The Child Inside (40 page)

Not that Mrs Reiber would notice anyway. She probably will not even remember who I am, but still . . .

My heart beats a little faster as I walk up her path. I am half-expecting her to close the door in my face, but I am ready for that; I have my words prepared. I do not even consider the fact that she may not be in. I hold Vanessa’s jacket in my arms like a newborn child, and I wait.

I hear her footsteps the other side of the door; I hear her fiddling with the lock. The door slowly opens, and at first she stares at me blankly, and then recognition, unwelcome, shadows her eyes. Her face puckers in displeasure, but before she can speak or shut the door in my face I say, ‘Mrs Reiber, I have something for you.’

‘I’m quite sure you have nothing that I want,’ she says, dismissing me as if I was nothing but a salesperson, come knocking uninvited.

‘Mrs Reiber, I do.’

I hold out my hands. Vanessa’s jacket lies draped across them like a sacrifice.

She looks at the jacket and then back at me, confusion, and fear, in her eyes.

‘This was Vanessa’s,’ I say.

And she snaps, ‘No!’ and tries to close the door. I stick my foot out, quick, to stop her. ‘What do you want from me?’ she demands.

‘I want to give you this.’ My heart is thumping, but I hold that jacket steady. ‘I borrowed it years ago, when I was sixteen. I never had the chance to give it back.’

In spite of herself she is staring at the jacket, the muscles on her face working frantically, turning her expression from panic to terror to a longing so desperate, so achingly raw. I watch her with tears needling my eyes. Tentatively she reaches out one shaking hand and touches the jacket with such trepidation, as though it might break, or disappear.

I swallow hard. ‘Please,’ I say. ‘It’s yours.’

She snaps her hand back. And she looks up at me with such suspicion. ‘What do you want?’ she asks again, her voice shrill and sore.

‘To give you this,’ I say. ‘That’s all. Please.’ I proffer that jacket, and again her hand creeps out. And this time she snatches the jacket from my hands and gasps as she clutches it to her chest, as though afraid I might snatch it back again.

‘Thank you,’ I say and step back from the door, which she then ducks behind and slams shut.

‘Who are you?’ she calls from the other side.

‘No one,’ I say back, though whether she hears me or not I do not know. ‘I was a friend of a friend, that’s all.’

And I walk away from there, and I try to tell myself that I have done at least something right.

I try to contact Simon, but the numbers of his flat, and his mobile, are no longer in use. I call his office, and his secretary tells me he has gone on a secondment, but she will not tell me where. So I write him a letter, and I post it to his house in Kingham. And in that letter I tell him that I will be keeping his baby.

He has a right to know. He has a need to know, surely.

I do not get a reply.

I write to him again with my new address, when Jono and I move into our new little house in Guildford, less than two miles from Andrew’s flat, and one mile from Jono’s new school.

And I write to him in November, when our baby daughter is born healthy and beautiful in the maternity ward at Guildford hospital, with no one but me, and the midwife, to see her into the world. I tell him that I have named her Freya.

He doesn’t reply.

How strangely the world turns.

On a Sunday in December I pull up in my car outside Andrew’s flat to collect Jono, with Freya asleep in her car seat beside me. Andrew and Jono are in the garden; I see them straight away. Andrew’s flat is in a large Victorian house, with a garden that runs all the way around it, and a low fence, barely a yard high. They are racing up and down the side of the house, playing with the dog from the flat next door. Jono is shrieking and laughing; I can hear him even before I open the car door. I see a stick fly in the air. I see a small whirl of grey as the dog jumps up to catch it.

I get out of the car and I stand there and watch them, my son and the father of my son. And my heart aches as it will always ache. For a long time they do not know that I am there and carry on playing with this dog, free for a while, unburdened. Then Jono spots me, and Andrew looks up, too. I see disappointment and resignation cloud Jono’s face; the
oh no
look of a boy who knows it is time to go. And in Andrew I see the shutters come down, rendering him closed, and wary.

I’m sorry, I’m so sorry
, I whisper, under my breath.

Jono turns away from me and picks up that stick again, and throws it for the dog, making the most of his last few minutes. And Andrew starts walking towards me.

‘How are you?’ he asks guardedly.

And automatically I say, ‘I’m fine, thanks. How are you?’ He smiles a thin smile, but doesn’t answer. ‘Really,’ I go on, ‘how are you?’

I really want to know. I want him to know that I care.

He looks away, back to Jono. ‘Jono seems happy with his school,’ he says.

‘Yes,’ I say quickly. ‘He’s really settled in. He’s doing really well. And he’s got friends who live just near us.’ I am talking too fast, talking too much now. I clasp my cold hands together and stick my nails into my palm.

Jono is getting that dog to do tricks. He knows we are watching. He is putting on a show. Jono loves us; he shows it every day in his kindness to his sister, and his father.
We’re still your family
, I tell him.
We still love you.
I tell him this over and over:
We will always love you.

Is it enough? Can it ever be enough?

He left his old school without a second thought and I saw the clouds lift out of his eyes. We live close enough for him to see his father every day, and if he doesn’t see him, Jono speaks to him. Perhaps we all make more effort now.

‘He says you’re doing some teaching,’ Andrew says.

‘Oh, just a bit. Just private, you know, while Freya’s still so young.’
Freya.
I have never said her name to him before. I watch his closed face and grip my hands a little tighter.

‘Can I see her?’ Andrew says, and my heart jolts.

But then Jono comes bounding up with that dog yapping at his heels. ‘Can we get a dog? Can we, Mum?’ he asks, and I laugh and try to catch him in a hug.

‘We don’t need a dog, we’ve got a baby,’ I remind him and he goes straight to the car, opens the passenger door, bends down and drops a kiss on his sister’s cheek.

‘She’s asleep,’ he says, and he starts tickling her chin with his grubby fingers, till she screws up her little face and fleetingly opens her baby-dark eyes. And then he is gone again, back down that garden, the dog following behind.

‘Babies are not quite as much fun as dogs,’ I mutter, just for something to say.

Because Andrew is standing by the open car door, looking down at Freya with a look on his face that will haunt me forever. How could I ever think that my husband had no feelings? How could I think that he didn’t care? Regret clogs my heart like a rock.

‘She’s beautiful,’ he says, and his voice is thick, barely more than a whisper.

I look at him, looking down at my baby, and my eyes are burning with tears. ‘I’m sorry, Andrew,’ I say. ‘I’m so sorry.’

I reach my hand out, to touch his. I feel his skin, soft, dry, so instantly familiar. Tentatively, my fingers creep around his.

He says, ‘I wish that she was mine.’

My fingers move against his, are caught and held. He rubs his thumb against mine; he clutches my hand tight, like he will never let it go, squeezing it, squeezing it.

And I say, ‘I wish that she was yours too.’

Suzanne Bugler lives in south-west London with her husband and two sons. She is the author of
This Perfect World
and has also written two novels for young adults:
Staring Up at the Sun
and
Meet Me at the Boathouse.

By the same author

THIS PERFECT WORLD

Acknowledgements

With thanks to Sara Menguc, Jenny Geras and the staff at Macmillan. Thanks also to my husband Nick, and to my family and friends for their love and support.

First published 2012 by Pan Books

This electronic edition published 2012 by Pan
an imprint of Pan Macmillan, a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited
Pan Macmillan, 20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR
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www.panmacmillan.com

ISBN 978-1-4472-0921-8 EPUB

Copyright © Suzanne Bugler 2012

The right of Suzanne Bugler to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

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