While My Eyes Were Closed (9 page)

‘And forensics need a toothbrush or hairbrush and something with her scent on too. An item of clothing.’

‘Right,’ I say, trying hard to keep my voice from
breaking. ‘Tony, give them her red toothbrush from the bathroom and her
Frozen
pyjamas. They’ll be on her bed.’

He looks at me, nods and swallows hard. I’m glad he’s going now. I’m not sure I could cope if he started crying.

Tony walks off with the copper. Dad turns straight to me. ‘I can’t believe you let them do that.’

‘They’re trying to find her, Dad.’

‘No, they’re not. They’re trying to pin this on us. Just because we live in Mixenden.’

‘I don’t live in Mixenden.’

‘No, but we do, and that’s good enough for them. You see this on the telly, don’t you? Cops trying to fit someone up just because they come from the wrong side of the tracks. They’ve probably seen that your brother’s got previous by now.’

‘Jeez, don’t be so bloody paranoid. They’re just doing their job. I don’t care what they do. They can turn the whole place upside down as far as I’m concerned. As long as they find her, I really don’t give a shit.’

Dad looks down and scuffs the grass with his shoe. I know now where Tony gets it from.

*

It’s nearly seven when Alex texts me to say he’s here. Dad has gone off searching the streets again. I wonder if I should warn Alex that the park is still crawling with coppers. He probably won’t have thought about that – I know I wouldn’t have if it was me turning up
like this when everyone else has been here for hours. But before I can do anything about it, I see a figure running up from the far end of the park. I know instantly it is him because he’s crap at running, always has been. It’s not lack of speed; he simply looks weird running, something to do with the way he brings his knees up. I used to take the piss out of the way he ran on the treadmill at the gym. Although as I look at him now, the only thing I feel is an overwhelming sense of love.

He runs straight into my arms, almost knocking me off my feet, and holds me, holds me tighter than he has ever done in his life. So tight that he manages to squeeze some fresh tears out of me. When at last I look up, I see that his eyes are red too.

‘She’s gone,’ I say. ‘Someone’s taken her.’

‘We don’t know that for sure.’

‘Then why are you crying?’

Alex scrunches up his face and looks up at the sky. ‘I didn’t want to think it; I wanted to believe she’d just wandered off. But when I got here and saw all the police . . .’ His voice trails off and he shakes his head.

I look up at the sky again and blink hard. ‘Someone’s taken her.’

‘Even if they have, we’ll get her back. We need to be positive, to keep strong for her sake.’

‘Well I’ve been trying to be strong since it happened
because I’ve had to deal with all this crap myself in the middle of the park with other people gawping at me, and right now I don’t want to be strong any more, right now I want to bawl my fucking eyes out.’

He nods, pulls me back close to him and lets me do exactly that.

The sirens keep coming. I had no idea the mother would make such a fuss. She couldn’t be bothered to look after her child when she had her, but now the girl has gone she is trying to ease her guilt. She knows it is her fault, you see. Knows that she has neglected her child and now she is trying to save face. That is what it is like these days. People don’t care about their actions until they are caught. Until someone else is pointing the finger, and then all the excuses come out. Suddenly they are the doting parent who has had this terrible thing happen to them. She will insist it is not her fault – it never is. The police will find out though. It will take time, of course. The police won’t say what they have found straight away. There will be a lot of sympathy for the mother at the beginning, but the truth will come
out in the end. And when it does, and only then, I will take the child back. Will explain that I have been acting
in loco parentis
. They will thank me then. Too few people are prepared to do their public duty these days. Everybody walks by on the other side of the street. Not that I want thanks. I was simply doing the right thing. And as soon as they understand that, I will hand the child over. Not to the mother, for they will have found her unfit by then, but to the authorities. They will have to decide what to do with her. For now I am her guardian. And as such it is my duty to take care of her properly.

I move away from the landing window and go back downstairs to the lounge, where the child is playing with Melody. It is such a help that she loves the cat. I fear it would have been very hard to settle her otherwise.

‘I want to go back to park now,’ she says as I enter the room.

‘Your mother has asked me to look after you for a little longer. It isn’t safe for you to go back, you see.’

