While My Eyes Were Closed (5 page)

‘Don’t worry Otis, will you? Just make it sound like a game.’

‘OK, love,’ she says. The line goes dead. I clutch the
phone to me, aware my hand is shaking. I try to move but my legs refuse to work. From somewhere deep inside me I feel something rushing to the surface. I try to stop it but I can’t. It erupts from my mouth with a force that physically shakes me.

‘Ella!’

Once the scream has left my lips I feel oddly detached from it. But I know it was mine. It roared over the top of all the other shouts. For a moment there is silence in the park. As if people are paying their respects. And then a whole chorus of ‘Ella’ begins again with renewed urgency. As if the infantry have been spurred into action by the anguished cries of their wounded sergeant major.

I pick up the phone again and call Alex. It goes straight to voicemail. He’s obviously turned it off for his meeting. He still thinks this is funny. He has no idea that it isn’t the slightest bit amusing any more.

I open my mouth to leave a message. Nothing comes out. I take a deep breath. Steal myself to form some kind of coherent sentence.

‘Please call me as soon as you’re free,’ I say, struggling to keep my voice even. ‘Ella’s not here. She’s disappeared. No one can find her.’

I end the call, my words still echoing back to me. It is not a game any more. All around me complete strangers are calling my daughter’s name and she isn’t coming out. She isn’t answering. I don’t know why not, but I do
know that wherever she is I need to find her. I look down at the phone still in my hand. My finger hovers over the number for a moment. I have never done this in my life, and part of me doesn’t want to. Part of me still thinks she will come running out from behind a bush any second and I will hug her and hold her and read her the riot act for giving me such a fright. But another part of me knows that I have no choice. I dial 999 and when a woman answers I ask for the police.

It is a while before I reach a point where I can get a clear view of Matthew’s special place. It is hard when there are so many children in the park. So much noise and clamour. Warm fleshy bodies getting in the way. But when I do see it, I am relieved to find I can still see him sitting in the shade. He always burned so easily; the sensitive ones do. He sits quietly, humming to himself. Engrossed in his world of make-believe. I watch as he threads his chain of daisies together, using his left thumbnail to make the slits in the stem. I always allowed him to keep that one nail just long enough to enable him to do that. The others were all trimmed down hard to the skin. He threads each stem through easily, as if it is a huge chasm, not a tiny slit, then attaches it to the one before. Looking and measuring in
his head. He knew, you see. Knew the exact length it needed to be simply by looking. And when he was ready, and only then, he would make the final adjustment before placing it on top of his smooth, fair hair. Sometimes he sat there for a long while afterwards, surveying all that was before him. On other occasions he would rise almost straight away and walk around the tree three times in an anti-clockwise direction. How he managed to keep the daisy chain on I will never know. His hair was so silky even the shampoo seemed to slip off when I washed it. But the chain always stayed in place. And when he had finished his circles he would pause, deep in thought, and look up at the tree as if for inspiration. What it said to him I never knew, but he would nod as if it had spoken wisely. And, content, he would look about again. Sometimes he would see me watching him and a smile would spread across his face. He would start to come towards me but I would shake my head and he would stop, understanding. I wanted him to stay in his special place. I did not want him to ever step outside that circle. He was protected there and, as much as I wanted to feel his touch, yearned for it even, I knew the most important thing was that he was safe. Away from other people. Away from a world which did not understand him or his gentle ways.

The girl’s cry pierces the stillness around me. I am cross with her at first for interrupting my thoughts. Girls scream at the slightest thing, it always seems to
me. But then I turn and see the crumpled heap lying on the path twenty yards or so from me. A dear little face, though snivelling now as she looks up, her hands shaking.

I look around for the mother. Quite why she is not by her side, I don’t know. But then I see her running towards the child across the grass, dressed in Lycra shorts and a vest top which is too tight to be decent. Her thighs are muscly, far too muscly for a woman, her shoulders and arms taut and sinewy. It is clearly something bordering on a sin to be feminine nowadays, to have soft lines and graceful limbs. To wear clothes which float instead of cling. I look down at my own floral skirt, falling gently to my shins from my waist. Delicate shades of lilac and blue. The softness of cotton against my skin. These women have no idea what a natural fabric feels like. They have lost their link with nature.

