Forget Me Not (11 page)

Her cheeks flush, but Cleo doesn’t say a thing. I’m not sure she’s even letting my words reach her. I suspect she doesn’t want to hear what I have to say. I carry on, hoping to have some impact.

‘I think your relationship with Ben might get in the way of his grief. Your presence in this house is a distraction, like putting a plaster over a deep wound. It may make him feel better in the short term, but in the long term it could lead to problems for both of you if you start a relationship so soon.’

‘What sort of problems?’ she says.

Her response is bizarre, as though she’s chosen not to hear half of what I’ve just said.

‘If you really have Ben’s best interests at heart,’ I say, ‘then wait a while. If it’s meant to be, it will happen. But not now, not while he’s still traumatized. You don’t want to be a temporary solution to his pain, do you?’

I’m trying to find something that will appeal to her rational side, something that will make her understand that it might be in her own interests to give Ben some space.

‘Vivien wouldn’t have waited,’ Cleo says. ‘Vivien always understood that if you want something, then it’s up to you to grab it by the throat.’

I’m angry now, because she has no respect for the loss this family has suffered. All I want is for her to leave. Right now, right this second.

Tonight, standing in front of me in my daughter’s home, Cleo no longer seems awkward or uneasy in her own skin. She is coming into her own. Like some sort of vulture, feeding off the corpse of my daughter.

Though I haven’t spoken, she has noticed the expression on my face.

‘Rose,’ she says, ‘please don’t be offended. You know me, I’m just being practical. I know Ben better than anyone, and he isn’t good at being alone. He’s a family man. And he is rich, attractive and still young. Think about it. He
will
marry again, it’s inevitable. I’m not going to stand aside and take the chance of losing him a second time. It’s in your interests to have me around too. I adore you. I’ll make sure you’re always an important part of Lexi’s life.’

I see now she wants it all. It’s not only Ben she’s interested in. She wants this house, she wants his child and perhaps she even wants me, too. A mother.

‘Cleo,’ I say, with what I think is admirable restraint, ‘it has been a difficult day. For now, what I want is for you to go home and leave us in peace. Please. If you respect me, as you say you do, then you will do as I ask.’

‘I didn’t mean to upset you,’ Cleo says. ‘That’s the last thing I’d ever want.’

‘Then put on your coat and your boots and go home.’

‘All right.’

I’m both relieved and surprised that she’s backed down so easily. She swigs the last of her wine, and clatters the glass back down. She brushes past me, grazing my shoulder as she leaves the room. She sits on the bottom step while she pulls on her boots, then she stands up and retrieves her still-damp coat from the cupboard.

‘I’m sorry if I’ve intruded tonight,’ she says. ‘I know my suffering is nothing compared to yours. And Ben’s and Lexi’s. Please forgive me.’

Before I have a chance to respond, she rushes towards me, takes me by the shoulders and kisses my cheek. I back away, and walk around her, towards the front door.

The combination of the wine and the pain in the right side of my head makes my stomach churn. It’s a relief when I pull open the front door and a rush of cold air engulfs me.

Cleo does not make eye contact as she leaves. She does not say goodbye. I watch as she walks slowly down the stairs and along the short pathway. As I press the buzzer to release the front gate, I already know she will not be able to stay away for long.

‘There you are,’ Wendy says.

Small and immaculate and always so light on her feet, she walks over to the window of Special Care where I am standing with Yusuf in my arms. He’s on my hip, facing outwards and sucking his fist, and we’re having a look at the cars down on Praed Street below.

Wendy pats Yusuf’s head, then she reaches into her pocket and pulls out my phone. ‘You left this in my office,’ she says, ‘and it’s been buzzing away. I thought it might be something important.’

She smiles and tries to look nonchalant, but she fails. My own heart plummets down into my gut as I see Ben’s name on the screen. I have five missed calls from my son-in-law. I was with Wendy the last time I missed his calls, too.

My arms shake as I pass Yusuf over to Wendy. She rocks him as she watches me. She’s scared too. I try to hit the right buttons, but I miss, my fingers seem to have swollen. Finally, I manage to dial Ben’s number.

‘Please pick up,’ I say out loud. ‘Please pick up.’

Yusuf senses our tension and he begins to grizzle in Wendy’s arms.

