Little Face (19 page)

I can see from her face that mine have not. She is not on my side, not
yet, or not entirely. Certainly not in the way I need her to be. I feel
exiled, desolate. This would be hard even with Vivienne's support.
Without it the next few days will be agony.

`No way,' David snarls. `You've chosen to disown Florence. You're
not going anywhere near her.' His words jar. I can't understand why
I am shocked anew every time he is cruel to me, every time he attributes the worst possible motives to me and refuses to give me the benefit of the doubt. I realise what a sheltered life I have led. Like many
people who grow up taking their happiness and safety for granted, I
find it hard to believe in destructiveness, unkindness, horror, unless I
see them on the news or read about them in the papers. Faced with
such things in my own life, my first instinct is to assume it must be a
misunderstanding, that there must be a more innocent explanation.

`Mum, is Alice being naughty at the moment?' Felix continues to
inspect me, as if I am the most mysterious and fascinating object he has
ever seen.

`Finish your dessert, Felix, and go and get into your pyjamas. You
can read in bed for ten minutes, and then I'll come up and tuck you in.'
I despise myself, momentarily, for the rush of grateful relief I feel
when Vivienne doesn't say, `Yes, Alice is being very naughty.'

`Mummy Laura was naughty, wasn't she, Dad?' Felix turns to
David, as if hoping he will be more forthcoming. I freeze. Felix has
never mentioned Laura before, not in my presence.

David looks at Vivienne, as surprised by the question as I am.

`Mummy Laura was naughty and she died. Will Alice die too?'

' I
`No!' I blurt out. `Felix, your mother didn't ... she wasn't . . .
stop. Too many eyes are on me.

I wait for Vivienne or David to say `Of course Alice isn't going to
die,' but they don't. Instead, Vivienne smiles at Felix and says, 'Everybody dies eventually, darling. You know that.' Felix nods, his upper lip
trembling.

Vivienne believes that children grow up to be stronger adults if they
are told the truth about the harsh realities of life. Her parents brought
her up in the same way. They were not religious, and instilled in Vivienne the idea that heaven and hell were fictions invented by weak,
flawed humans in an attempt to dodge responsibility. There is no
afterlife in which people are punished or rewarded; one must strive for
justice in this world, while one is still alive. When Vivienne first told
me this, I couldn't help but admire her philosophy, even though my
own beliefs about what happens after we die are a lot more
ambiguous.

`But you aren't going to die for a very, very long time, not until
you're very old,' she tells Felix. I realise I am waiting for a similar reassurance. She says nothing about me.

`Now, come on, young man-it's bedtime for little imps ... '

Felix smiles at the familiar phrase. `And bedtime for little chimps!'
he joins in.

As soon as he has left the room, before my courage has a chance to
fail me, I say, `What have you told Felix about Laura's death? Why
does he think she was naughty? Have you told him that she died
because she did something wrong? Don't you see how terrible that is,
even to let him think it? Whatever she did, whatever you thought of
her, she's still his mother.'

Vivienne purses her lips and leans her chin on her hands, saying
nothing. She won't talk about Laura's death any more, I've noticed. She
refuses to engage with the subject if I ever bring it up. I have a theory
about this. I actually think Vivienne resents Laura for being dead. They
were adversaries, on an equal footing, and then suddenly Laura was
murdered and the whole country felt sorry for her. She was elevated to
a higher realm, fixed for ever as a victim, a wronged woman. To Vivienne, this would have seemed like cheating, as if being fatally
stabbed were a cheap, easy way to gain sympathy.

And Laura was out of reach for ever. Vivienne couldn't battle
against her any more, which meant she couldn't win in the way she'd
always wanted and needed to. She knew she'd never hear Laura say,
`I'm sorry, Vivienne. I can see that you've been right all along.' Not that
Laura would ever, in a million years, have uttered those words.

`Laura's dead,' says David. `And you're a lying bitch,' he snaps at
me. He sounds like Mandy's boyfriend. Worse. I wonder what would
happen if I phoned the hospital and asked about Mandy. Would they
give me her full name, her address?