The woman squats down by the child, who is now holding her hands out to her. She makes no attempt to soothe or comfort, merely inspects the damage and brushes some dirt off the child’s palm before glancing at her watch.

Goodness, no one has the time these days. Not even to comfort their own child. She doesn’t have a bag either. Imagine that, a woman out in the park without a bag. I am about to offer her a tissue from my handbag, but I fear she will spit on it to clean the child and I will not be a party to that.

She will have to take the child straight home to see to her wounds, but I am wrong about that as well. She turns and walks away. A moment later her phone rings and she answers it. They have time to talk on their phones but not to look after their own children. It’s a disgrace, an absolute travesty. I hurry over to the child and bend to touch her gently on the shoulder.

‘Let’s take a look at you, my dear,’ I say. The girl turns sharply. For a second she stares, a slight frown on her brow, and then her face breaks into a smile.

‘Hello, piano lady,’ she says.

It is my turn to frown. I don’t recognise the girl and I have a good memory for my students’ faces. Besides, she is young and I don’t normally take them before six. Not unless they have a particular aptitude and the ability to sit still without fidgeting.

‘Hello. How do I know you?’

‘Me and Daddy come to your house to pick my brother up from piano. And I stroke your cat. The black one.’

‘Ahh, I see. Let me take a look at your poor hands.’

She holds them up to me. I see straight away that there is dirt in the broken skin. I turn them over. Her knuckles are grazed and bleeding too. And her nails are filthy. Ridiculously long and filthy.

‘I think I’d better take you to get cleaned up right away,’ I say.

‘At your house?’

‘Well yes. That would seem to be the only option.’

‘Can I see your cat?’

‘She will no doubt come to see you when we get home. She always makes a fuss of guests.’

I put my hand on her shoulder and try to usher her in front of me.

‘Is Mummy coming too?’ she asks, looking in the direction of the Lycra-clad figure still walking away in the distance. I glance down. The pale skin has an almost iridescent quality. The blue eyes pool underneath rows of soft, long lashes. The fine, fair hair frames the face perfectly. Only the crown of daisies has somehow slipped from the silky hair.

‘No, but she’ll know where you are,’ I say, guiding her quickly down the path towards the exit at the far side of the park, the one which most people do not use.

‘Can I hide at your house and pop out and surprise Mummy when she comes to get me?’

‘Let’s get you seen to first, shall we?’

‘How will Mummy know where to find me? She’s never been to your house.’

‘Mummies know everything, don’t you know that yet?’

The child smiles and nods and starts to chatter as we walk. It is not altogether intelligible chatter but she has a pleasant enough sing-song voice. I would take her hand but I am worried that would hurt her. However, she trots obediently beside me.

When we get to the gap in the wall and I take hold of
her forearm ready to cross the empty road outside, she looks up at me.

‘Will Mummy be looking for me now?’ she says. ‘She starts looking when she gets to one hundred.’

‘We need to get your hands seen to straight away. You wouldn’t want the dirt getting in, would you?’

She looks down at her hands doubtfully. ‘And then will Mummy come and find me?’

‘One thing at a time, eh? One thing at a time.’

We walk across the road and on past the first row of Victorian terraced houses. She is talking about the brother, who is a pupil of mine. Saying he is not doing piano lessons in the school holidays, which is why she hasn’t seen my cat for a while.

‘What’s his name, my dear, this brother of yours?’

‘Otis,’ she replies. I know the boy. A slim lad of nine or ten with shoulder-length rather scruffy brown hair, which is constantly getting into his eyes.

‘Ah yes. Otis.’

‘He’s at football camp, but Daddy says he has to go back to piano lessons when he goes back to school. I am going to big school too. I am going to be in Miss Roberts’ class. She is a nice lady but I don’t know if she has got a cat.’

