Run, Mummy, Run (11 page)

Tony opened the rear door and carefully slid out the Moses basket, then offered his arm as she got out. ‘Front door key?’ he asked as she straightened beside him.

‘It’s in my handbag,’ she said nodding to her belongings at the door.

Aisha let Tony carry the Moses basket up the path while she took her keys from her bag and unlocked the porch door and then the inner door. Tony passed her the basket and then lifted her suitcase and flowers just inside the hall.

‘Will you be all right alone?’ he said, stepping back outside. ‘They usually like you to have someone with you so soon after the birth. Shall I wait until Mark gets home?’

‘No, I’ll be fine, thanks. Mark will have made sure I have everything I need and he won’t be long.’

‘Well, if you’re sure. Take care then, and give my regards to Mark.’

Aisha thanked him again and closed the doors. She stood for a few seconds taking in her surroundings.
Home at last
, she thought. This was the moment she’d been waiting for, had ticked off the hours to. And if it wasn’t quite the homecoming with Mark she’d anticipated, at least the time to herself meant she would be able to get organized. She would shower and change, then start the preparations for the evening meal, so that when Mark came home from work it would be to a well-ordered house. She wanted to create a good first impression as a mother.

Setting down the Moses basket in the hall, Aisha glanced through the open lounge door. How bright and colourful it seemed after the drabness of the ward. Hospitals lacked colour, she thought. Why did they insist on painting everything light green? A little imagination would have done wonders, even on a tight budget.

Now the first thing to do was to settle Sarah in the nursery, then she could find some fresh clothes and shower. She and Mark had agreed that Sarah would use the nursery right from the beginning, thereby hopefully avoiding the pitfalls of separation some parents faced when they tried to move an older baby into a room of its own. The baby alarm was already in place so she would be able to hear Sarah from anywhere in the house and immediately answer her cry. Aisha knew she wasn’t a hundred percent well yet, but she would go carefully, and the basket was hardly heavy lifting. Sarah was still asleep, her loosely curled fist just showing above the blanket. She was going to be a good baby, Aisha thought, just as she had been in the hospital.

Aisha took one step up the stairs and then stopped. Strange, she thought she heard a noise. She paused and listened. Yes, there it was again. Distant, but definitely a noise. She brought her foot down from the stair and stood perfectly still, her ears straining for any sounds. A few seconds passed and then it was repeated, and again. It sounded like a click. A metallic click in a house that should have been empty.

Her fingers tightened around the handles of the basket and her pulse quickened as the distant noise repeated and then again. It seemed to be coming from the kitchen. Clink. Silence. Clink. Yes, she thought, it was travelling in from the kitchen and through the open door of the lounge. It was forming a regular pattern now of metal on metal, clink, pause, clink. Could it be an open window tapping in the breeze? No, Mark always closed windows; he was adamant about security, and it didn’t sound like that type of noise either. Not a window tapping. As Aisha strained and listened the clink began to sound vaguely familiar. Clink, pause, clink. A noise of a routine, a part of everyday life in the house. Finally, she placed it. Of course! How could she have been so stupid? It
was
metal on metal, it was cutlery being dropped in the drawer. Someone was drying up and putting the knives and forks away. Relief flooded through her. Mark. He must have finished with his client early, but not early enough to collect her. He had obviously come straight home, rather than going to the hospital and risk crossing en route and possibly missing her. Now he was doing some last-minute clearing up, drying the cutlery, making everything spick and span the way he liked it, ready for her return. He couldn’t have heard her come in, which was hardly surprising with her having been so quiet to avoid waking Sarah.

What a wonderful surprise, she thought, and how pleased he would be to see her. She knew what she would do, she would creep up and surprise him; they both would. She looked down at Sarah who, seeming to sense the excitement and change of plan, obligingly opened her eyes and yawned. ‘You’re awake,’ Aisha whispered. ‘Come on, Daddy’s home. Let’s go and find him. Won’t he be surprised?’

Returning the basket to the floor, Aisha eased back the blanket and carefully lifted Sarah out. She cradled her in the crook of one arm and supported her bottom and legs with her other hand. It was going to take some getting used to, this carrying her around. They hadn’t been allowed to carry their babies on the ward in case they tripped or fainted. And Sarah’s tiny form, which had felt so robust and determined while inside her, now seemed unbelievably vulnerable and fragile.