I don’t want to think about what might have happened to Lexi. I should never have left the house in the early hours of this morning. I should have stayed. But she had stayed asleep, all through the night, and I had to go home to pick up my uniform before my shift.

When Ben answers, he’s out of breath.

‘What’s happened?’ I say.

‘I have a situation here,’ he says, ‘and I wondered if you were free this afternoon to help out with Lexi.’

‘Of course. But is everything all right?’

‘The police have asked if they can come over to the house this afternoon, and I don’t want Lexi to be here when they arrive. I don’t want her to sense there’s anything to be afraid of. Could you pick her up from school?’

‘Yes. That’s no problem. So Lexi’s all right?’

‘Yes, I’m sorry, I should have let you know. She was absolutely fine this morning. I don’t think she remembers anything about last night. Thank you again for your help.’

I start to breathe normally again. I’m light-headed with relief.

‘There’s no need to thank me,’ I say.

‘So if you pick her up from school, then Isaac will fetch her from your flat later, around six.’

I hold the phone away from my ear, staring at the screen of logged calls, shocked. This all seems much too easy. I notice then that Ben’s wasn’t the only call I’d missed. Mrs Murad’s office has called me. Again.

‘Wendy, I’m so sorry,’ I say. ‘I have to leave early again today. Ben needs me to pick Alexandra up from school.’

‘Don’t worry about the ward,’ she says. ‘I’ll get cover for you.’

I feel a rush of gratitude. Cleo is wrong, I have not been alone all these years.

Wendy settles Yusuf in his cot. She lies him on his back and then she winds up the mobile that hangs over his head. Sounds of Bach fill the ward as the coloured animals begin to spin. On impulse I put my arms around her and I hug her, taking her by surprise.

Finishing time at the Endsleigh School is twenty past three and I make sure I arrive early. The red-brick Edwardian building is a cheerful place with a front door the colour of sunshine and children’s paintings strung up like bunting along the sash windows on the first floor. At my feet, the lines of a football pitch have been painted onto the asphalt.

Before long, the playground begins to fill up with mothers, nannies and au pairs; younger siblings hurtle down the slide and swing from the monkey bars on the climbing frame. I shove my rough hands deep inside the pockets of my coat, relieved to be behind oversized sunglasses which I don’t really need on this cloying and cloud-filled afternoon.

I imagine people are staring at me. The imposter. My granddaughter is eight years old and I’ve never set foot on the grounds of her school before. I haven’t been inside her classroom to admire her drawings and her projects. I haven’t attended a soggy sports day to watch as the other children win medals.

I smooth down my hair. Vivien was always so elegant, so petite in her signature fitted shirt and skinny jeans and her pale-pink lipstick. My daughter understood the need to present a certain image to the outside world. I don’t know who her friends are here. But I have already decided that if anyone does approach me, I am not going to answer any questions. There may be some people who cared about her and who mean well, but there will also be those who revel in the sordid details.

At long last, the doors of the school swing open and the children swarm out. It’s easy to pick my granddaughter out from the crowd because her bright curls shine and bounce even on this dull, dull day. She drags her Spiderman rucksack behind her as she scans the faces of the mothers, the nannies and the handful of fathers. She is a solid and slow-moving child, dazed in the middle of a sea of fast-moving bodies. She’s not expecting to see me and she walks right past, plodding on as though her bag is filled with lead.

I rush forwards and place a hand on her shoulder, holding her back.

‘Hello, Lexi,’ I say. My voice sounds unnaturally cheery.

She turns to look up at me with eyes that are gentle and mournful, eyes that remind me of Ben. Vivien’s eyes were always mischievous, even a little cunning.

‘Your dad asked me to fetch you today,’ I say.

Lexi blinks, with her almost-blonde lashes. I reach out my hand and although she hesitates at first, she reaches back and takes hold. I take her schoolbag and swing it onto my shoulder and walk on, grasping her hand with a smile fixed to my face. I imagine my every move under scrutiny and I try to focus only on her small hand, warming up inside mine. I ask about her day at school; I don’t think she answers. I guide her across the playground and towards the exit.

‘Do you feel like a hot chocolate?’ I say. ‘It feels like a hot chocolate sort of a day today, don’t you think? With marshmallows on top?’

