While My Eyes Were Closed (19 page)

I get in the car and glance in the rear-view mirror as if I half-expect to see Ella sitting there, smiling back at me. The empty car seat mocks me for my stupidity. It is so ridiculously silly, losing a child. I’ve never even been
one of those people who mislay little things – bus pass, keys, purse – and yet here I am having lost the most valuable thing in my world.

I drive off, wondering what the hell Chloe must think of me. I sent her off to France with advice about being careful and not doing anything silly and I manage to lose her little sister while she is gone.

Chloe should be my mother really: in so many ways she is more sensible than I am. And she was right about one thing too. Why should she ever listen to my advice again?

I pull into the station car park and find a space at the far end. I look at my watch. I am early. I momentarily rest my head on the steering wheel. All I really want to do is fall asleep. Tiredness is eating away at me from the inside. I thought I’d put sleep deprivation behind me after Ella was through the first few months. Not so, it seems. I’m aware that the only thing which is keeping me going is adrenalin. I have visions of myself deflating into a quivering mess on the ground at the point where that adrenalin is taken away from me. And if she’s never found at all, I guess I’ll look like those other mums, the ones who have a haunted expression on their faces and deep, dark layers of sadness running through every breath, every movement, every word they utter for the rest of their lives.

Another car pulls into the car park a little further down. I think I recognise Robyn’s father at the wheel. I
offered to run her home too but Chloe said not to worry as her dad was going to pick her up. I haven’t seen him for well over a year. To be honest I hardly ever saw him once Robyn and Chloe went into sixth form, only the odd pick-up or collection, a wave of acknowledgement from the doorway or the car. If he has spotted me I know he won’t come over. He was never a great talker and I can’t imagine that he’d relish the prospect of having to make small talk with me. He will sit in the car staring straight ahead until Robyn arrives and then drive off without glancing over, thanking God it is not his daughter that this has happened to.

I go to put the radio on then stop myself when I realise it is nearly four o’clock and the last thing I want to do is listen to the news. I’d put a CD on but the only one in the car belongs to Ella and somehow I am not in the mood for the Tweenies at the moment.

I ponder whether to get out of the car and go to meet them on the platform or stay where I am. Having been through the thing of being made to feel like a mortally embarrassing mother (even though Robyn apparently once said that she thought I was pretty fit for a mum), the obvious thing to do is to stay in the car. But if I do, she will just get in, put her belt on and we will probably drive home with barely a word said. I want to touch her, to hold her, to talk to her, even if she doesn’t want to do any of those things to me.

I wait until I see the train coming into the station
before getting out of the car, walking through the foyer and along the walkway to the top of the steps. They are already coming up them when I get there, looking somewhat dishevelled with huge rucksacks towering over their backs, faces serious, eyes fixed firmly on the steps. Robyn manages a little smile when she gets to the top and sees me. Chloe is trying to blink away the tears and I decide not to say anything so I don’t make it worse.

‘Hi,’ I say. ‘Your dad’s in the car park, Robyn.’

She nods.

‘I’m so sorry you’ve had to come home early.’

‘It’s OK. I hope . . . you know.’

It is my turn to nod.

She gives Chloe a hug. They are a mass of hair, hurt and rucksacks. I remember them on their first day at school, walking in hand in hand, all smart in their school uniforms, that same hair in neat bobbles.

Robyn walks off towards the car park. And then we are standing there, me and my eldest daughter, who still hasn’t managed to look me in the eye, and I am overwhelmed with love for her and an enormous sense of having failed her entirely.

‘Sorry,’ I say again. ‘I feel so bad about this – messing up your holiday.’

Chloe shrugs. Her bottom lip is quivering. I am desperate to throw my arms around her but am not sure if I’m allowed to do that any more.

‘It’s not your fault, is it?’ she says. She is only talking about Ella – I understand that – but it is all I need to hear. I step forward and hug her, which isn’t easy with the rucksack. At first her body is rigid, but after a few seconds I feel her arms closing around my back, feel her body shaking in time with mine.

‘What’s happened to her, Mum?’