‘All right?’ she whispered, lightly brushing her lips across Sarah’s warm, smooth cheek. ‘You wait until your daddy sees us. His face will be a picture.’

Aisha thought she saw the faintest flicker of a smile cross Sarah’s face, although at two days old she knew this was more likely to be wind. Aisha went into the lounge, moving quietly across the carpet which seemed suddenly luxurious after the linoleum of the hospital ward. How tidy Mark had kept everything. Despite all his to-ing and fro-ing to the hospital and work, everything was in its place, apart from the newspapers, which he hadn’t had time to read and were in a pile on the coffee table. She smiled to herself, not many women would have come home to a house so neat and clean. She was the luckiest person alive, in every possible way.

Creeping the last few steps, Aisha stopped outside the archway which led to the kitchen. She heard a drawer close as Mark finished putting away the cutlery. She imagined him folding the tea towel and hanging it precisely over the radiator to dry, the way he always did and the way he liked it. Aisha waited out of sight, just on the other side of the archway, and steadied her excitement. The next step would carry her and Sarah through into the kitchen, and both of them into his arms. She gave Sarah a little squeeze of anticipation and moved forwards, then stood quietly unseen at the end of the kitchen. Mark was in full view now, but he had his back to her, and was wiping the sink spotlessly clean.

She took another step. He must be very deep in thought not to have sensed her presence. He was probably wondering when she would be home, and if Tony was taking good care of her. He would see her soon out of the corner of his eye, then with a gasp of surprise he would throw the dishcloth in the bowl and rush over to embrace them – ‘Oh, my little love. You’re home! I didn’t hear you come in,’ followed by hugs and kisses, the joy of them all being together, a proper family at last. Then he would open the bottle of champagne, which he’d told her was already in the fridge, and maybe just this once, she would break her abstinence and have a glass. Mark had said it was tradition to wet the baby’s head, for good luck and prosperity.

But he still hadn’t seen her or sensed her presence. He must be really preoccupied, she thought. He was probably thinking about the client who had stopped him from collecting her; she hoped Mark had won the contract for she knew how much it meant to them both financially and for his career. She glanced down at Sarah who lay perfectly content, then up again.

‘Mark,’ she said quietly. ‘Mark, we’re home.’

She waited, in heightened expectation. Aisha waited for Mark to stop cleaning the sink, turn, and come to her. She waited in silent anticipation, her heart bursting with love and pride; she waited for him to turn and see her. Then, with a small sideways step, Mark stopped wiping the sink, but continued across to the Formica work surface beside it. Still cleaning, lots of little wipes, like a parody of her own cleaning when she was in a hurry and had more important things to do. Clearly he still hadn’t heard her.

‘Mark?’ she said again, louder this time. ‘Mark. Look! We’re home!’

He was only a yard or so in front of her now, but was still turned away, and still rubbing the work surface, making it very clean. She hoped his preoccupation wasn’t due to bad news at work. Then, suddenly, noticing it for the first time, she saw that he was wearing his dressing gown: the navy towelling one that he changed into briefly after his shower in the morning, before he got dressed. Odd, she thought, he never wore his dressing gown during the day. He said it was slovenly and it was important to keep up appearances, even when there was just the two of them. And why, she thought, why was he in his dressing gown if he had come straight from work? Shouldn’t he be in his suit, or if he’d had time to change, his jeans and sweater? That was normally what he wore when he came home from work.

‘Mark?’ she asked, concern in her voice. ‘Is everything all right? We’re home.’

He stopped cleaning, but he still didn’t turn to face her. She watched as he rested his hands on the work surface and then, raising his head, stared out through the window to the garden beyond.

‘We’re home,’ she said again.

‘I can see that,’ he said flatly, still not looking at her.

He must be joking, she thought, teasing her, as he did sometimes. ‘Can’t have you taking me for granted,’ he would say, when he had left out the ‘love and miss you’ which ended each of his telephone calls. ‘Haven’t you forgotten something?’ she would ask. ‘Just teasing,’ he’d say. ‘Don’t want you taking me for granted. Of course I love and miss you.’

