While My Eyes Were Closed (6 page)

‘What are you doing?’ she asks.

‘We’re going to get your nails cut. They’re filthy.’

‘Have they got germs too?’

‘Looking at the state of them they’ve probably got carrots growing under them.’

‘I don’t like carrots.’

‘All the more reason to cut them, then.’

She stays relatively still while I trim each nail in turn and use one of the scissor points to ease the dirt from underneath.

‘That tickles,’ she says. When we are finished I take an emery board from the cabinet.

‘What’s that?’ I am beginning to think her mother doesn’t know how to care for herself, let alone a child.

‘An emery board, to file your nails nice and smooth.’

She looks at it with fascination and feels the edge of the first nail I file.

‘Nice and smooth,’ she says.

When I am finished I place her hands back in the basin of Dettol.

‘Are there still more germs?’

‘Better to be safe than sorry,’ I tell her. I dry her hands again. They look much better now. They look like Matthew’s hands. She has long fingers for her age, like he did. I wonder if she has ever played the piano.

‘There,’ I say.

‘Are we done now?’

‘Nearly.’

I take the Germolene from the cabinet. I wish they still did the little tins of it. I have never got on with the tubes.

‘What’s that?’

‘Germolene for your hands.’

‘Why are you putting germs back on them?’

‘I’m not. It’s to protect them from germs.’

‘I don’t like smell.’ I sigh and shake my head. I find it hard to think of a better smell. It is warmth and comfort and safety. A smell of mothers.

‘Have you never smelt Germolene before?’

She shakes her head. I wonder what else she hasn’t smelt. What she hasn’t tasted. What love she hasn’t felt.

‘Is Mummy coming to find me now?’ she asks.

‘Aren’t you hungry? I was going to make buttered crumpets.’

‘I’ve never had trumpets.’

‘Crumpets. They’re flour and yeast cakes. The butter melts into the holes in the bread.’

‘Are they yummy?’

I smile at her. ‘Well, I think so. Why don’t you try one?’

‘And then will Mummy come?’

‘Let’s get you fed and watered first, shall we?’

‘Can I come and hide here again? It’s a very good hiding place.’

‘Of course you can. We can have lots of fun and games here.’

I help her down from the stool. Melody is standing guard outside the bathroom. The child bends to stroke her.

‘Please don’t touch her,’ I say. ‘We don’t want to get cat hairs on your hands or Germolene on her fur, do we?’

‘No. She might not like the smell.’

The child stops on the landing and points to the framed photos on the occasional table.

‘Who’s that?’

‘It’s Matthew. My son.’

‘Where is he?’

‘He’s grown up now. He doesn’t live here any more.’

‘My big sister lives at uniworsity but she comes to stay with us in holidays.’

I suspect she is going to ask why Matthew isn’t here in the holidays and decide to get my own question in first.

‘She must be a lot older than you then, your sister?’

‘She’s all growed-up but she’s my half-sister, which means my daddy isn’t her daddy but we share a mummy.’

‘I see,’ I say. I expected no better, to be honest. The child’s mother certainly didn’t look old enough to have a child at university. She looks younger than I was when I had Matthew.

‘Well, let’s get you that crumpet I promised.’ I smile at her and bend down to move a strand of hair out of the child’s eyes. Her fringe is in dreadful need of a cut.

‘What’s your name?’ she asks.

I hesitate before replying. I do not want the child to call me by my first name. It would be far too familiar. ‘Miss Norgate,’ I say. What’s yours?’

‘Ella,’ she says. ‘Ella Jane. I was named after a singer lady. She is a big black lady, but me and Mummy and Daddy aren’t big and black.’

‘Ella Fitzgerald?’

‘Yes,’ she says excitedly. ‘Do you know her? Did you teach her piano?’

I laugh. ‘No, dear, though I wish I had. She had quite a voice.’

‘Otis is named after a black singer man.’

‘Redding?’

‘Yes. Do you know him too?’

‘I know his music. Who chose your names?’

‘Mummy. Her name is Lisa Marie and she was the king’s daughter, but he is dead now and that is why we’ve got a queen and Grandad calls me his little princess.’

I smile again and decide now is not the time to try to address the Elvis confusion.

‘If you come downstairs with me, I’ll find some Ella Fitzgerald songs for you to listen to while I make the crumpets.’