‘I don’t know, and I guess I’m trying not to think about it. It’s the only way I know how to cope. But the police are looking everywhere for her, they’re being really good. We’ve got this woman, Claire, a family liaison officer. She thinks Ella’s alive. Says we can still get her back.’

Chloe sniffs loudly in my left ear. ‘I don’t understand. How can she just have disappeared?’

‘I don’t know. I only turned my back for a minute.’

‘And you didn’t hear her scream or anything?’

‘No. I had to take a call on my mobile. For work, you know. I still think I’d have heard her, though. If she had screamed.’

Chloe pulls away and looks at me, her face different now. Her eyes colder and unforgiving. The same as they have been for most of the past year. She says nothing but walks off towards the car park, her purple rucksack bobbing up and down behind her.

The child has wet her bed. The smell of urine hits me as soon as I enter Matthew’s room. Matthew was never a bed wetter. He was far too careful a child to do that. She is curled up on the other side of the bed, away from the wet patch. Her body shakes as she sobs. Her crying woke me. Although I did go to the bathroom before I came in.

‘Never mind, dear,’ I say as I open the sash window a little. ‘These things happen. We’ll whip off the bedclothes and get some fresh ones on.’ The crying intensifies. I walk around to her side of the bed. The pillow is almost as wet as the bed sheets. I wonder if she wet the bed at home too. Some children do, even when they are of school age. Perhaps her mother scolded her for it.

‘I need to get you up now so I can change the bedclothes.’

She shakes her head. ‘I want to go to big school,’ she wails, snot running down onto her top lip.

‘I told you. I’m going to be teaching you here.’

‘I want to go to big school with the big boys and girls. I want to go with Otis.’

‘That may well be the case, but it’s not possible at the moment.’

A fresh round of sobbing. I sigh and close my eyes for a second. When I look down again the tears have dried. The eyes are wary but resigned to what is about to happen. There is a slight tremble in the lower lip but the upper one remains firm. He is not going to let me down. He is not going to make a scene, however difficult we are both going to find this. Silently I unbutton his pyjama top, as he still finds it tricky to do it himself. The buttons on his shirt aren’t as stiff and he can do them up himself; we have practised. He takes down his own pyjama bottoms and steps out of them. He picks up the pants I have laid out on the chair next to the bed and puts them on, followed by the vest. No words pass between us. There is no need for any. We both know this is simply something which has to be done. I take the shirt off its hanger and hold it out for him to put one arm in, followed by the other. I watch as he does up the buttons by himself and nod approvingly when the last one is closed. The school tie is one of those elastic ones. It makes him look about five years older as soon as he puts it on. The short trousers have been pressed and have a crease down the front. His
tiny legs look sparrow-like in them. They are still a bit loose around his waist too but there is nothing I can do about that now. Perhaps the school dinners will cause him to fill out a little. All those stodgy puddings. I have never cared for date and syrup sponge and custard myself.

Finally the blazer and cap. Another five years added to him. I’m aware that my little boy is somewhere in there, fighting desperately but wordlessly to get out. I nod again. Letting him know that I understand his anguish but I also appreciate his cooperation in this.

I shepherd him towards the mirror. He is visibly surprised at the reflection which stares back. He peers hard as if trying to spot his other self, the one which was poured into that uniform only a few moments ago.

‘Right,’ I say, glancing at my watch. ‘It’s time to go.’ I reach down and take his hand. Tiny pale fingers curl around mine.

‘You’ll be a good boy for Mummy, won’t you?’

I look down and a face stares back at me. A face full of fear and confusion.

‘Is Mummy coming? Am I going home?’

It is the scent of urine which finally brings me back. That and the dampness of her hand in mine. Matthew never had sweaty palms.

‘No,’ I say firmly. ‘We’re going to school downstairs. I’ve got Matthew’s old desk out of the box room for you. We will start with writing. Just as soon as I’ve got this sorted.’

The face crumples. The hand slips out of mine. I start to strip the sheets off the bed.

*

The desk is one of those traditional ones, wooden with a hinged lid and an inkwell. The child eyes it with interest, raising the lid and peeking inside.

‘Is it a desk like they have at big school?’