Yes, that’s what it was. He was teasing her before he came over and took her in his arms and hugged them both. But she knew what to do; she’d do what she normally did. She’d play him at his own game, which was part of their little ritual and showed their love was strong enough to bear teasing.

‘Well,’ she said, looking down at Sarah to share the joke, ‘if you don’t want your daughter I may as well go and take her back to the hospital.’

He was turning now, as she knew he would. It always worked, playing him at his own game. Mark liked a joke.

He dropped the dishcloth into the sink and looked at her, his shoulders drawn back, his feet slightly apart. She returned his gaze, smiling and proudly holding their daughter, waiting for the moment he would come over and encircle them.

But no. He wasn’t coming towards her, and there was something else. Something she had never seen before and couldn’t place. Something in his eyes, narrow and distant. And something in his voice, when he spoke. What was wrong with his voice? She barely recognized it, and what he was saying was impossible. She couldn’t grasp the meaning and it was well beyond a joke.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘You do that! Go! But the baby stays with me.’

He drew himself up to his full height, a big man made even bigger in the confines of the kitchen. He stared at her, a cold, biting stare that pierced her soul and made her uncertainty turn to fear. ‘Go on! Get out!’ he said. ‘Take your bag and go! But leave her. She’s mine. She stays with me.’

He was shouting now. Impossible. Mark never shouted at her. He said everything was open to rational discussion and that they could sit down and talk out their differences sensibly. But they never had any differences, not really; they agreed on almost everything.

‘You scheming bitch!’ he yelled. ‘You thought you’d got the better of me, didn’t you! All that planning. You thought you’d got away with it. Oh, but I’m wiser now. Oh, yes! One step ahead.’

There was a tightness in her chest and she was finding it difficult to breathe. She opened her mouth but no sound came out. She clasped Sarah tightly to her and her arms jerked involuntarily.

‘Stay where you are!’ Mark yelled, his face contorted and deathly white. ‘I’ll phone your parents. You can go there – if they’ll have you.’

Sarah began to cry. He was coming towards her now, towards the phone mounted on the wall behind her. He came right up to her and passed, brushing her shoulder. Aisha instinctively stepped back.

‘Mark?’ she stammered, her heart pounding and her breath catching in her throat. ‘Mark?’

But he was reaching up, taking the phone from its cradle, ready to key in the numbers and call her parents.

‘Mark! No. Don’t do that,’ she cried. ‘Please don’t. You’ll upset them. Tell me first. Tell me what I’ve done.’

He paused, his hand resting on the phone and looked back at her over his shoulder. ‘Upset?’ he sneered. ‘They’ll be upset all right when I tell them what their precious fucking daughter has been up to.’

She stared in disbelief. The room tilted and swayed. If she didn’t sit down soon, she’d faint with Sarah in her arms. She saw the whites of his knuckles closed around the phone, the grim determination on his face as he began to press the keypad and tap in her parents’ number.

‘No. Please don’t,’ she said again. ‘Please don’t. Mark, what is it?’ Then without thinking, as a reflex action almost, to stop him from telling and upsetting her parents, she took the couple of steps to his side, and placed one hand on his arm.

In that instant as she touched him, time locked and she saw what was about to happen a split second before it did. She saw the phone thrown down and swinging on its cord, as his hand clenched into a fist and came towards her, its target pre-set and inevitable. She heard the sickening thud as his fist hit the side of her head and felt the knot of pain explode in her cheek. She heard the cry that escaped from her lips as she began to fall. Down, down, the ground rising up, and Sarah snatched from her arms a second before she hit the floor. Then nothing.

R
eds, greens and yellows, backed by a moving wall of darkness swam before her eyes. The colours came and went, grouping and reforming until they began to settle into a sickly orange hue. She was on her side with her right leg splayed awkwardly beneath her, and her right arm trapped under her body. She could hear Mark’s voice in conversation, only his, with no reply. Close, but not immediate, not in the same room.

‘Beautiful … Yes … Settling in fine. Yes, I will. Of course.’ It was his best telephone voice, crisp and precise, the one he used when he wanted to impress.

