While My Eyes Were Closed (12 page)

He is still poking me. Gradually working his way up
my body. He gets to my shoulders and stops. We don’t poke people in the face, he knows that. But he shakes my shoulders a little. There is even a hint of a whimper. Followed by a very distinct one.

I open my eyes. The face of a child with pale skin and red-rimmed eyes framed by short fair hair stares back at me. The child is wearing Matthew’s pyjamas. The ones with the red cuffs – which strangely mirror the red eyes. The child’s bottom lip trembles before it opens its mouth to speak.

‘Can I go home now?’

It takes a minute for me to be able to formulate a response.

‘Let’s have breakfast. I promised you crumpets if I remember.’

The child looks at me solemnly. For a moment I think I might have done enough to stop any further tears. But it is only a moment.

‘I want my mummy. I want to go home.’ The tears run freely. I sit up in bed, glancing at the alarm clock as I do so. It is only six thirty but clearly there is no chance of any further sleep.

‘Let’s not get into a state,’ I say. ‘We’ll go downstairs and I’ll get your crumpet. Some warm milk too, if you like. You’ll feel much better after that.’

The child looks at me doubtfully but there is a momentary lull in proceedings.

‘Where’s Mr Boo?’ I ask. A hand emerges from the
sleeve of the pyjamas, which are a little too long, and points back towards Matthew’s bedroom. ‘You go and get him, then, while I pop to the bathroom. Just wait in there and I’ll dig you out some slippers.’

The child leaves the room. I stand up and hurriedly make my way to the bathroom. I have to heed nature’s call straight away in the mornings. Often it is the thing which actually wakes me. If Melody’s miaowing hasn’t already accomplished it. I do remember the days, pre-pregnancy, when I could go and make a cup of tea first if I wanted. And I remember being able to hold it for ages during a lecture when I was at university too. It is one of the things they never tell you at antenatal classes. That you will lose all dignity in that department. I read an article once in one of the women’s magazines they have in the dentist’s waiting room. It was about someone who’d gone to have it seen to. She’d visited a physiotherapist who specialised in such things, after having unsuccessfully tried some kind of weights you had to insert in yourself in order to try to rebuild the pelvic floor muscles. Quite why someone would tell anyone this, let alone a journalist, I have no idea. The very thought of people reading about my private parts in dentists’ waiting rooms up and down the country turns me cold.

I make it to the toilet just in time. On numerous occasions, particularly in the early days after having Matthew, I didn’t. Once Malcolm complained about the
wet patch on the toilet mat where I’d tried to mop up my accident. I told him the stiff tap in the basin had gushed out water when I’d finally managed to turn it on. He said he’d take a look at it. I knew he wouldn’t though, which is why I didn’t feel bad about lying to him. It’s amazing what you can conceal from a husband. All those years and he never knew about my little accidents. Mind you, it’s amazing what a husband can conceal too. Or at least try to.

I wash my hands and apply hand cream – my skin is like paper without it – and go through to Matthew’s bedroom.

The child is sitting on the bed cuddling Mr Boo. She has stopped crying at least, though her face still looks as though it may break into a fresh wave of tears at any moment. I wonder how much sleep she actually got. She cried for a long time after I switched the light out. And once during the night her crying woke me and I had to go in to her. Maybe it was twice, actually – it is difficult to recall now.

‘Let’s find you something to wear on your feet then.’

‘Slippers,’ she says. ‘You said you would find me slippers.’

‘So I did. Now, let me see which cupboard they will be in.’

I never moved Matthew’s shoes to the guest room. They tended to stay at the bottom of the wardrobes when Matthew outgrew them, and he never complained about
having them there. I didn’t keep all of them. Certainly not anything with scuffs on or which had worn through the sole. But Matthew’s slippers were generally in good condition when he grew out of them. Plenty of wear left. Certainly worth saving for another pair of tiny feet.

‘Ah, here we are,’ I say, rummaging among the plastic bags at the back of the furthest wardrobe on the left. ‘Do you know what size you are?’

‘I’m four but I’m five next month,’ she says.

‘No, shoe size. You could be a size 10 or 11. Or you might know it as twenty-something, the European way they do it now. Unless your mother gets you measured in Clarks. They still do the traditional sizes. Do you go to Clarks?’