She follows me down the stairs, along the hall lined with photos of Matthew and into the lounge.

‘Why don’t you have carpets?’ she says.

‘They’re difficult to keep clean, especially with a cat.’

‘We haven’t got a cat. We used to have a dog called Pumbaa but it died. Mummy has a Dyson to clean carpets. I like watching bits whoosh up.’

‘Good. Now sit yourself down on the sofa and I’ll find the songs for you.’

I go to the music cabinet. The CDs are arranged alphabetically. At least now Malcolm has gone, nobody puts them back in the wrong place any more. He never understood the importance of having things in order. I really don’t know how he coped as a lecturer. Still, it was none of my business, I suppose.

I take the CD from the case, wipe it with the cloth which I keep on the top, and place it in the machine. The room fills with big-band sounds. With a deep, rich voice. The sound of another country. Another era.
Another culture. I look at the child. She smiles back at me rather vacantly. It is ridiculous really, naming a child after someone they have never heard of, someone they have no connection with at all. A family name is different. That is your heritage. Part of your DNA. But this is someone simply indulging their musical taste and clearly not thinking of the child.

‘I’ll call you when the crumpets are ready,’ I say.

As I head to the kitchen I glance at the grandfather clock in the hall. I hadn’t realised how long it has been. The mother will have missed her by now. Will be searching for her. Panicking even. Something twists inside me but I will not let it take hold. This is a mother who clearly doesn’t know how to look after a child properly. She doesn’t even keep her nails clean and short, for goodness’ sake. Or possess Dettol. A different sensation rises inside me. I let it grow this time. Bubble up under my skin until it feels as if it is starting to blister. How dare she neglect the child. Some people don’t deserve to be mothers. They really don’t.

I switch the kettle on and warm the pot as soon as it boils, as my mother taught me to, before turning the grill on and placing two crumpets on the tray. I don’t hold with toasters for crumpets. It is not the right type of heat. I wait until the first side is golden brown then turn them over with my tongs. When the other side is done I pop them onto the bread board and spread with butter before putting them onto plates, watching as the
butter drips into the holes. I empty the tea-pot, scoop in the tea leaves and give it a good stir before replacing the lid and popping the cosy back on. Some people say it is a lot of trouble to go to when you are on your own but I don’t see why you should let your standards slip because there is no one around to notice. I go to the fridge and take out the carton of milk. I am glad I stuck with the full-cream now that I have a young visitor in the house again. Children should always have full-cream. Though I don’t suppose she gets it at home. It will be the milk the mother wants for her diet, no doubt. Nobody thinks of the children these days.

Ella Fitzgerald’s voice is still coming from the lounge. I pop my head around the kitchen door and see the child standing in the hall looking at the photographs of Matthew. Melody is rubbing around her legs. The child turns when she hears me approaching.

‘Who are all these boys?’ she asks.

‘Matthew. Just at different ages.’

‘But his hair is darker in those ones,’ she says, pointing at the more recent photos.

‘That’s right. Often fair hair gets a bit darker as you get older. Yours probably will too.’

She shakes her head. ‘No. My hair is always going to be like this. Grandma said so.’

I decide not to take issue with this in case it upsets her. ‘Come through to the kitchen now then. Your crumpet is ready.’

‘Does Otis ever have crumpets when he comes?’ she asks as she follows me through.

‘No. None of my pupils do. I don’t want greasy fingers on the piano, you see.’

‘I’ll tell Otis later,’ she says. ‘Tell him that I’ve had crumpets and he hasn’t.’

I do not like the bragging tone in her voice. It happens with siblings, I am well aware of that. But it does make them appear ill-mannered compared to only children. Matthew never boasted or bragged. Not once.

‘Well, you will sit down nicely to eat it,’ I say. ‘And whatever you may be used to at home, we have no talking with your mouth full here.’

She gives me an uncertain look as I pour my tea but sits at the table and starts to eat her crumpet. As it happens, I need not have worried about her speaking with her mouth full. She is too intent on eating to speak. Clearly the poor child was hungry as well.

She picks up the glass of milk and glugs a good half of it before putting it down and wiping the milk from the corners of her mouth with her hand. She has much to learn but I decide not to bombard her with everything at one sitting.

‘I like crumpets,’ she says as I take a sip of tea. ‘But your milk tastes funny.’