‘Are the big boys still being naughty?’

‘Yes. Yes, they are.’

‘Is Daddy coming to pick me up?’

‘Not this evening, no. They’ve asked me to look after you tonight. You can sleep in Matthew’s room.’

The child starts crying. ‘I want to go home.’

I walk over and crouch down next to her. ‘You can stay and play with Melody.

‘I want Charlie’s birthday cake.’

‘Who’s Charlie?’

‘Charlie Wilson. I went to his party. His cake is in my party bag. Mummy’s got it in her car. And she’s got my balloon. Did you see my red balloon?’

I shake my head, and the child’s face falls further.

‘How about I make you crumpets for breakfast in the morning?’

‘I want my balloon. Mummy’s got it.’

My hand is on her shoulder. Her body is shaking. I hold her to me. For a moment she resists, her body rigid. And then it gives. Her arms loop in turn around my neck as she sobs into my shoulder. Her warm tears dampen my blouse. My left hand is rubbing her back, the other tight around her. I smell her. Breathe her in. The sweetness of her youth mixed with the dust and heat of the day. I ache inside because I know that she needs me. Needs me in a way that Matthew doesn’t any more.

‘How about I run you a nice warm bath after tea? I’m sure you’ll feel better after a bath.’

She nods, snot dripping from her nose.

‘Let me get you a hanky,’ I say. I return from the kitchen and hand her a pale blue cotton handkerchief embroidered with seashells. She looks at it and back to me, a frown creasing her brow.

‘To blow your nose,’ I say. The frown increases. I realise she has never seen a proper handkerchief before. ‘Like a tissue,’ I continue. I take it back from her and
hold it over her nose. She sniffs rather than blows. I wipe her nose anyway, fold the handkerchief and hand it back to her.

‘You can keep it in your pocket, in case you need it again.’ She looks down. She hasn’t got a pocket, of course.

‘Never mind,’ I say, taking it back from her. ‘I’ll look after it for you. Now, what would you like for tea?’

‘SpongeBob Squarepants pasta,’ she says.

‘Right, well I have various pastas but not that one, I’m afraid. Would you like pasta tubes or twists?’

‘Tubes,’ she replies. ‘With tomato sauce.’

I nod.

‘And cheese on top.’

‘I’ll see what I can do.’

‘Can I watch TV now?’

‘I’m afraid not.’

‘I always watch TV while Mummy’s cooking tea. She lets me.’

‘I don’t have a television, my dear. I don’t find I need one.’

The girl stares at me, incredulous. They use them as babysitters, you see. Dump their children in front of the box and do whatever it is that is more pressing than looking after them.

‘Is it in other room?’ she asks, looking towards the door.

‘No, I really don’t have one. Go and see for yourself.’

She gets up and trots through to the other room. A few minutes later she returns, tears streaming down her face.

‘Good heavens, let’s not get into a state about it. It is possible to survive without television, you know.’

The crying intensifies. Clearly I need diversionary tactics.

‘Why don’t I go and get you one of Matthew’s toys to play with?’ She looks up momentarily. I take this as a yes.

‘I’ll go and have a look upstairs and see what I can find. You stay here with Melody.’

I walk up the stairs and past Matthew’s bedroom. There are no toys left in there, of course. But as he grew out of things I took them up to the box room, partly because I couldn’t bear to part with them and partly for my grandchildren. Older toys are so much better than the rubbish you get nowadays. And quality lasts, unlike all of that plastic tat people’s houses are full of today.

I pause at the top of the next flight of stairs. It is a long time since I have gone into this room and I have to steal myself to do it.

I open the door halfway and squeeze inside. It is like entering a museum of Matthew’s childhood, albeit a rather chaotic and muddled museum in desperate need of a curator. The exhibits may not be neatly labelled and displayed in cases but they are organised inside my head. And I have a clear picture in my mind of each thing being used or played with by Matthew. Why, I can
practically date them all: Rocky the rocking horse (Matthew was admittedly not very original with names), with him sitting astride it wearing a cowboy hat, Christmas 1999; pair of stilts, Matthew standing on them in shorts and black plimsolls, a huge grin on his face, summer 2002; Monopoly, Matthew staring intently at the board, desperately trying to work out how to beat his father, 2004. The list goes on, the shutter firing inside my head as each captured image comes sharply into focus. I stop and catch my breath, run my hand across his little easel before glancing down at the chalk dust on my fingers. It all comes to dust in the end. Memories and dust.