The child’s face is resolutely blank. She has probably never even had her feet measured, poor mite. I remember her Crocs on the shoe rack by the front door.

‘I’ll nip downstairs and find out,’ I say. I recoil as I see the bright splat of green on the shoe rack. They are fine for the beach but that is about it. I turn them over. They put both the UK and European sizes on them. I brush the dirt off one of the soles to be able to read it properly before going back upstairs.

‘You’re a size 10 in children’s,’ I tell her.

‘Have you got them in your shoe shop?’

I smile at her. ‘It’s not exactly a shop but I should have. Matthew would have been the same size as you at some point.’

‘What size is he now?’

‘Nine in adults,’ I reply.

‘Will my feet grow that big?’

‘No. Ladies’ feet are smaller. Not to mention more fragrant.’

I have another rummage. The sizes have rubbed off on some of them so I try to gauge the size just by looking.

‘Here, try these,’ I say, handing her a pair of blue slippers. She puts them on her bare feet, but when she takes a step they slip off her heels.

‘OK,’ I say, taking another look. ‘What about these?’

She tries the red pair I hand her. Matthew was not fussy about colours at that age.

‘I like them,’ she says putting them on and taking a few steps. ‘Did Matthew like them?’

‘Oh yes,’ I reply. ‘They were his favourites.’ She seems placated for the moment.

‘Right, let’s go downstairs. Have you been to the toilet this morning?’

The child nods her head. ‘In the green bathroom.’

‘For a number one or a number two?’

She bites her lip, a frown starts to gather on her forehead and she fiddles with a strand of hair.

‘I don’t know,’ she says finally. ‘We don’t do numbers, but I had a wee.’

I nod at her. ‘That’s a number one in this house,’ I say.

‘And is a p—’

‘Yes,’ I interrupt. ‘Now let’s go down for breakfast. Melody will be wanting feeding too.’

Her face brightens a little. ‘Can I feed her? Can I give her some biscuits? I haven’t got Germolene on my fingers.’

‘You may do. And then we’ll have breakfast together.’

‘And then Daddy will come to take me home.’

I look at her and away again without responding. Cruel to be kind, I tell myself. Cruel to be kind.

Melody comes to meet us at the foot of the stairs. She rubs around my ankles but appears confused because she’s missed the opportunity to wake me.

‘It’s OK, we’re up earlier than usual this morning, you haven’t missed out on anything.’ The child squats down to stroke her. I make sure she smooths the fur in the correct direction.

‘Biscuit time, Melody,’ the child says in her sing-song voice. Melody’s ears prick up. I think she will like it. Having a young child in the house. I think we both will.

I leave the two of them together and go through to the kitchen, fill the kettle and flick the switch before busying myself with the crumpets. For a brief moment my mind wanders to what will be going on in their house. I don’t suppose either of her parents will have slept much. I see tired faces, hands clutching coffee mugs. I get no satisfaction from other people’s suffering.
But I also know I must stay strong for the child’s sake. She deserves a better life than the one she had there, and in time even she will understand that. One day, when she has grown up, she may even thank me. Not that I am doing this for gratitude. I am doing it because it is the right thing to do. So often these days people shy away from doing the right thing. They want it easy, you see. They want everything handed to them on a plate, washed, prepared and ready to consume. They sell carrot sticks in Marks & Spencer, for goodness’ sake.

My mother lived through the war in London. She understood the true meaning of hardship. Of fighting against the forces of evil, how you must never let your guard drop, even for a minute. Because it is a slippery slope, oh my, how slippery, once your standards start to fall. Before you know it you end up on the wrong side. Justifying behaviour which you know to be wrong, all because it is the easy thing to do.

I warm the pot for a moment before measuring in the loose-leaf tea, the scent of Earl Grey rising with the steam as I pour the water in. I give it a stir then pop the lid on, followed by the cosy. I knitted it myself, I think around the time I was knitting bootees for Matthew. Things last a long time if you take care of them.

Melody walks into the kitchen closely followed by the child.

‘Can I give her the biscuits now?’ she asks.

‘You may do. I’ll get them for you.’ I bend down and
open the bottom cupboard, take out the pouch and hand it to her.