`Stop it, both of you,' says Vivienne. `Didn't you hear me before?
You're to behave courteously while you're in this house. There will be
no slanging matches over the dining table. This isn't a council estate.'

I push back my chair and stand up, shaking. `How can you care
about manners at a time like this? Florence might be dead! And the
test isn't until Friday, which means the police won't start looking for
her until then-doesn't either of you care? Yes, I will bloody well
shout if I want to. I want my daughter, and time's slipping away and
there's nothing I can do about it! Every day, every hour ... can't you
both see?'

There is a glint of triumph in Vivienne's eyes. She enjoys the sight of
other people losing control. She believes it proves that they are wrong
and she is right, their need to resort to emotional hyperbole. `I'm sorry,'
I say quickly. `I'm not shouting at you. I'm just ... I can't bottle it up
any more or I really will go mad.'

`I'd better go and see to Felix,' says Vivienne, her voice hoarse. `I
shan't come back downstairs. Good night.'

I listen to her footsteps as she crosses the hall. I know that the words
`Florence might be dead' are ringing in her ears. Good. I want her to
be as full of dread and terror as I am.

David leaves the room without a word. Bedtime is much earlier for
all of us now that we are so miserable. I clear away the dinner things slowly, allowing him plenty of time to fall asleep before I go upstairs.
As I walk along the landing, I try the handles of all the spare bedrooms
and find them locked. I cannot sleep downstairs. Vivienne wouldn't
allow it. It is one of her house rules, and I have no doubt that David
would alert her to my absence from our bedroom. I can picture her
shaking me awake in the middle of the night, telling me that The Elms
is not a youth hostel. I do not want to antagonise her.

I pray that David will be asleep. He is awake, flat on his back in bed.
There is a bottle of formula milk on his bedside table. I am exhausted,
but if I force myself to stay awake, I might hear Little Face before he
does. I might be able to give her her night-time bottle and see the
shadow of her small, round head cast by the barn wall light against the
fabric of her cot. Imagining the experience, I ache for it to be real.

`Is there no limit to what you're prepared to do?' says David bitterly.
`First you try to drive me mad, make me believe that Florence isn't Florence, and now you want to try and stop me feeding her! What have
I ever done to you, to deserve this?'

`I don't want to stop you feeding the baby.' I begin to cry. `I just
want to feed her too. Not all the time, just sometimes.'

`Even though, according to you, she's not your daughter.'

`A mother's maternal feelings don't disappear just because her baby
does,' I sob.

`Oh, very good, very convincing. How long did it take you to come
up with that line?'

`David, please. . . '

`Who were you talking to on your mobile yesterday? That call that
ended abruptly as soon as I came in?'

I stare at the floor, cursing myself for my recklessness. I must be
more careful in future.

`No-one,' I whisper. He doesn't ask again. I pull my nightie out from
under my top pillow and lay it on the bed in front of me. I decide, on
the spot, not to try to leave the room to get changed. I have no doubt
that David would stop me if I tried, so I will not give him the satis faction. As I start to wriggle uncomfortably out of my clothes, David
makes a point of averting his eyes, as if he can't bear the sight of me.
I thought nothing could be worse than the way he ogled me last night,
but this is. The disgust on his face hurts me so much that I cannot
accept it. I thought I had given up trying to argue with him, but I find
myself saying, `David, please will you think about what you're doing?
I don't believe that deep down you want to be cruel to me. Do you?'

`I'm not doing anything,' he says. `I'm just minding my own
business.'

`I know this is difficult, I know it's horrible, but ... this isn't you.
You don't want to be like this. I know you. You're not an unkind person. It's well-known that in extreme situations, in moments of crisis,
people are scared and disorientated and they lash out, they persecute
people and do all sorts of awful things because they're scared.'

`Shut up!' His ferocity startles me. He sits up in bed. `I'm not interested in anything you've got to say. You're a liar. All that therapy language is just your way of obscuring the truth! You're happy to talk
feelings, but you won't talk facts, will you?'