‘Oh yes. The big boys and girls use ones like this.’

She runs her hand over the lid and sits down gingerly on the stool, like Goldilocks trying out Baby Bear’s chair. She looks up, raises half a smile.

‘Stay there a moment,’ I say. I return with my camera. It is one of those digital ones. Matthew showed me how to download the pictures and print them out myself. I like that I can do that. So much more personal than taking a film into Boots. I never liked the idea of other people looking at my photographs. I used to imagine the staff chatting about the images in front of them. Laughing and pointing maybe.

‘Let’s have a nice big smile,’ I say. ‘Everyone has their photo taken on their first day at school.’

She hesitates but then obliges, one of those toothy grins children produce before they become self-conscious.

‘Can I see?’ she asks.

‘It’s not like phone ones – I can’t show you. I’ll print it for you later when school’s finished.’

She nods. Fidgets a bit on the stool.

‘Right, I’d better give you a pencil case then, hadn’t I?’

She looks up as I hand her the case which I found in Matthew’s room earlier, seemingly uncertain whether she is allowed to open it.

‘Go on,’ I say. ‘Everything you need is inside.’

She gets everything out in turn: pencil, coloured pencils, rubber, ruler.

‘Are these Matthew’s?’

‘Yes, but he won’t mind you having them.’

‘Thank you,’ she says, lining the pencils up on her desk. I hand her the only unfilled exercise book I could find. Matthew has written on the first couple of pages but the rest of it is blank.

‘It hasn’t got my name on it,’ she says. ‘Miss Roberts said we would get a writing book with our name on it.’

‘That’s because you’re going to write your name on it.’

She looks up at me doubtfully.

‘My E for Ella is a bit wonky.’

‘Well, practice makes perfect. Let’s see how you get on.’

The child picks up the pencil and starts to carve her name onto the front of the book, her fingers gripping the pencil tightly. When she is finished she holds it up to me for inspection. The letters are all of different sizes but she is at least consistent in using capitals.

‘There, you’ve got the letters right. I expect you found it easier without your hair getting in your eyes.’

She shrugs. Releases her grip on the pencil a little.

‘Right. Well, before we progress to the whole alphabet,
we’re going to learn about pencil control. I’ve got some writing exercises here for you to practise. Just copy the lines you see onto your page. It doesn’t matter if you go wrong; simply start again.’ I remember all this from when Matthew started at The Grange. The hours he spent at home following lines with his pencil. He was always such a meticulous child and so conscientious. Not the easiest of combinations, either for him or me as a mother. A lifetime of worry, that is what Malcolm used to say we had in store. He was right too. Although I don’t suppose he would even remember that now.

I look down as the pencil lead snaps. It is not surprising considering how hard she is pressing. She is looking up at me, unsure how I will react.

‘Never mind. I’ll sharpen it for you. You don’t need to press so hard, though.’

‘My fingers hurt. Can we do something else now?’

‘You’ve hardly started.’

‘Miss Roberts has an aliens’ corner in her classroom. She has lots of pants pinned up on the line, like in the
Aliens Love Underpants
book.’

This is why I sent Matthew to The Grange. For a proper education. Rather than fill his head with all this other nonsense. It is too late to get the child in there, of course. You have to put their names down early. Before they are born even. Baby Thornton, that’s what they wrote down for Matthew. I had to make it clear that I was Miss Norgate only professionally. As a parent I was to be
known as Mrs Thornton. It was a little confusing. School fees to pay as one person and music teacher salary paid to me as another. Some of the mothers in Matthew’s class didn’t even know that I was one and the same person. I liked keeping things strictly professional though. Even Matthew had to call me Miss Norgate when I taught his class. He came out one afternoon in tears, saying one of his classmates didn’t believe I was his mother. I remember being touched that it mattered so much to him that they knew.

I miss it sometimes. Being in that professional environment. You command far more respect as a school teacher than you do when giving private lessons. But what’s done is done. I do at least still get to call myself Miss Norgate to my private pupils. There is far too much informality around. These teachers who ask the children to call them by their first names and then wonder why they don’t show any respect for them.