Her eyes were still closed, her cheek was pressed hard against the cold, wet tile. The hardness seemed to amplify the throbbing in her head and the pain in her jaw. Aisha could taste blood, bitter and salty, and then felt it trickle from the corner of her mouth.

‘Yes, feeding very well. Oh yes, most definitely,’ he said. ‘I will.’

For a moment, as she slowly regained consciousness, and her senses began to clear, Aisha wondered why she was lying so uncomfortably on the floor, while Mark was on the telephone in the lounge. Shouldn’t he be in here with her, helping her to her feet if she’d fallen? Then she remembered what had happened and her eyes shot open in terror.

She saw the outline of the lower kitchen cabinets and the legs of the breakfast stools distorted in an orange haze. She blinked. Her heart pounded and she took a deep breath, gulped in the air and tried to focus. In a while, she thought, when the jazzy patterns had quietened and she could do it without being sick, she would try and raise her head, then stand; and that was all she thought for some moments.

‘Yes, thank you. We are.’ Mark gave a little laugh. ‘Absolutely!’

Aisha slowly raised her free hand and brought it up to her face. Uncoordinated and heavy as lead, she drew it across her mouth, then up to her eyes. Slithers of blood-stained saliva ran snake-like across her fingers. She swallowed and then ran her tongue around her mouth and swallowed again. Her bottom lip felt swollen and there was a cut to the inside of her cheek, but thankfully all her teeth still seemed to be in place. She slowly turned onto her back and winced. Placing a hand either side, she pressed down on the floor with her palms and heaved herself onto her elbows, then up into a sitting position. The room tilted and swayed, and she stayed very still, supporting her weight with her hands and trying to quieten her breathing. She mustn’t faint and fall back now, she must concentrate on standing and finding Sarah.

Mark’s voice floated in again, jovial and polite. ‘Yes, I know. Very sweet. It fits perfectly. The pale lemon really suits her. You’re so clever. I will.’

Pale lemon, Aisha thought, it must be her mother he was talking to. Her mother had knitted Sarah a lemon cardigan and Aisha had dressed Sarah in it before leaving the hospital. She reached up to the cooker and, clinging to the edge with both hands, hauled herself up. The nausea rose in her throat and she swallowed.

‘Yes, tired, as you’d expect,’ he said. ‘I’ll tell her when she wakes. Yes, of course I will. See you soon. Goodbye.’ She heard the phone in the lounge clunk as it was set down.

Leaning on the cooker, Aisha stood very still and listened. It was quiet now. She ran her fingers over her cheekbone. It was hot and sore, but as she examined her fingers, she saw it wasn’t bleeding. The only blood appeared to be coming from the inside of her lip. With another deep breath, moving hand over hand, Aisha slowly inched her way along the fitted units and to the sink. Taking out the bowl she turned on the cold tap, then spat. A globule of red saliva slithered round the sink before disappearing down the plughole. Aisha cupped her hands, filled them with cold water, then rinsed her mouth and spat again. Splashing cold water on the rest of her face, she turned off the tap and reached for the towel.

Leaning on the sink for support, she patted her face dry and listened. It was still quiet, not a sound. She expected to hear something – his footsteps, Sarah crying for her feed. Her eyes went to the wall clock, it was twenty past four. She must have been unconscious for nearly fifteen minutes, and her mind recoiled. Where was Sarah? She would be waking for her feed soon, she must go and find her. Heaving herself off the sink, Aisha began to make her way slowly across the kitchen and towards the lounge. She went past the wall telephone by the door, which was no longer dangling on its wire but had been returned to its cradle. Her head throbbed, her pulse beat wildly in her chest and the nausea rose in her throat. She concentrated on finding Sarah, to the exclusion of everything else. Moving slowly through the archway and into the lounge, Aisha suddenly stopped. Mark was at the far end of the room, on the sofa beneath the bay window, with Sarah cradled in his arms.

Aisha stayed where she was and stared the length of the room, uncertain and afraid. His broad shoulders were hunched forwards forming a canopy over the baby, the way some nursing mothers sat when feeding. Mark was smiling, smiling down at Sarah, who was awake but not crying. Aisha saw that he had the tip of his little finger in her mouth acting as a dummy.

