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Her tears always bring a lump to my throat, and then a kind of worry that she has such power over me, a feeling that this shouldn’t be, that it’s weak, ineffectual. I know I’m overprotective, that I find it hard to tolerate my child being unhappy. That I’m not like other women, with their anoraks and certainty. I know this is a flaw in me.
We park down the road from school. I give her a tissue and she wipes her eyes.
‘Is my nose red?’ she says.
‘You look great,’ I tell her.
‘You didn’t answer my question, Mum,’ she says.
In the road outside school, there’s the usual stand-off, two lines of traffic facing one another. There are parents who persist in dropping their children here, optimism triumphing over experience; they hoot futilely but nobody can move. Children mill round in padded winter coats, some of them newly purchased and a little too large; they’re moving fast and anarchically, as though the wildness of the weather is inside them. People have changed over the holiday. One child looks cute in new glasses, another has visibly grown. Natalie’s mother, who so liked my house, is pulling at a frenetic puppy. Someone else, hugely pregnant in December, has her immaculate baby in a sling. The baby still has that translucent unfinished look, so you feel if you held his hand to the light, perhaps you would see straight through. The sight pulls at women’s eyes and the same expression crosses all their faces, eyes widening, as though this is still a surprise. Crocuses are coming up in the lawn in front of the school; they have the tender colours of paint mixed with too much water, a fragile buttery yellow, and purple, pale as the veins inside a woman’s wrist. It’s only been a fortnight, and there’s so much that is new.
We’re holding hands as we walk towards the gate; her hand is tightening in mine. I look down at her. Her face is set, taut.
‘D’you want me to wait with you till the bell goes?’
I offer this as a choice, though really I have no choice: her hand is wrapped around mine like a bandage. She nods but doesn’t speak.
We stand there together by the gate as the children surge forward. The wind blows my hair in my mouth, but I’m holding Daisy with one hand and her lunchbox with the other, and I can’t push it back. My black denim coat, though stylish, is a little too cold for the day. We hear broken-off bits of conversation, blown round us like fallen leaves. Someone is making a complicated arrangement for tonight, involving tea and maths and ballet classes; someone else had fifteen to dinner for Christmas, and honestly it was like a military operation…
Over the heads of the children, I see the back of a man’s neck, his leather-jacketed shoulders, his rumpled head. It’s Fergal with his little boy. He must have walked straight past me. This makes me uncomfortable. I don’t know if he’s forgotten me, or simply hasn’t seen me. I start to feel unreal with no one to talk to.
And then Nicky is there, her children tugging at her, the ends of her stripy scarf streaming out behind her. Her smile warms me through.
‘Wow!’ she says. ‘So this is the coat. Fabulous! I am green.’
‘Thanks,’ I say.
As always she’s rushing, everything on the most feverish of schedules, dropping off the boys before jumping into her car and heading off to her other life at Praxis, the advertising agency. But she sees that Daisy is troubled and she ruffles her hair with her hand.
‘Not feeling too good, lambchop?’ she says. ‘Trust me, you’re not the only one. I hate the first day of term. Neil had to positively kick me out of bed.’
She pats Daisy’s shoulder; Daisy doesn’t turn to her. The boys pull at her, and she’s off, her scarf fringes flapping.
The bell rings.
‘There we go,’ I say, bending to kiss the top of Daisy’s head.
She wraps herself around me.
‘Come on, sweetheart.’
I try to prise her fingers away from my hand, but they stick like pieces of Elastoplast.
‘Mum, I can’t do this,’ she says. ‘Don’t make me.’
I cannot disentangle her from me. I know this is ridiculous, but I can’t.
People are looking at us with unconcealed curiosity. There are all these warnings in my head, slogans from the war between parents and children. They do try it on…Give them an inch…And I hear Gina at her most dogmatic, pronouncing on the pitfalls of modern parenting: You don’t want to go the brown rice and sandals route, you’ve got to show them who’s boss…
‘Sweetheart, you’ll be fine when you get into class.’
