‘Rob, Ruby’s gone!’
‘What do you mean gone?’ He’d never heard Louisa squeal before. He took the stairs two at a time.
‘She’s not in her room. Not anywhere.’ Louisa ran quickly from door to door on the landing, shoving each one open.
‘OK, don’t panic. Maybe she went to school.’ Robert ran downstairs and called Greywood College. He hung up and shook his head. He tried Ruby’s mobile number but it went straight to her voicemail. He left a message instructing her to call home as soon as possible.
‘She’ll be OK,’ Louisa offered. ‘Wherever she’s gone, it’ll just be to clear her head.’
An hour later and Robert couldn’t take it any more. He paced back and forth, struggling to block out what was happening to his family.
At noon, Louisa telephoned James in the university’s human genetics department. The results weren’t ready although he confirmed viable specimens.
They spent the day waiting, talking, watching the phone, listening for the sound of footsteps in the front porch, a key in the lock. By five o’clock, Robert was desperate.
‘Of course!’ He landed the heel of his hand on his forehead. ‘She’ll be with
him
.’ Already he was gathering his keys, jacket, phone. ‘What’s the date?’
‘The twenty-first. Why?’
‘She was invited to a summer solstice party at Art’s house.’ He sighed heavily, not knowing whether to be concerned for his daughter’s day-long absence or the company she would be keeping.
‘Do you know the address?’ Louisa gathered her own belongings and slipped her arms into a thin knit cardigan. ‘I’ll leave my laptop switched on in case James emails the DNA results.’ She placed a hesitant hand on Robert’s arm. ‘It won’t be long.’
Robert stared at the holiday-brochure sky as they stood on the front step of his house. ‘I haven’t got a clue where Art lives.’ He clapped his arms hopelessly against his sides but then strode off with the confidence of a man who knew where he was going. He bleeped the Mercedes unlocked. ‘Hurry. We have to get to Ruby’s school before they close for the night.’
On the way, Robert made a futile and anonymous call to the school secretary, who, as he thought, refused to give out pupils’ personal information. He wove dangerously through commuter traffic to Greywood College. Only two cars remained in the staff car park and Robert didn’t hesitate in barging straight into the empty corridors of the school and yelling out for someone, anyone.
A teacher that Robert didn’t know casually emerged from a classroom, sliding a pair of glasses from his nose. ‘Can I help you?’
‘Yes you can. I need the telephone number of a pupil.
Now
. It’s urgent and the police are involved.’ Robert heard Louisa let out a little gasp at his lie. The police should be involved, he thought.
‘Go to the office. You might find the secretary still there. Second corridor on the left, third door down.’ The teacher limped away, leaving a faint smell of Scotch in his wake.
They headed for the office and when no one replied to their knock, they went in.
‘Looks like she’s still in the building.’ Robert pointed to the white sweater draped over the typist’s chair, a cup of tea still steaming, a handbag on the floor. The computer glowed in the small room.
‘Allow me.’ Louisa quickly navigated her way around the desktop. Within thirty seconds, she had pulled up a pupil database. Robert stood half in and half out of the office, keeping watch.
‘What’s his surname?’
Robert shrugged, still fixed on the corridor. ‘God knows. Can’t you just search for Art? He’s here on a scholarship.’
‘Why didn’t you say?’ Louisa grinned and opened a list of pupils who had been awarded assisted places. There were about thirty names on the list. ‘Art Gallway, 23 Meakin Avenue.’ Louisa wrote down the full address on a Post-It and returned the monitor to its previous display.
‘Oh,’ said the secretary. She was clutching an armful of files. Robert blocked the doorway.
‘So sorry to invade your office,’ Louisa chirped, easing Robert out of the way. She slipped the piece of paper into her leather shoulder bag. ‘We were after a school prospectus. Do you have one?’
After a cautious beat, a quick glance to each of their hands to confirm they hadn’t lifted anything from her office, the secretary managed a small smile. ‘Of course,’ she said and handed them a bundle of brochures and forms from a rack in the corner.
After Robert and Louisa had left, when the secretary sat down on her chair, she noticed that it was warm.
Louisa entered the postcode into the satnav and Robert pulled away from Greywood College, narrowly missing a large van.
