handkerchief from my pocket. ‘You can’t keep getting upset over this. You live here now. It’s for your own good. You know it is.’

‘Someone might find me. Someone found one of lost doggies when it went missing. A white one with a black
patch over his eye. Mummy showed me a picture in paper.’

‘No one’s going to find you. And even if they do, you won’t be able to go back to your mummy. They won’t let you. Not when they find out what a bad mummy she is.’

She stares at me, tiny daggers stabbing at me from the corners of her eyes, then in an instant she leaps up off the mat and reaches up for the front-door handle. I lunge forward and grab her hand, pulling it away. She couldn’t reach it anyway but I put the chain across just in case.

I bend down and look her in the face. ‘Now, we’ll have no more of that nonsense, thank you.’

She cowers back against the door. I mustn’t lose her trust, I know that. I try to soften my face a little.

‘Let’s go and have that crumpet, shall we?’

She stares up at me, her eyes moist, and walks slowly through to the kitchen, her head hanging. I pick up the flyer, fold it in half and tuck it away in the magazine rack.

As I turn I catch sight of Matthew watching me. ‘We’re going away on Friday,’ I say to him. ‘All of us together. I’m going to start packing later. You can help me if you like.’

He smiles back at me and nods. He is a good boy, Matthew. Always such a good boy.

Monday, 25 August 2014

Sparrow has dumped me. Dumped me for good, not like just a falling-out or something. She didn’t get the grades to get into Leeds (which is probably my fault cos she was with me when she should have been swotting and I feel really bad because I got the grades to get in and she didn’t) so she went through clearing and the only place she could get was at Lancaster Uni so she took it and told me we could still see each other at weekends and I told her we couldn’t cos Mum will go ape if I go away when I haven’t seen her all week, especially when she’ll know who I’d be going to see. And Sparrow just lost it and said that I had to choose between her and my mum and if I couldn’t stand up to my own mother then I
obviously didn’t love her as much as I said I did. I told her I couldn’t do that. I told her I loved her more than anyone in the world but I couldn’t hurt Mum, not after everything she’s been through. Sparrow said she’d had enough of it, all the creeping around and secret meetings over the summer when Mum was off work (she hasn’t been back to our house since the hair thing, she couldn’t really). She said she’s not going to spend the rest of her life living a lie and if I was so ashamed of her that I couldn’t tell my own mother then it was over.

And the worst thing of all is that she’s probably right. I mean it is pretty pathetic and it’s not as if I’ve got anyone else to blame apart from myself. If I’d confronted Mum about the hair thing instead of buying into her control shit, then maybe none of this would have happened. I mean Sparrow still wouldn’t have got into Leeds but it needn’t have mattered – plenty of other people carry on seeing each other when they go to different unis. It’s just that plenty of other people haven’t got a mum like mine. It’s like she doesn’t want me to grow up, like she needs to control every aspect of my life. And I know she’s had a crap year and all that stuff but it’s not fair giving me this guilt trip. Neither of us have ever mentioned the hair but it’s like it’s hanging over us all the time. I know she’s disappointed in me and she thinks I’ve let her down but I just don’t get how she thinks I’m supposed to live the rest of my life just being the dutiful son and never going out with anyone
or going anywhere outside a twenty-mile radius of the house.