The Drowning Lesson (2 page)

‘Why do you have to drive so fast?' In the rear-view mirror Alice's black fringe, squashed flat by the beret, made her skin very pale. Her small face looked scared.

‘I have to get you to school, drop off Zoë, see Mrs Philips, do a ward round and start my operations …' She didn't need this litany but it had been in my head since five a.m. Zoë, tucked in beside her, was deeply asleep, her face pushed sideways by her sister's elbow, a moustache of milk and crumbs around her mouth. A strand of blonde hair stuck to her lips.

I saw in the mirror that she wasn't wearing a seatbelt. I'd forgotten. The cars were parked bumper to bumper both sides of the road. I'd have to stop in a driveway, more time lost.

‘It's not allowed to drop me off so early.'

‘Of course it is, Ally.'

‘There's nowhere for me to go.'

‘You can read in the classroom, talk to the others…'

I twisted round to smile at her and looked back at
the road just in time to take in the red lights up ahead. I jammed on the brakes, skidding to a halt. A young woman with rain-flattened hair glared at me as she shepherded her bundled child over the road. Behind me, Zoë started to cry loudly. She had been jerked forward and was crumpled in the trough between the seats. Sweating with guilt, I got out of the car, and yanked the door open. She was tightly wedged, her face streaked with tears of shock. I pulled her out and stood her upright on the pavement. No damage. I gave her a short, hard hug and put her back into the seat, this time fastening her belt. Behind us a line of traffic was forming. There were angry faces and horns blaring. I got into the car again, trembling. I rarely made careless mistakes but this morning I'd been in a hurry and distracted by the day ahead, forgot to check if I'd fastened the seat-belt. Was I becoming the kind of mother who put her career before her children's safety?

‘I feel sick.' Alice's voice was unsteady.

At school, she got out of the car and walked slowly across the empty playground without saying goodbye; she knew it was my fault. She disappeared down the steps leading to the cloakroom, her narrow back bent by the weight of the rucksack, shoulders hunched against the drizzle.

Despite what had happened, Zoë had fallen asleep again. I carried her to Reception, trying not to
dislodge the thumb from her mouth. We were greeted by Susi, the teacher's assistant, who smiled as she took her. Too late, I noticed Zoë's hem was coming down, her cuff was stained with felt tip and she was wearing unmatched socks. Susi carried her carefully from the door. I imagined how gently she would lay her on the deep cushions in the rest room. I had seen them when I'd looked round the school before the children had started there; that detail had been decisive. Now I was worried: why had Alice's teacher asked to see me?

Mrs Philips was waiting for me in the empty year-five classroom. She must have been cleaning the board – chalk dust hung in the air. She watched me, her head held sideways, a long orange earring touching her shoulder. Her fingers, tipped with matching orange, rested on a small picture of Alice that was fastened to a closely typed sheet; the nails were sharp and shining like the talons of a minor bird of prey.

‘I got your email,' I began.

‘Thank you for coming in. I've sent Alice to breakfast with the boarders. I wanted to share my concerns in private, Mrs Jordan.' Her voice was burdened with sincerity. She leant forward. ‘I think you should know that Alice has been taking things, small things.' The earring swung and trembled.

I had a vision of a shining pile of mobiles, watches and coins. ‘What kind of small things?'

‘Pencils, rubbers, scrunchies, a pair of socks.'

‘Is that all?' I wanted to laugh. ‘She was probably only borrowing this stuff temporarily and then forgot. At home we tend to share things, so –'

‘The items were found in her desk, in a little box, labelled with her name.' She smiled gently.

‘Does she know you know?'

‘I removed them and told Alice I would have a discussion with you. No one else is aware of the situation.'

I glanced out of the window; I disliked this woman though I wasn't sure why. Small knots of children of about Alice's age were beginning to walk across the playground in twos and threes, holding hands, chatting. They looked happy, but perhaps they secretly minded about losing their pencils or scrunchies. They might be plotting revenge. I felt a pang of worry for Alice.

‘I'll talk to her,' I said. She usually told me about school, though not so much lately. I looked at my lap where my hands twisted together. Surgeon's hands, like his, Dad had said. Clever hands that could dissect to the problem and cut it out. I ought to have known if Alice had a problem: it should have been something she'd confided to me in whispers at the end of the day when I tucked her in. But I often wasn't there then. Adam was. Even if I asked her what was wrong, would she tell me? She might have decided on the evidence that I didn't care.

‘I think Alice is self-validating,' Mrs Philips was continuing. ‘Ten-year-old children who steal may be looking for ways to reward themselves. I wondered if she was getting sufficient positive feedback from … all her caregivers.'

I felt my face heat. The clock behind her head showed eight. I would be late if I stayed to argue. I stood to go. ‘She gets plenty of feedback at home. We praise her all the time. Perhaps you could make sure that happens at school, too, instead of accusing her of theft.'

She didn't reply but I could feel her eyes watching me as I walked to the door. Iridescent lines danced at the corner of my vision: a migraine was approaching. I delved in my bag for paracetamol as I crossed the playground, fine rain driving against my hot cheeks. My heels tapped the tarmac, jarring my head with each step. Bloody woman. I shouldn't have lost my temper but I was worried for Alice. As I swallowed the bitter tablets I wondered whether any of the sweet-faced children running past me in the opposite direction had retribution in mind.

The operating theatre was brightly lit, warm and calm. Classical music flowed from speakers in the ceiling. It was easy to empty my mind of everything except what I had to do. The patient lay in front of me, unconscious, intubated, eyes taped shut. Cancer
had invaded the bladder from the uterus. The task distilled and became, simply, careful dissection and painstaking repair. The anaesthetist nodded. It was safe to begin. The theatre sister quietly handed me the knife and I started to cut. The music and murmurs of my team faded into the background as I worked, blinking away the sweat as it stung my eyes.