She is crying openly now, shivering with it. She doesn’t even seem to hear me.
‘Come on, let’s go in together.’
I try to move towards the gate, but the whole weight of her body is pressed against me.
‘I can’t, Mum,’ she says again.
Fergal passes, coming out. He looks at me and nods but doesn’t smile, recognising my difficulty. Embarrassment washes hotly across my skin.
Something gives way inside me.
‘OK. We’ll go home,’ I tell her.
I bend and hug her, burying my face in the mango smell of her hair. Immediately she stops crying, though she’s shivering still. I have a sudden doubt: if only I’d pushed a little harder, I could have got her into class. I feel a pang for the exhibition, for the cat with the high-heeled shoe and the tunnels made of hair. Now I will never see them. But it’s done, we can’t go back. The front of my new black denim coat is damp where she’s been crying against me.
CHAPTER 4
I wake in the night and immediately all the sleepiness falls from me. I hear the night sounds, the clock at St Agatha’s emptily striking three, a siren, the staccato bark of a fox as he ranges along the backs of the houses. Beside me, Richard snores softly.
There in the cold darkness, my mind is clear, free of the day’s clutter, like a quiet pool. I’m alert, taut: I could run with the fox for miles. In that clarity, I start to add up all the food that Daisy has eaten for the last few days. Yesterday: a packet of crisps and about three spoonfuls of rice with gravy at tea-time. The day before yesterday: two water biscuits and half a packet of crisps. The day before that, I can’t quite remember: perhaps it was a piece of apple and half a chocolate crispy cake from a whole batch I made.
I’ve tried so hard to tempt her, cooked all her favourite things, offered them to her with that warm abundant feeling that fills you when you make good food for your children. Tomato soup from fresh tomatoes, ripe to the point of sweetness, with fennel and herbs for their green flavour, just a few so there wouldn’t be lots of leafy bits, and a swirl of cream on top. Fried chicken and noodles, her favourite, and a sponge cake with a lavish filling of strawberry conserve. Daisy helped me, sieving the icing sugar on top, making an intricate pattern of crescents she said she couldn’t get right, postponing the moment of eating; then, when I cut her a slice, she crumbled it up and left it. Chocolate crispy cakes, with a slab of organic Green and Black’s I found in the delicatessen. I tasted it when I’d melted it: it was velvet on my tongue, its scented richness making me sneeze. Normally Daisy would come and scrape the bowl, greedy and bright-eyed as some small animal, eagerly licking the dark congealing sweetness from the spoon, but she said she wouldn’t bother, she needed to finish her drawing. When the cakes were done, still warm, sticky, I put one on a plate for her. She took a bite and left it.
‘Sweetheart, don’t you like it? Perhaps I used the wrong chocolate.’
‘It’s fine, Mum,’ she said. ‘Really. I’ll have it later.’
When Sinead came in from school, the house still smelt seductively of chocolate. She came straight to the kitchen, drawn by the smell; her nose and fingers were red with cold. ‘Oh, yum,’ she said, putting her hand to the plate.
I told her she could only have one, they were for Daisy; that I was sorry, that seemed so mean, but we had to get Daisy well; that I’d make another batch for her.
Daisy looked up from her drawing.
‘I don’t mind, Sinead,’ she said. ‘You eat them. I’m not hungry.’
In that moment in the three o’clock dark, I see that all these things I’ve made are about as much use as nourishment as the offerings of milk or olives that peasants leave by the hearth—to avert catastrophe, perhaps, or please the household spirits. Fear lays cold fingers on my skin.
Guiltily, I whisper in Richard’s ear.
‘Richard, wake up.’
He mutters something I can’t make out, moves suddenly.
‘What is it?’ There’s a splinter of panic in his voice. I’ve startled him, or intruded into some alarming dream.
He opens his eyes.
I suddenly remember he has an important meeting tomorrow. I feel ashamed.
‘I shouldn’t have woken you. I’m sorry.’