Then he looked up, straight into her eyes. ‘Your mother phoned,’ he said. ‘I told her you were resting and would call her back later.’ His voice was normal, his expression was normal too, but Aisha found no relief in this. Fear and confusion gripped her. How could he sit there like nothing had happened? It was impossible, all of it, she didn’t understand at all. Then he spoke again: ‘Baby’s hungry. Shall I make up a bottle? It must be well past her feed time.’ Couldn’t he see her swollen face or blood-matted hair? He must, so why didn’t he say something? Didn’t he know what had happened, what he had done?

Aisha stayed where she was and stared at him, not knowing what to say or where to begin. His denial placed it so far out of reach there was no starting point, no opening; she felt at his mercy.

‘I’m feeding her,’ she said at last, her voice far-off and unreal.

Mark smiled down again at Sarah. ‘Yes, of course, I know. But I bought the formula in case you were too tired, or didn’t have enough milk. It can happen to nursing mothers sometimes, particularly in the evening.’

She continued to stare at the two of them, together on the sofa, father and daughter, and searched in vain for the right words – a place to begin. Was he still expecting her to go and leave Sarah with him? Was that why he’d really bought the formula – so he could feed her after she’d left?

Aisha threw out her arms in despair. ‘Mark!’ she cried. ‘What is it? What’s happened? What are you doing?’

He looked up, his eyes widening in surprise, as though he hadn’t the least idea what she was talking about. She could almost have believed him except for the pain in her head.

‘Tell me!’ she tried again, fighting back the tears. ‘It must be bad to make you behave like that. Mark! You hit me, don’t you remember?’

He flinched, recoiled, as though she had just spoken the unspeakable, but there was no sign of guilt or remorse. There was nothing beyond profound astonishment.

‘What, Mark? What?’ Her voice faded in defeat and his silence crackled in defiance.

He looked down again at Sarah, drew her closer, as though shielding her, protecting her and making her an ally – the two of them against her. Then slowly, without looking up, in a flat emotionless voice he said, ‘You have destroyed me, Aisha. You have taken everything and left me with nothing. I’m finished.’ His resignation and the inevitability added to her terror.

She fought to control her breathing as a rushing noise filled her ears. She mustn’t pass out again, she had to stay in control. There was no telling what would happen if she collapsed now. She gulped in air. ‘How, Mark? How have I destroyed you? Tell me. I’ve just come out of hospital with our baby. I haven’t had time to do anything. How?’

He moved one hand to cup Sarah’s head in his palm, and with the other, gently stroked her hair. ‘I don’t mean now,’ he said evenly. ‘Before. I realize it’s not
all
your fault. I was blind, I wanted you so much. But to tell me while you were in hospital. That was cruel. Unforgivable. How could you treat your husband like that, Aisha? How?’

She stared around, trying to make sense of his words, to put reason where there was none. ‘Tell you? Tell you what, Mark?’

She heard her voice high and panic-stricken. ‘I haven’t done anything. I don’t understand.’

A tear escaped and ran down her cheek, stinging the grazed flesh on her cheekbone. Mark looked up, stared straight ahead, and for a moment she thought she saw the start of tears in his eyes too.

‘That your use for me is over,’ he said. ‘That now you have what you wanted, I’m no longer needed. That you have thrown me away like a spent cartridge. Gone. History.’

Aisha heard the words and tried to make sense of what he’d said, but it made no sense at all. She searched the crevices of her mind, rummaged for a clue – something that would give her a lead. Had she made some chance remark that could have been misinterpreted and led to this? But no, there was nothing, she’d hardly said anything since arriving home. And at the hospital everything had been perfect.

‘Mark,’ she said in despair, ‘I don’t know. What have I said?’

‘It’s not what you said. It’s what you
did
, as you damn well know.’ His voice was rising again, losing its control. Aisha stayed very still, not daring to move or speak for fear of inviting another attack. ‘Had you told me to my face,’ he said, ‘I might have been able to bear it. But leaving it out like that … I admit I lost it. Who wouldn’t?’ Suddenly his expression changed from anger to humiliation and defeat. ‘It’s still over there,’ he said. ‘I found it as you intended.’