In the distance I hear more sirens. I peer out of the tiny window. I can’t understand where all the police are coming from. You certainly never see them in Halifax town centre when you need them. The park is usually quieter at this time in the evening, a lull in activity while the children have their tea before a final play outside. Matthew will be worried. He doesn’t like noise or upset, changes in routine. I know he will be hiding in the trees, seeking sanctuary in the folds of the cloak they provide. He may be rocking and singing to himself, but no harm will come to him there. I wish I could go to him but I can’t. The child needs me. And I need to stay here to protect the child.

I turn, and a flash of red ribbon in the corner of the room catches my eye. The bottom half of my face breaks
into a smile. The top half, still preoccupied, reluctantly allows itself to follow. I step over an abacus and the easel and reach out to grab the extended paw. The rest of it comes out easily. Mr Boo. It has been such a long time. I hold the bear to me before examining him more carefully. The red ribbon around his neck is frayed a little, the stitching is loose around his left arm, and the fur is worn in places but probably no worse than I remember. And that was always part of his charm. Matthew adored him, right from when he was tiny. It was my mother who gave the bear to him, I think on his first Christmas.

I pick my way back towards the door and down the stairs. When I get to the landing I hear the child crying, having obviously worked herself up into a state. I hurry down the last flight of stairs and back into the lounge.

‘Now, if you dry your eyes and stop this nonsense,’ I say with the bear still behind my back, ‘I’ve got a present for you’. The tears stop instantly. I produce Mr Boo and hold it out to her. A smile breaks across her face. They are as maddening and inconsistent as our weather, children. But this is one of those rainbow moments. And I feel a satisfaction from having quelled the deluge. A satisfaction I haven’t felt for a long time.

‘His name is Mr Boo,’ I say. ‘He was Matthew’s favourite toy when he was your age.’

She takes the bear and hugs him to her. ‘Will Matthew want him back?’

‘No. He’s yours to keep. You can take him to bed with you tonight.’

‘Iggle Piggle,’ she says in an uncertain voice. ‘I take Iggle Piggle to bed with me.’

I look up at the ceiling to compose myself. ‘Not here you don’t. Here you will have Mr Boo.’

She hesitates before replying.

‘Can I take him home with me tomorrow?’

It is my turn to hesitate. I believe in being honest with children where possible, but having stemmed the flow of tears, I have no desire to start it up again.

‘Like I said, he’s yours to keep.’

She hugs him to her and lowers her head to talk to him in the same sing-song voice which Matthew used. I watch for a moment – the curl of the fingers, the dimples, the very colour of the hair.

‘Right, well, you tell Mr Boo a story while I go and make your tea.’

I go to the kitchen, fill the kettle and flick up the switch, before going through to the dining room and laying the table, aware of the enormous pleasure it gives me to be laying it for two.

*

Later that evening, while the bath is running, I go to the guest room and start going through the large chest of drawers. I kept some of Matthew’s clothes as well. Most of them, actually. Certainly the ones from when he was little. I know the exact pair of pyjamas I am
looking for. White cotton with stars and rockets on them and red cuffs which I always worried would run in the wash but never did. I find them at the back of the bottom drawer. They are rather crumpled. Normally I would iron them but I do not want to delay things any longer. The child is still playing with Mr Boo, but I have a feeling that the dam could burst again at any moment and it is therefore best to whisk her along from one thing to the next. To not give her the time to dwell.

I turn the light off and head back to the bathroom, where I pop the pyjamas over the radiator as I always used to do for Matthew, only to remember that, being August, the heating isn’t on. That is the trouble with summer. The evenings may be balmy but there is nothing like having your pyjamas warmed on a radiator.

I pull up the sleeve of my blouse and check the bath water. I am not a believer in having the water cooler because it is summer. Matthew always liked a hot bath, even in the middle of a heatwave.