‘Same to you too,’ he yelled and swung the Mercedes in a wide U-turn. ‘Of course,’ he said in his normal voice, ‘we don’t know that she’ll be at Art’s house. Next stop Brighton, otherwise.’
They drove through London for twenty minutes, heading south of the river to a part of town neither of them knew. About a hundred years ago, Meakin Avenue would have been a desirable place to live. Dilapidated and derelict Edwardian houses sat neglected in a wide street.
‘You should look at buying here,’ Louisa commented, scanning the once-impressive buildings. ‘Really,’ she added seriously although she knew that Robert couldn’t think of investments at a time like this. ‘There, number twenty-three.’ She pointed to a house with hundreds of candles burning in the tall windows. Their light was virtually unnoticeable in the solstice sun.
It’s the longest day, Robert thought.
The longest day of my life
.
They parked, walked up the short, weed-littered path and banged on the front door.
‘Hardly surprising,’ Robert commented when no one answered. Loud music made the windows rattle, the foundations shift. The landslide of voices indicating a party in full swing prompted Robert to try the handle of the weathered front door. It gave and opened.
Louisa followed close behind Robert as they entered the darkened domain. They waded through a sea of bodies, some upright, some sitting on the floor with their backs against the wall. Others were slumped on the stairs, drinking from cans, smoking reefers, oblivious, apart from a casual glance, of the strangers who had just entered the house.
Robert would have called out Ruby’s name but knew it was futile amid the mess of sound. As they went deeper into the house, part of him wanted to pick up a drink, take hold of a second-hand joint, let his body fuse into the crowd and forget Erin forever. He reached behind him and took Louisa’s hand.
Forgetting Erin, even for a second, was impossible.
‘Do you know where Art is?’ Robert yelled at a youth sprawled on a dirty sofa. The boy shrugged and grinned inanely. Someone turned up the volume of the music. Robert trawled on, studying each person they passed. There were all sorts at this party, young and old, most of them travellers or drop-outs, New Age types with congealed hair and flowing clothes.
With his heart quickening and still towing Louisa, Robert went into the kitchen. There was a spread of food on an old pine table, interspersed with tea lights. Two men were filling their plates with bean salads and flatbread.
‘Rob, look.’ Louisa tugged Robert’s fingers. He turned to where she was pointing.
In the back garden, Robert saw a cluster of teenagers, some embracing, some dancing with their hands high above their heads, and some swigging from cans, sucking on cigarettes. Ruby tossed back her hair and laughed before wrapping her arms round Art’s neck. Robert marched outside.
‘Ruby!’ He pulled the pair apart. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Hey, Pops,’ Art said. ‘Weren’t you young once?’ He buried a hand in his pocket. Robert tensed.
‘It’s OK,’ Louisa interrupted. ‘Just leave it, Rob. At least we’ve found her.’
‘Time to go, young lady.’ Simple words that Robert never had the chance to practise, making him feel even more of a fake father. What right did he have to order her to do anything? She didn’t even belong to her mother, let alone him.
‘Go where?’ Ruby struggled like a fish being landed.
‘To see your mother,’ Robert replied.
It was only when they were all in the car that Robert wondered which one.
THIRTY
I was right. Jo-Jo’s bottom is sodden. She is lying completely naked on the soft carpet in the bedroom I’d reserved for Sarah’s baby. She’s a little padded prawn, the colour of lightly boiled shellfish.
I really don’t know what has happened to Sarah. She promised that she’d stop by and show me her new baby. But no matter now. Jo-Jo dribbles pale yellow pee on the carpet. I scoop her up and take her to the bathroom. One hand is pressed under her puckered bottom, the other spread across her weak back. Like I used to hold Natasha.
I turn on the bath taps, drizzle in a dose of bubble bath and prop her on my lap while we wait. I just want to get her clean.
When she’s in the bath, Jo-Jo begins to scream. She’s obviously not used to being washed. I’m kneeling down, my back aching over the side of the bath, swishing water over her protruding belly and supporting her head with my other hand. I take a face cloth and begin to scrub at the lines of dirt on her neck.
Her mother hasn’t taken very good care of her and that’s why I don’t feel bad that I’ve taken Jo-Jo. The woman has four other children, probably all dirty as well, so I bet she’s relieved that I’ve unburdened her. It’s one less baby to smack.
Jo-Jo is shrieking and howling, her little milk-furred tongue quivering inside her red mouth. Her cry warbles through my head, bringing back memories. Nightmares.