Aisha slowly drew her eyes from him and followed his gaze across the lounge to the pine coffee table in the centre of the room. They had bought the table together before they were married and now treasured it as their first and, so far, only joint purchase. The unread newspapers were stacked at one end of the table, and next to them was an onyx elephant one of her relatives had sent from India. Beside that was the fruit bowl, two apples inside it, and lying next to the fruit bowl was her library book. She stared at the contents of the table, then up again at him, still unable to understand.

‘The book,’ he said. ‘I read it last night. I assume that was your intention. But what a cruel way to do it, Aisha. Why not just tell me?’

She lowered her eyes again, and then, uncomprehending, walked across the room and to the coffee table. Sarah gave a little cry and Aisha looked over as Mark returned his finger to her mouth. She stooped to the table and slowly picked up the book. She stared at its plastic jacket, grimy from regular borrowing. It was a popular novel, an easy read. She thought she might have enjoyed it in hospital when she wouldn’t have been able to concentrate on anything more serious, but in the rush of leaving she’d forgotten to take it with her. The picture on the front showed a woman holding a baby and it was entitled
Lisa’s Baby.

‘You remember?’ he was saying. ‘You remember now, don’t you? Read the blurb on the back if you need reminding, which I’m sure you don’t.’

Mechanically, she turned over the book and scanned the half a dozen lines on the back.
Lisa, a thirty-something career woman, realizes her biological time clock is running out. Not wanting to miss her chance of motherhood, she joins a dating agency, where she works through a long list of men until she finds what she’s looking for: James Case has the exact characteristics she desires in her child. She conceives, then leaves James, her use for him over.
‘A satirical look at our times,’ one critic said. ‘Very droll, with a neat twist at the end,’ though what this twist was had been left unstated, and Aisha didn’t know because she’d only read the first page.

She stared at the print, then up again at Mark. ‘You surely don’t believe …’ she began, and stopped. ‘You don’t really think …’ she tried again, but the words failed her, for clearly he did.

‘I was beside myself,’ he said. ‘Coming home from the hospital last night and finding it there like that. I know I shouldn’t have reacted as I did just now, but I’m gutted. I vested everything in our relationship, Aisha, now I’m left with nothing. I should have known, I suppose. I should have known it was too good to be true.’

He stopped and suddenly stood. Aisha started, and instinctively took a step back. Tucking the blanket around Sarah, Mark came towards her, arms outstretched, and placed Sarah in her arms.

‘Despite what I said, I know she should stay with you. You’re her mother. I must be the one to go. All I ask is that you let me see her sometimes. I won’t make any fuss, I promise.’ His eyes welled, his body hunched in defeat and then he turned and walked towards the hall.

Fear and relief gripped Aisha in equal parts and rendered her immobile. Relief, that there
was
a reason for what had happened and it was tangible and could therefore be explained; and fear, that Mark was going, going to leave her anyway. Suddenly she came to. ‘Mark!’ she cried, flying after him. ‘Mark, stop!’

He continued up to the front door, then stopped, his back towards her, his shoulders slumped forwards. ‘No, don’t prolong it, Aisha,’ he said without looking at her. ‘Don’t make it any more difficult than it already is. Please, Aisha.’ His hand went to the doorknob and he began turning it, ready to leave. ‘When I’ve found somewhere to stay, I’ll contact you for access. Take care, and look after Sarah. I love you both. I always will.’ He opened the door.

‘No! No! Please don’t go,’ she cried. ‘It’s a mistake! A misunderstanding. I never intended you to read it. Believe me, please, Mark!’

He straightened, and letting go of the door, turned, his eyes again narrowed in accusation. ‘No? What were you going to do then? Sneak off while I was at work?’

‘No, I didn’t mean … I never intended … I love you. I need you. I’ll die if you go.’ Her fear at being deserted overrode that of another physical assault, and she went right up to him and took hold of his arm. ‘Please, Mark, please. Listen. Let me explain. I didn’t mean any of it, honestly. I haven’t even read the book. It’s a dreadful, dreadful misunderstanding.’