‘It’s proper milk, with none of the goodness taken out.’

‘Is it from different cows?’

‘No, same cows. But it’s the right milk for growing children.’

‘Why does my mummy get the wrong milk?’

‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘You will have to ask her that.’

The sound of a siren pierces the stillness of the kitchen. I know instantly that it is the mother. That she has called the police. The stupid, stupid woman. If she had been paying attention, if she hadn’t been so busy with her silly phone, if she had taken care of her child properly in the first place, none of this would have happened.

‘Excuse me,’ I say as I stand up.

‘Where are you going?’

‘Just to use the bathroom.’

‘Is Mummy on her way?’

‘You finish your milk like a good girl.’

I leave the kitchen swiftly and go upstairs, where I look out of the landing window. I can see the flashing lights of a police car further up the road. It is impossible to see more because of the trees. They are looking for her now. I could put a stop to this so easily. Could take her back right away. Explain that she was hurt, that her hands needed taking care of. That it was all simply a misunderstanding.

I could give the mother her child back, but who is to say what she would do to her next? I will not let the child go back to be neglected like that. You hear about these cases on the news. How the social workers gave
the family the benefit of the doubt because they missed all the signs. But I have not missed them. I know what the right thing to do is. The child needs protecting from her own family. Some people don’t deserve children. They really don’t.

I turn and take a final glance back at the park. The flashing lights will be disturbing Matthew. He does not like noise and fuss. He will understand though. I will explain it to him. How I had to keep the child safe. How I owed it to him to do that.

I go back downstairs to the kitchen.

‘Is Mummy here yet?’

‘No.’

‘Is she looking for me in the park?’ the child asks.

‘Not right now, no. She’s gone home. The police are at the park. It isn’t safe.’

‘Why?’

‘Some big boys have been naughty.’

‘Are they the big boys who broke into Mummy’s car?’

‘I don’t know. But Mummy knows you’re safe here.’

She looks at me, her eyes heavy, a frown on her face.

‘I want Mummy.’

‘She’s asked me to look after you. Just till it’s safe to go back.’

‘But I want to go back now. I want to finish hide-and-seek.’

Her bottom lip is trembling. I know I need to act fast.

‘Let’s finish it here then. Were you hiding or seeking?’

‘Hiding,’ she says. ‘I’m very good at hiding.’

‘Show me then. Show me how good you are.’

‘Can you count to one hundred?’

I nod. She gets up from the kitchen chair. She should go and wash her hands first really, but I decide to let it go just this once.

‘You have to close your eyes,’ she says. ‘Till you get to one hundred. Or else it’s cheating.’

I put my hands over my face and start counting.

‘One, two, three . . .’ There is a little squeal and then soft footsteps running away.

Tuesday, 21 January 2014

Dad’s left. So that’s a good start to the year. Turns out he’s been screwing someone else, another lecturer at college. He tried to have a talk to me before he went, all man-to-man like. He sat me down and said something about people growing apart and finding they need someone new for a new phase of their lives. Like it’s OK to shag around as long as you’re approaching retirement and can use that as some kind of excuse. I mean it’s pathetic. He’s pathetic. And then he has the cheek to ask me to look after Mum. So I just turned to him and said, ‘I thought that was supposed to be your job?’ He didn’t say much after that, just mumbled something about not wanting this to spoil our relationship (as if we
have a relationship to spoil). I don’t really know what other people do with their dads; all I know is that I can’t remember doing much ‘stuff’ with him, apart from the odd bit of birdwatching at the reservoir when I was a kid. He’s this blurred figure in the background in most of my memories. It’s not just that he wasn’t around a lot of the time, but that he never actually did anything with me when he was. I don’t think he knew what dads were supposed to do. Or maybe he considered himself too intellectual to get down on his hands and knees and play with me. Anyway, not that it matters. He’s gone now. He said he’ll email me his new address when he got something permanent sorted out. I don’t know whether he will or not but to be honest I’m not that bothered. I’m not sure I’d want to see him anyway. I don’t know what we’d do or even what we’d talk about. I think the only shared interest we have is birds, and that’s like an interest from when I was ten, not from now. He couldn’t tell you anything about me: what music I’m into, what my favourite book is or my favourite film. Not one single thing. So I don’t really see what the point would be in going to see him.