‘Just pour some into there,’ I say, pointing to the ceramic bowl in the corner. The child follows my instructions, glancing up after a moment to check if she’s poured the right amount.

‘That’s right. A few more should do it.’ Melody dives in without waiting for her to finish. The child hands the pouch back to me.

‘I want to go home now,’ she says.

‘Breakfast,’ I reply. ‘We’re going to have crumpets, remember?’

*

As soon as she finishes her last mouthful I take her by the hand and lead her upstairs. Keeping busy, that is the key to this. If I talk to her while I am getting her dressed she won’t be paying as much attention to what I am saying.

We go into Matthew’s room together. I open the curtains and the early-morning sunlight catches the child’s hair. Every strand a different shade to the one next to it. I reach out and stroke it, finding myself humming as I do so. Schubert. I used to stroke Matthew’s hair sometimes as he played it on the piano.

‘Will Mummy be cross about my hair?’ she asks.

‘Your hair looks lovely. And it is far more practical to have it out of your eyes.’

‘Tell Daddy that you did it when he comes. Mummy doesn’t let me play with scissors.’

I snort. That’s a first, a safety concern in the child’s household.

‘The thing is, dear, Daddy won’t be coming for you today. He’s asked me to look after you a little longer. Your Mummy’s poorly, you see. She’s not really up to looking after you.’

‘Daddy can look after me.’

‘I expect he’ll be working. He does work, I take it?’

The child nods. ‘Grandma looks after me when Mummy and Daddy are working.’

‘Well, not today she isn’t. They’ve asked me to take care of you.’

I am aware of the sharpness in my tone as soon as I say it. It is hard. She doesn’t understand that this is for her own good. The child starts crying.

‘I want to go home.’

‘Come along now, there’s no need for that. We can have lots of fun together.’

‘I want to go home.’

‘You can play with Melody.’

‘I want my mummy.’

‘I’m sure we’ll have a lovely time together.’

‘I want to go back to the park. I want my mummy.’ She is shouting now, on the verge of screaming. It is like firefighting in the Australian bush. Every time you think you have put it out you turn round and another one has started. I go to embrace her but she pushes me away. She is not an attractive crier. Few children are.
Matthew was an exception. He cried so elegantly. One dainty tear, dripping down his face, followed by another. The rest of his face remaining calm and still as if he was one of those baby dolls which you can make cry by turning a wheel at the back.

‘Let’s get you dressed and then we can go upstairs and find Matthew’s toys.’

‘I don’t want to get dressed.’

She is simply opposing everything I say now. But the tears are diminishing ever so slightly. If I can get her up to the toys it might just break it. I bring over the green dungarees, beige top and white briefs and socks which I dug out from the spare room earlier.

‘I want to wear my striped dress,’ she sobs.

‘Well you can’t, I’m afraid. It’s gone in the wash along with your leggings. Covered in dust and grass stains from the park they were.’

‘I don’t care. I want to wear them.’

I take off her pyjama top before she has even realised what I am doing and manage to get Matthew’s top over her head. His face smiles back at me, a bit of Marmite smeared on the corner of his mouth. I get a wet flannel and dab it. He giggles. Always a smile. Always a cheery face.

‘I don’t like them. I don’t want to wear them.’

‘Right, pyjama bottoms off and on with your knick-knacks.’ When she doesn’t move I whip the bottoms down myself. She steps out of them without a protest and I hold the pants for her to step into.

‘They’re boys’ pants not knickers,’ she says.

‘Well, they’re the best I can do for now, I’m afraid. They’re clean, that’s all that’s important.’

She gingerly raises one foot at a time and steps inside. I pull them up for her. They are a bit baggy but will do the job. The dungarees are obviously going to be more difficult to get on. She fidgets and pushes my hand away as I try to clip the straps.

‘I want my stripy dress. I don’t want to wear these.’

I take deep breaths and say nothing. If I ignore her protests she may get tired of them. So many people give in to their children’s demands. And then they wonder why they keep pestering them.

Finally I manage to clip the straps into place. The dungarees suit the child. I do not hold with this urge to differentiate between genders so early. They are children and should be treated as such, not dressed as pink princesses or Premiership footballers. No wonder they start having sex so early. They are being primed for it from the time they are toddlers.