Two hours later the skin was neatly sutured, bladder function preserved.

Back in my room, I took more paracetamol, this time with a palmful of metallic tap water from the basin. I sat at my desk massaging my temples; on the screensaver in front of me Alice and Zoë were laughing on a sunny beach. Alice's face in the mirror this morning had been bleak. Perhaps what Mrs Philips had implied was true: perhaps there wasn't enough positive feedback at home – perhaps there wasn't any. We didn't praise her all the time; in spite of what I'd said, I couldn't remember the last time we had. The opportunity never seemed to present itself, or maybe it was simply lack of time. It might be worse than that.

I got up from my desk and stared out of the window. In front of me was a panorama of north London: sky, houses, roads, the grassy slopes of Hampstead Heath. The hidden ponds behind the trees where the water was green and deep. Had I become like my father in some way that was hidden from me? Did she feel she had to win to make me happy?

If I worked through lunch I could finish my review paper on intrauterine growth retardation for the
Journal of Reproductive Medicine
. I'd get home earlier for once – I could catch Alice and we would talk.

In the early-afternoon gynaecology clinic I was called back to theatre to help with an obstructed labour. The monitor showed the baby's heart rate was dipping between contractions. As I tugged on the McIndoe's forceps, the small bloodstained face appeared at the bulging introitus, the tiny nose squashed flat. A deep episiotomy, one last tug and the delivery was done. The tiny boy went straight to the waiting paediatricians to be checked, then, wailing, was handed to the exhausted mother. The father bent over them, too overcome to speak. Nodding congratulations, I stripped off my gloves and left, leaving the placental delivery and vaginal stitching to my registrar. Suffused with anxiety about my own child, I had nothing to say to these parents – they wouldn't thank me if I was honest, if I warned them that labour was trivial measured against the worries that lay ahead.

As I walked back to the clinic along the corridor, several colleagues hurried by, all of them intent on the next ward round or clinic. I felt in my white coat for my mobile: I wanted to talk to Adam. When we were first qualified and up all night with emergency admissions, we would meet in the hospital canteen at
two a.m. As we leant wearily against each other, with our cups of watery hot chocolate on the Formica table in front of us; we would try to make sense of the demands and the suffering. We never talked about those things now. I was put through to Megan's answering machine and cut the call without leaving a message.

The last two patients of the day had cancelled so I left early. Alice wouldn't be back yet and I had time for a swim in the leisure centre. The poolside seats were full of parents at this time of day, chatting as their children changed after swimming lessons.

My father had been sitting three rows back at my school's gala day, a Wednesday – I remember that. He never came to galas, he always worked Wednesday afternoons, but it was my tenth birthday and he'd swapped things around. His shoulders had been hunched, his mouth turned down. He looked unhappy; he'd looked unhappy for five years.

Can you die of a broken heart? My teacher says you can. My toes curl around the lip of the pool. My heart is banging so hard I can't think.

The whistle goes into my spine, like hot electricity.

My legs are beating as I hit the water, my arms already slicing. At the first turn, I'm in third place. By the time I turn again I'm lying second. On the last length I don't turn my head to breathe, not once. I draw level halfway down then pull ahead. Bursting for breath, I touch first
.

The roar from my school echoes round the pool. I pull myself out and turn to check on Dad. He's smiling. Really smiling. I haven't seen him smile since Mum died.

Now I know exactly what to do.

In the evening, Alice didn't want her supper. She was quieter than usual.

‘Is anything wrong, sweetheart?'

‘Not hungry.' She shrugged, pushing mashed potato round the plate.

‘You know I saw your teacher today …'

Zoe looked up, interested.

Alice pushed her plate away. ‘I've had enough, thanks,' she said. ‘I need to practise.'

I followed her upstairs but by the time I reached her room she had her violin in her hands. She looked up, her face a polite, questioning blank.

‘Ally, you probably want to know what Mrs Philips said …'

Her fingers tightened around the bow but she didn't reply.

‘She told me you might have some things that belonged to the other girls. I knew if you'd taken them, there'd be a reason –'

‘They wanted me to look after their stuff.' She pulled the bow over the strings, sounding a small discordant note. ‘I said I'd keep it safe for them.'

‘All the same –'

‘I gave it back today. They can look after their own things.' She turned over a page of music, frowning. ‘I've got to practise, Mum, okay?'

I could come back when she'd finished. She might be ready to talk later but the violin scales went up and down for half an hour, then her Mozart piece started; it stumbled a little with a couple of long pauses. I waited until I was sure she had finished, but when I went up again the room was dark and she was already in bed. Her eyes were closed and her breathing was regular. I kissed her and she didn't stir. Everything seemed normal: her shoes were neatly side by side, her clothes carefully folded, but the ceramic Russian dolls on the mantelpiece caught my eye. They were lying down for once, spaced out evenly in size order, though usually they were stacked one inside the other. I'd brought them back from Moscow years ago after an obstetrics congress. I picked one up. The china was sharp beneath my fingers – the doll was cracked. Checking each in turn, I saw they were all broken, the smallest in several pieces, its bright fragments scattered on the carpet. The curtains were moving in the breeze: the window had been left open. Perhaps the dolls had simply blown over. I slid the pane down quietly.

We would chat tomorrow on the way to school; she could tell me what had happened then. It was often the only time we were together with nothing else in the way. I closed the door and went downstairs. The
morning's migraine had started up again and was playing itself out in a drumroll of pain. I needed quiet and dark.