‘It’s a bit late for that,’ he says. The words are slurred, thick with sleep.
‘I’ve been worrying about Daisy. I was going through everything she’d eaten for the last few days.’
‘She’s fine,’ he says. ‘She’ll be better soon.’
He inches in closer, moves his hand on my breast. I’m cold, and my nipple is taut against his palm.
‘Richard, she’s hardly eating anything.’
‘Kids can last for ages without much food as long as they’re drinking,’ he says.
‘I’m worried she’s going to starve.’
‘Darling, don’t let’s go getting all melodramatic,’ he says. There’s an edge of exasperation in his voice. ‘If you’re worried, you’ll just have to take her back to the doctor.’
‘He wasn’t any use before,’ I say.
I took her to the GP last week—two weeks into term, and she’d scarcely been to school. He looked at Daisy’s ears and tonsils, said everything was fine and she probably had post-viral fatigue and she could go to school but she shouldn’t run around. I said, ‘She’s feeling sick,’ and he said nausea isn’t anything to worry about, nausea doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong. I said she wasn’t eating. ‘She’ll eat again in her own good time,’ he said. ‘Children are tougher than we think, Mrs Lydgate.’
‘But what can he do?’ I say to Richard. ‘She hasn’t got an infection or sore throat or anything. She doesn’t need antibiotics.’
‘You don’t know that,’ he says.
‘And if it’s a post-viral thing, you just have to wait for it to get better, don’t you?’
‘Well, at least it might put your mind at rest,’ he says.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Honestly,’ he says, ‘what on earth is the point of lying here worrying if you refuse to do anything about it?’
‘But I know he’ll just say, “Come back in a fortnight.”’
‘Maybe you should ask for her to be referred,’ he says.
‘To the hospital?’ This surprises me.
‘Well, if you’re worried. You could ask to see a specialist.’
‘But I can’t just ask the GP to do that.’
‘Of course you can. For God’s sake, isn’t that what we pay our taxes for? It’s like you never feel you have a right to anything,’ he says, quite affectionately.
I can feel him hard against my thigh; I move my hand down, encircle him. I feel I owe him this, now I’ve woken him. He’s pushing up my nightdress.
‘Take this thing off,’ he says.
I pull it over my head. I turn the bedside light on; Richard likes to look. He runs his hand down me, eases his finger inside me.
‘You’re not very wet,’ he says.
‘Lick your hand. I’ll be fine. I’m just a bit tired, that’s all.’
He moves his wet finger on me.
I’m dragging a net through my mind, trawling for sex, conjuring up images that are more and more extreme, bits of Anaïs Nin, scenes from Secretary, things I’ve read, things I’ve done, but I can’t hold onto them. Like fish in a wide-meshed net they flicker and fade and dive away into darkness. Instead of sex, I’m thinking about this morning, when we’d run out of our usual mineral water, we only had Vittel, not Evian, and Daisy said she couldn’t drink it because it tasted like milk. I left her in the house on her own, with strict instructions not to answer the door, drove to the nearest Waitrose through heavy traffic, and bought the kind of Evian she likes best, with a sports cap. It took me forty-five minutes.
I gave her the bottle of water. She took a sip, frowned, pushed the bottle away.
‘Sorry, Mum,’ she said.
I knelt beside her.
‘Daisy, you’ve got to drink something. You’ve got to drink halfway down this bottle by lunchtime or I shall call the doctor.’
I put a mark on the bottle. Slowly, through the morning, she drank her way down to the mark.
Richard’s cock in my hand is hard and full and his breathing is heavy; and he needs to sleep and he’s got that meeting today. I’m not being fair to him, making him wait like this. I lift his hand away from me.
‘I don’t think I can come tonight,’ I say. ‘Don’t worry.’
I roll over on top of him.
‘Well, if you’re sure,’ he says.