After her bath, I wrap her in a warm towel and hug her to my chest. I dance about until she stops crying and then take her back into her bedroom. It’s Jo-Jo’s room now. I tape her into a nappy and wriggle her into one of the velvet sleep suits from the stash I made ready for Sarah’s baby. The sleep suit’s a bit of a tight squeeze because it’s meant for a newborn. So her toes don’t curl, I snip the seam of the foot open.
She screams again. I think she’s hungry so I lay her in the straw basinet and go to the kitchen to see what I’ve got. The cake that I spat out is still on the floor. Something smells bad. I think it’s the rubbish bin. I have some semi-skimmed milk in the fridge, showing use-by yesterday. It will have to do for now, until I can buy some proper baby milk. I haven’t got a bottle so I pour some into a bowl, warm it in the microwave and then take the bowl and a teaspoon back up to Jo-Jo’s room. She is still screaming.
I pick her up and balance her on my knee, supporting her back in the crook of my arm. I spoon up a tiny bit of milk and brush it against her lips. She’s silent for a second and then bats the spoon away, spilling the milk down her clean suit.
‘Oh, Natasha!’
The baby stares up at me silently, big wet eyes. She gums a grin and then squeals. I reach for a soft fluffy duck and press it against her palm. She grapples for it, holds the toy for a second but then drops it. She screams. I try another spoonful of milk but the same thing happens. This goes on for another ten minutes and the baby consumes none of the milk. I have to change her suit because she’s in such a mess. The whole time, she is bawling.
‘Shut up!’ I shriek. I clap my hand over my mouth when I realise this was not a nice thing to say. ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’ I press her face against my shoulder so that her wails are smothered. ‘Let’s go into the garden. The fresh air and sunshine will do you good.’
That’s what Sheila always used to say. Fresh air is good for babies. I mull over all the advice she gave me when I was pregnant and soon after Natasha was born. I wish I’d taken it. It’s not just the guilt from losing my baby that torments me but the little things, the things I could have done better that haunt me. But none of it seems so bad any more, now that I have another baby. I scoop her up and carry her into the garden.
The grass needs cutting. It’s knee high and I’m not one for flowers or shrubs. There’s a craggy old apple tree down the end but I never eat the fruit. The apples are sour and full of maggots or mottled with scaly brown patches. My garden is only as wide as my house, about twelve feet, although nearly a hundred feet long and has a wire fence on either side separating it from my neighbours’ neat strips.
‘One day, Tash, I’ll get it sorted. We’ll have to nag Daddy into getting the mower out, won’t we?’ I tickle her cheeks and for the first time she laughs. Her eyes are slits from the sun.
I pick my way through the long grass, tracking a wide arc around the concrete slab covering the old well, and sit down in the shade of the apple tree.
The baby nestles in my crossed legs, on her back, staring up at me, gnawing on her hand. Thick, clear saliva coats her chin. I wipe it off with the hem of my long skirt.
The sun is warm on my back. My neck is stiff from having slept on the floor and no amount of fingering the knotted muscles makes the pain ease. I gaze down my long garden to the house and smile as I notice the pale yellow curtains in the open bedroom window snapping in the breeze.
But my peace is shattered by the baby’s wails. She squirms on my legs and plops off into the grass. Her cries are even more frantic so I pick her up by the shoulders and march her back indoors.
‘I think you need a sleep, Miss Natasha.’ I deposit her upstairs in the basinet and bang the door shut.
She screams and screams and I slump down on the landing, my back against the wall, my legs and hands aquiver because I’ve finally got my baby back.
THIRTY-ONE
Robert bundled Ruby into the Mercedes. She spat and cussed at being dragged from the party.
‘Quit the wild-cat routine, Rube.’ He adjusted the rear-view mirror so he didn’t have to witness her poisoned expression. He deflected the ‘I hate you’ and ‘You’ve ruined my life’ with an imaginary squash racquet. She was thirteen. It was normal.
‘Just take me back to the party, yeah?’ Ruby poked a knee into the back of Robert’s seat. ‘I’m allowed to go to a freaking party. Do you know how much you embarrassed me?’ But the remark that hit Robert’s jaw hardest was when she spat, ‘You’re not my real father. You can’t tell me what to do.’