Go to Sleep (26 page)

And he’s managed to crank an extra level of panic into his: ‘Are you okay?’ every time he picks up the phone to me. If it weren’t for Jan quietly reining him in, forever reassuring him that I’m coping, I’m
more
than coping, no doubt he’d be camped outside my front door on a round-the-clock vigil. He’d never admit it, but Dad hasn’t
yet forgiven himself that he didn’t twig. Or worse, that he did twig – and did nothing about it. Jan surprised me though, on every level. The moment she found out, she was on the first flight back from Malawi, and she didn’t duck it – any of it.

‘Rachel. My God. Can you ever forgive me?’

She held me for ages, told me she’d known, she’d guessed, but felt she had no licence to interfere. She couldn’t – I wouldn’t let her – help me.

They moved in for a while, but it was Jan who really took care of house and home. She was the one who cooked, did the laundry and the shopping, paid the bills, and in the dead of the night when my shrieks woke me up it was Jan who held me, rocked me, let my sobs roll through her, over and over. But, in time, and as I started to mend, the inflections of our relationship shifted. Jan became less my protector, more my therapist, my sounding board, as the confessions and submerged horrors and misconceptions spewed out of me. I spilled it all: Ruben, Dad, Mum, my Joe. I didn’t spare Jan herself, told her how much I’d resented her all those years, resented my father. I purged myself of everything. Our relationship shifted again.

Jan is my ally now, my mate – my sometime dinner date. I love the way she thinks, her razor tongue, her skewed sense of humour. And Christ but I’ve needed it these past few months, the pure and simple release of laughter. But even these snatched moments are shadowed
by a nagging betrayal, a twinge of guilt, and sometimes I still find myself beached – cowering and squirming under the unbearable weight of what I’ve done, what I did. None of it was my fault – I know that now. And yet it
did
happen. It did. I doubt the enormity of that will ever leave me.

*

I round the corner into my road and the scene stills me for a moment. The weather has brought life to the streets, everyone smiling and laughing, beatific with the sunshine. It feels like a proper little neighbourhood again, and I want to freeze-frame the image and store it or put it on my wall. I’ve felt many things about this place, but I’ve seldom felt the sense of pride and stability that’s sweeping through me now. This feels . . . for ever, somehow. I smile, pumping purpose into my stride as I cross the road and head up my path. This is me, now; this is where home is.

*

The sun streams into my front room and I’m suddenly aware of the space, the lack of chaos and clutter, the absence of Joe’s smell. I turn on the radio and fill the void with music, some summery, jangly indie refrain that my kids were all singing last year. I crank it up a notch
and then another. The panic leaks away, and in its wake I feel a swell of liberation as I sway and spin across the expanse of wooden floor, using every available inch, flailing my arms, letting the feel-good riff of the guitar bounce me round and round till I’m breathless. The song ends and I catch sight of my face in the mirror, flushed, excited, nervous. I giggle. It’s almost time.

I shower, wash my hair and enjoy the abrasive wheat germ in the soap as I polish myself all over. I feel a bit silly, and I vacillate about shaving my legs, but I succumb and grope for the razor. Now – what to wear. What to wear? I lay out two knee-length dresses on the bed, one lilac and floaty and floral, the other an off-white, simple A-line. Today I feel like being pretty. I want to look strong and womanly and girly all at the same time.

I keep a careful eye on the bedside clock as I put on moisturiser and mascara and pop back to brush my teeth. I dunk my finger in the pot of Vaseline and slide it back and forth across my lips, picking out their shape, pleased with what I see.
Not bad, Rachel, not bad at all. You scrub up quite well
. I blush back at myself as I run a brush through my hair and gargle with mouthwash. I want to look my very best for this.

*

Once outside on the wide open street I can no longer contain my excitement. The knowledge that half a mile
down the road he’s there, waiting for me, is almost too much to bear and my feet give way to an involuntary skip. Every so often I have to slow myself down, grip my handbag tight to steady myself against the lurch of my heart. I see myself in the eyes of strangers and I know I must look like a lovestruck teenager. I am, and I don’t even care. I don’t care who knows. I deserve this. I’ve waited so long for this moment. And, God, I have never felt need like this – for flesh,
his
flesh, and his smell and the feel of his skin upon mine. I swing left and into the shadow of the towering cathedral, rippling in the heat haze, and a flicker of doubt nags at me, sucks at my pace. How will he be when he sees me? Nervous? Shy? Tearful? What if he just shuns me?

I’m turning into his street now and everything is fast and blurred and pumping in my chest. I feel faint and unsteady as I climb the three steps, droplets of sweat breaking out from my skin. I pause, breathe in, breathe out. Steady, Rachel. Don’t let it show.

His door. I feel my breath against my clammy hand as I knock, twice.

My heartbeat is audible above the footsteps coming towards me.

The door opens up.

‘Hello, Rachel.’

‘Hello.’

‘Come on in. He’s down here, waiting for you . . .’

She half beckons for me to follow her, but I know
where he is. I push past her, smiling a brief apology. I barge right into the room, I don’t care if my cool has gone – and there he is. There’s nothing I can do to stop the sharp howl of pleasure that spurts from my mouth.

I’m on him in a flash, holding him, kissing him, wanting to strip him there and then so I can feel him properly, slurp him up. We spin across the room and it’s there in his eyes. Oh yes, he’s missed me too.

The lady is standing in front of us, smiling. We stop spinning.

‘I’m sorry I haven’t had time to fill in his form yet, Rachel. But Joe has had a lovely morning. He cried for a few minutes after you left, but he settled down just fine and he’s done very well indeed, for his first day. He drank all his milk, ate all his puréed vegetables. He’s even got a little friend.’ She gestures to a little blonde girl attempting to roll on a fat, padded mat, then dips her head back down towards us.

‘We’ll see you tomorrow then, Joe.’

He seems to know her. He grins his little dimpled smile and his eyes sparkle. From the end of the corridor the buzzer sounds again and I use this as my exit music. I can’t wait to get my little man out of here, so I can smell him and kiss him again and again and again.

I am deeply indebted to my editor, Anya Serota, for pushing me to places I might not have ventured otherwise. I am also grateful to Ailah Ahmed, Jonny Geller, Melissa Pimentel and Angela Robertson for feedback, and to Debbie Hatfield for the benefit of her eagle-eyes. I would also like to thank Aimee Simprie and Gaynor Forster for propping me up during the first few weeks of motherhood, and Rachel Tolhurst, Patricia Ashun, Carole Campbell, Zoe Massey, Carole de Asha, Audrey Hughes, Stephanie Ebanks, Sarah Jane, Anne Harding and Lauren Storrar for friendship and a tale or two from the front line. Various sources were called upon to research the trauma of vaginal labour but I would like to acknowledge two texts in particular, Kate Mosse’s
Becoming a Mother
and Silvia Feldman’s
Choices in Childbirth
. And especial thanks to the exceptional
woman that is my mother, and to Kevin, who stayed up all through the night and was ‘always pleased to see him.’