I kneel astride him and he slides into me. He reaches up lazily to touch my breasts. I don’t quite like this. Since the months of breastfeeding Daisy, I sometimes don’t like to have my breasts touched; the feeling seems to move from irritating to intense with nothing in between, as though there’s some short-circuit in me. I don’t let this show.
He moves rapidly, comes with a sigh.
I slide off him, turn over, with him tucked into my back. He sinks rapidly into sleep, his breath warm on my shoulder; I haven’t even turned off the light.
I lie there for a while, but sleep feels far from me. The light of the lamp falls on the bedroom walls, which are ragrolled and opulently red; the hatstand and the hat with a plume that I bought in a junk shop cast extravagant shadows. I had a fantasy in mind when I planned and painted this room, as though it were an opera set, perhaps for La Traviata, which Richard once took me to see. We have a French cherrywood bed with a scrolled head and feet, the floor is darkly varnished, the red of the walls is rich by lamplight, though rather oppressive by day; and there are heavy curtains patterned with arum lilies, and a poster from an exhibition of designs for the Ballet Russe, that we went to see when Sinead was doing a ballet project. The poster shows a kind of erotic dance, and when I bought it, just glancing at it quickly and knowing I liked it, I thought there were two figures there, entwined in some sexual ritual; though when I got it home and took it out to frame it I saw it was really a solitary figure, neither male nor female, at once muscled and voluptuous, bejewelled and draped in lavish folds of cloth—and the other shape was a scarf red as flame that twisted and curved close, gauzy, without substance, yet moving like the body of a lover.
I get up silently, and take Richard’s dressing gown from the foot of the bed and wrap it round me. Mine is silk, and in this weather putting it on just makes you feel colder.
I go down to the kitchen. I make some toast, but the butter is hard and won’t spread. There’s some wine left in the bottle we drank with dinner: Richard is keeping to his resolution to drink less whisky in the evening. I pour myself a glass; in the cold, it has no scent, but I feel a sudden easing as it glides into my veins.
The room is untidy, the girls’ things scattered around—Sinead’s flower scrunchies and copies of Heat, and drawings Daisy has done, sketches of injured animals, and her box of magnetic fridge poetry. She hasn’t done a new poem for weeks; her pre-Christmas offering is still on the door of the fridge. ‘The gold witch crept to the top.’ In the stillness and cold, untidy but with nobody there, the kitchen has the look of a room abandoned in a hurry, by people who’ve been warned of some disaster or called away. When I see myself in the mirror over the fireplace I realise I haven’t washed my hair for a week.
There’s a holiday brochure that came in the post, showing villas in Tuscany. I sip the wine and flick through, seeking to lose myself in these fields of sunflowers and cities of blond towers, but worry has its claws in me, it can’t be pushed away. With a sudden resolve I take a piece of paper that’s lying there and a purple felt-tip of Daisy’s. I write ‘To Do for Daisy’ at the top of the page, then ‘1. Go to GP. 2. Make a food diary—allergies? 3. Clear out her room—take away all rugs, cuddlies etc. Dust mites? 4. Homeopathy/herbalism—ask Nicky.’ Nicky got to know lots of alternative people during her transient passion for aromatherapy; tomorrow I shall ring her. I stick the list up on the fridge, next to Daisy’s poem. I am in control again: there’s so much I can do. I tell myself that Richard was right, that I have been over-emotional, that it will soon be over, and Daisy will be well. I picture myself chatting about it with Nicky at the Café Rouge over some nice Pinot Grigio. Honestly, I was sure that Daisy had something serious—but look at her now… I gulp down the rest of the wine and feel the fear edge away from me.
On the way back to bed I look in on Daisy. She’s sleeping quietly now, the duvet pulled up high and lifting with her breathing. Her room feels warmer than the rest of the house; above her there’s a glimmer of stencilled stars. Nothing can harm her here.
I go back to our bedroom and slip in beside Richard, and lie awake and hear the bark of the fox, moving rapidly across the long line of gardens, careless of hedges and fences, as though this whole wide territory were his.