The boy never struck me as being particularly keen. You can usually tell the ones who are there under duress. They arrive with a sullen look on their faces and clearly don’t put in the practice. Otis is such a boy, which
is a shame as he has a good ear for music. But if he only comes because his father insists then it will not be for much longer now. There’s a point where the relationship shifts. Where a child is no longer driven by the desire to please a parent and where even the bribes they offer stop working. I know it all too well. And Otis is approaching that age. Usually I wait for the parent to tell me, but sometimes, if the child is not particularly agreeable, I will instigate the conversation myself.

‘Here we are then,’ I say as we reach the three-storey house at the end of the terrace. The weeds next door need doing again. I have been nipping across once a week since it has been empty in order to tidy them up. It’s no wonder Judith can’t sell the property when she doesn’t even send someone to do the garden. She is not paying me to do it, of course. It is simply that I can’t abide the mess. And I live in hope that whoever buys it will be a little more concerned about the appearance of their front garden than she ever was.

The child hesitates at the front gate. For the first time she looks back over her shoulder towards the park.

‘Come along, dear. The sooner we get you cleaned up the sooner you can carry on with your game.’ I push open the gate and she follows me up the path, waiting silently at the front door. I jiggle the key in the lock and turn it. Melody rushes to the front door and rubs against my ankles as I step inside. The child comes in after me
and squats down to stroke Melody, who sniffs her before rubbing around her too.

What’s your cat’s name?’ she asks.

‘Melody.’

‘That’s a nice name.’

‘Right, shoes off, please,’ I say, pointing to the ugly lime-green lumps of plastic on her feet. She takes them off and leaves them on the tiled floor.

‘Goodness, you’re not very well trained, are you?’ I say, picking them up and placing them on the shoe rack. ‘Now, straight upstairs to the bathroom so we can get you cleaned up.’

‘I’ve never been upstairs in your house,’ she says.

‘No, I suppose not.’

‘Has Otis ever been upstairs?’

‘No, my students are only allowed in the piano room.’

‘And to the little toilet under the stairs. He went in there once when he needed a wee.’

‘Well yes, there too.’

She glances back to see if Melody is following us and squeals in delight when the cat brushes against her legs as she dashes up the stairs. It is a light, musical squeal. One which succeeds in squeezing a smile onto my face.

‘Right,’ I say, as we get to the bathroom and I push open the wooden door and pull on the light. ‘You sit yourself down on the stool and I’ll get everything sorted.’ I help her up onto the stool and she sits obediently,
swinging her legs and looking around her as I run the hot water.

‘Is green your favourite colour?’ she asks. ‘Green’s my favourite colour. I don’t like pink. Lots of things for girls are pink, but Otis says pink stinks.’

‘Does he now?’ I reply, putting the plug in when the water reaches the required temperature and watching as the level rises slowly up the sides of the Victorian basin.

‘I don’t like your bath green though; the green I like is this one,’ she says, pointing to the brighter stripes on her dress. ‘It’s got a big pink flower on it too. Grandma bought it for me, but Mummy says it doesn’t matter about a bit of pink and I’ve got to wear it.’

I test the water with my hand. It is hot but bearable. I reach up and open the cabinet, which is where the first-aid items are kept. I take the bottle of Dettol from the top shelf and carefully measure two capfuls into the basin of water and swish it around.

‘What’s that? It stinks,’ says the child, screwing up her nose.

‘It’s Dettol. For your hands. Doesn’t your mother use Dettol?’

She shakes her head. ‘Is it going to sting? I don’t like stingy things.’

‘Only a tiny bit, but it will get the germs out of your hands.’

She wrinkles her nose again and looks down at her
hands, examining them closely. ‘I can’t see germs. Where are they?’

‘You can’t see them, but it doesn’t mean they aren’t there. Let’s get your hands in the basin and we’ll get rid of them for you.’

The child lets me take her hands and immerse them in the water. She winces only slightly but does screw up her nose again. ‘I don’t like smell.’

‘The smell will be gone soon. Now, I’m going to dab them for you with some wet cotton wool. Make sure we get everything out.’

I take each hand out in turn and wipe over the grazed pink skin. My eyes keep returning to the child’s nails. When we are done I dry her hands gently on the towel and take the nail scissors from the bathroom cabinet.