I look down to find she’s staring at me with eager eyes and an almost-smile. Her smile is hesitant, the smile of a child who sees her grandmother as a benign stranger, rather than as the closest thing she now has to a mother.

I wonder if she remembers anything at all about last night.

We’ve made it; we’re outside the school gates. I feel better, more relaxed now there’s distance between us and them. Even so, I hold on to Lexi’s hand as firmly as I dare without hurting her.

She sits at my dining table in her school blazer and her pleated skirt. Her legs, in thick tights, kick back and forth under the table. Back and forth. Back and forth.

I am performing my special grandmother’s trick. Using a paring knife, I peel the orange in one smooth movement, so the skin comes away in a long spiral. Lexi is transfixed, she doesn’t say a word. When I have finished, I hand her the orange peel and then a Sharpie pen. With great care and concentration, she draws eyes and a forked tongue onto the skin of the orange. As she does, my eyes focus on the tiny needle-prick scars all over the back of her hands, the legacy of her time with us as a baby on the Weissman Unit.

Together, we have made a snake.

‘My granny used to make these for me,’ I say.

‘Did you make one for my mummy?’ She’s holding it carefully, cupped in her hands.

‘I did,’ I say.

I’m trying to remember. I must have done, surely, because this is the way I always peel oranges. Vivien and I must have sat at this table, next to each other, just like Lexi and I are now. Only, I can’t picture the way my daughter looked at eight years old.

I have these gaps in my memory and I don’t attribute them to age, but rather to distraction. I was always torn in different directions, between work and home; it was hard to simply focus on one thing. On sitting, as I am with Lexi, and being fully present.

Her expression still serious, Lexi lays the orange peel down carefully on the table. Her mug of hot chocolate is empty and only a faint chocolate moustache is left on her upper lip. I lean over and gently wipe away the brown marks with my fingertips.

Her legs still kick under the table, making a dull thudding sound against the table leg. She’s restless, but she’s so reserved, she won’t ask to leave the table until I invite her to. She’s compliant, as though the fire inside her has been extinguished. Or perhaps, she was always this way, a quiet girl.

I’m on high alert around her, watching for signs of anything different, anything wrong. So far, there is nothing obvious. Only, she does not smile since she lost her mother. And she doesn’t talk much at all.

‘Would you like to look at some photographs, of your mummy,’ I say, ‘when she was a little girl like you?’

Lexi nods.

The photograph albums stand in a row on the bottom shelf of my bookcase. They are older ones, with red covers and gold borders, and inside there are sticky-backed cardboard pages filled with colour photographs. Some of them have begun to fade.

Lexi and I sit together on the sofa. She draws her knees up and huddles next to me; she presses her body against mine. I choose the album with the photographs of Vivien in her ballet costumes: in class, before her exams, in recitals, with full stage make-up. The photograph Lexi looks at the longest, the one she likes best, is the one where Vivien is made up to look like a mouse, with pink ears and a long tail. Lexi traces the shape of her mother beneath the plastic covering.

There are also several photographs of Vivien in one of her dance classes, after school. She’s at the barre, in the community hall. Vivien is in sharp focus, but everything in the background, including the other girls, is blurred. Vivien is captured in different poses, in pliés, jetés, turning. She was so graceful, such a slender girl, and solemn, with large eyes and hollow cheeks, her head slightly too big for her small body.

I know I did not take these photographs. I don’t remember this class; I remember Vivien dressed as a mouse, and in a purple leotard as the Sugar Plum Fairy, but not like this. It must have been Cleo who made this tribute to her friend.

I hug Lexi closer to me. I feel at peace, with this child curled into my side. I want to ask her if she is in pain, but I cannot find the words. I tell myself she’s going to recover. That she can bear this. That although her mother is gone, I am here. I stroke her hair and I think how easy it is to love her.

By the time Isaac arrives to fetch her at six, we are both on the floor, kneeling beside the coffee table, drawing with felt-tips. Lexi has drawn a house – a fairly standard one with a square for the body of it and a triangle for the roof. But she takes great care over the garden, drawing several large pink flowers and then a black cat with whiskers. My job is to colour in the petals of the flowers with a light-pink colour. Lexi gives the cat two large and startled green eyes. So far, there are no people in her world.