`David, I'll talk about anything you want. What facts?'

`Facts! If Florence wasn't Florence, why would I say she was? Don't
you think I'd want her found as much as you? Or are you suggesting
I'm some kind of imbecile who can't tell the difference between his own
daughter and another baby? I mean, you need to get your story
straight because, frankly, it doesn't hold water. What exactly are you
saying has happened here? That some intruder came into our house
and swapped Florence for another baby? Why would they? Why? Or
do you think it was me that did it? Again, why would I? I want my
own daughter, not some random child.'

I put my hands up to stop him. `I don't know! I don't know who's
taken Florence, or why, or who the other baby is, okay? I don't know!
And I don't even know what you know, or what you think, or why
you're saying what you're saying. You're right! I haven't got the story
straight, because I've no idea what's happened. I feel as if I don't know anything any more and it's terrifying. That's what you can't
understand. And all I can do is cling on to the one thing I do know
without the slightest shadow of a doubt: the baby in this house is not
Florence!'

David turns away. `Well, then,' he says. `There's nothing more we
can say to each other.'

`Don't turn away!' I beg him. `I could ask you the same question you
asked me. Are you suggesting I'm an imbecile, that I can't recognise my
own daughter?'

He says nothing. I want to wail with frustration. I want to scream
I haven't finished yet. I'm still talking to you. I cannot believe he is as
certain as he claims he is. I must be getting through to him on some
subliminal level; I have to cling to that belief.

One by one, I drop my clothes on the bed. I reach for my nightie but
David is too quick. He pulls it away, scrunching it into a ball in his
hand. The sudden movement startles me and I cry out in shock. He
laughs. Before I have a chance to anticipate his next move, he grabs the
pile of my discarded clothes and gets out of bed. He opens the door of
my wardrobe, throws my clothes and nightie inside, then closes and
locks the door.

Now he looks at my body. I feel his gaze as it crawls over my cold
skin. `I doubt you'll be going anywhere tonight,' he sneers. `I wouldn't, looking like that.'

I consider my choices. I could call Vivienne, but by the time she got
here, David would have given me back my nightie. He would pretend
I made up the whole story. He is waiting for me to say that I need to
use the bathroom, but I will not. Nor will I walk along the landing
naked. I know exactly what would happen if I did. David would
unlock my cupboard, put my nightie back on the bed and summon
Vivienne, who would be out of her room in seconds. He wants to call
my judgement and behaviour into question. I am not going to make it
easy for him. I would rather be kept awake all night by the discomfort
of a full bladder. I climb into bed and pull the duvet up to my chin.

David does the same. I stiffen, but he doesn't touch me. I wait for
him to turn out his bedside light so that I can cry in private, about Florence, about the person my husband is turning into, and, yes, even
now, about the pain I know he is in. David's viciousness is aimed at
himself as well as me. He has an all-or-nothing attitude: if things cannot be made to be all right, he might as well make them as bad as they
can possibly be, as quickly as he can. At least then there will be nothing more to fear.

My mother used to say that I was able to imagine and empathise
with the suffering of others in a way that most people were not. She
thought this was why I had so many unsuitable boyfriends as a
teenager-'some right lulus' was how she put it. It is true that once you
try hard to see any situation through another person's eyes, it becomes
impossible to write that person off. That is the way in which I have
always approached the world, with compassion. Evidently I was foolish to assume the world would reciprocate.

I cannot keep making excuses for David, hoping he'll change. I need
to learn to respond to him as I would to an enemy if he continues to
behave like one. I, who have told countless patients not to think in
terms of good and evil, of allies and enemies. I should give them all
their money back.

I don't know how early David will wake up tomorrow morning,
how soon he will give me my clothes. Will he make me beg? The
thought of what might happen is too awful to contemplate. Whatever
it is, I must survive it. I have to hold on until tomorrow afternoon, until
my meeting with Simon.