‘How naughty of her to wander off like that! Still, I’m sure she hasn’t gone far. Do you know, this reminds me of something.’ And I start to chant it, quite quietly, as we walk through the shadowy shrubbery, though I haven’t thought of this poem for years and years – not since Sophie was tiny.
James James
Morrison Morrison
Weatherby George Dupree
Took great
Care of his mother
Though he was only three,
James James said to his mother,
‘Mother,’ he said, said he;
‘You must never go down to the end of the town
If you don’t go down with me.’
James James
Morrison’s mother
Put on her golden gown,
James James Morrison’s mother
Drove to the end of the town,
James James Morrison’s mother
She said to herself, said she:
‘I can get right down to the end of the town
And be back in time for tea.’
He’s wondering whether to cry now. I can feel him slowing down, wanting to protest, knowing this feels wrong, so I say, ‘Look, I’ve got some chocolate, would you like some?’ and when I say this I see him brighten slightly, rallied by greed, and I think:
OK, good
, and we keep walking uphill, along the dark enclosing avenue of trees, away from the playground, while I say, ‘I’m sure it’s in here,’ and make a big show of reaching down and rummaging in my bag. ‘I know it’s in here somewhere! Oh goodness, where have I put it? Silly old me! Do you like chocolate? What sort of sweeties do you like best?’
‘Jelly snakes,’ he says, finally. I’m not sure if it’s shyness that took him so long, or an inability to decide, to commit.
‘I bet I’ve got some jelly snakes at home,’ I say. ‘Strawberry ones. Lemony ones. Which are your favourite? I tell you what, let’s go and get you some jelly snakes first, and then we’ll find your mummy.’
He’s looking over his shoulder now, back the way we’ve come, in the direction of the abandoned scooter and the playground, knowing something odd is happening; but again it’s such a weak instinct, overpowered by greed and that courteous impulse not to offend.
‘I think the purple ones are the best,’ I say, taking a firmer hold on his mittened hand, pulling him along, quite gently. ‘They taste like blackberries. Do you like those ones?’
On we go, along the secret perimeter of the park, as the dusk rises and the temperature drops. As we come out into the open and pass the huge rhododendron bushes by the top gate, an old man steps into view – but he’s facing away from us, watching as his dog rolls and tumbles after a ball, so we’re safe.
As we pass through the gate, I hear someone shouting far away on the other side of the park – a high voice, strident, frightened, quite carrying – so I carry on talking, chattering away, keeping him busy. ‘Not far now. This is my street. I wonder if my cat will be at home. Do you like cats? He’s called Henry. He’s very friendly, as long as you don’t pull his tail. I’m sure you wouldn’t pull his tail, would you?
‘Ah, here we are. Home!’ I say, glancing up and down the street, checking to see if anyone’s sitting in a car, about to hop out or drive off, and wondering if anyone’s watching me from a bay window. ‘Up here, come in,’ I say, and he’s holding back a little, so I take his hand again, firmly, and lift it, half-dragging him up the stone steps. I get him inside, and then I shut the door.
Sophie’s out at orchestra so the place is empty. All dark. I switch on some lights and zip off his coat, tugging it down his arms while he stands there, unsure. The mittens come off with it, dangling on their greying elastic: open beseeching palms. I hang the coat over the newel post at the bottom of the staircase. ‘OK, let’s get you those sweets,’ I say. And then, quickly, before he can say it, ‘And then we’ll find your mummy. How careless of her to get lost like that! Never mind, she won’t be far away. Don’t worry, we’ll find her. I’ll help you.’
When I’ve performed the pantomime of banging through drawers and cupboards and have told him that I can’t find the jelly snakes, he’s disappointed; but accepts the consolation prize of Smarties, on standby for Sophie’s emergency cupcakes. He sits on the floor working his way solemnly through the tube, his fingertips colouring up like bruises, quite silent and apparently content, while I have a cup of tea and check my emails. Henry appears at the kitchen window and Christopher goes very still as I let him in, as I pick him up and carry him over, giving instructions: ‘Always start at the head, nice and gentle, don’t be scared, he won’t bite, yes, that’s right, look, he loves that, he loves being tickled under his chin.’ After a while, I can see Christopher is enjoying himself. I look at this little boy in his cords and tractor sweatshirt, sitting on my kitchen floor, with an empty glass of milk at his side, playing with my cat, and it’s a lovely sight. It does me good.
I check my watch. Half an hour. Long enough. I put my mug and Christopher’s glass in the dishwasher, and wipe Christopher’s hands and face, then I call the local police station. ‘A little boy, he says his name is Christopher and he says he’s almost three, I just found him on the front steps of my house in Pakenham Gardens, just above the park. No idea how long he’d been there, he was playing with my cat.’ I give my name and contact details, and I listen and make a suggestion, and we agree I’ll drop him off at the station: ‘No, that would be best for me, I’ve got to go out anyway,’ and then I tell Christopher to say goodbye to Henry, and he’s quite reluctant, until I say that his mummy is worried, she’s waiting for him.
Someone’s standing in the car park in front of the police station as I pull up, but it isn’t her, she can’t be here yet, though I imagine she’s on her way. I help Christopher out, and pop his yellow cap back on his head, and I confirm my details, and then I say, ‘Goodbye Christopher! Don’t go wandering off again, will you?’ and he shakes his head, obediently, a little chagrined. ‘Glad to help,’ I say. ‘God, I’m late. Of course, just let me know if you need anything else.’
Then I get back in the car and drive off, and as I accelerate onto the main road I pass a police car – siren screaming, blue lights flashing – going in the opposite direction. Just for a moment, I think about what she’ll be feeling, what she will have felt. Just for a moment. It’s enough.
I couldn’t remember the end of the poem earlier this afternoon, but it comes back to me now:
James James Morrison’s mother
Hasn’t been heard of since,
King John said he was sorry,
So did the queen and the prince.
King John (somebody told me)
Said to a man he knew:
‘If people go down to the end of the town, well,
What can anyone do?’
There’s some routine follow-up with the police, of course; and while Lauren is filling in the forms, I say, ‘I’ve been meaning to ask, who found him? I’d like to thank them, if that’s possible.’
‘Let me check,’ she says. ‘I’ll find out if they’re up for that.’
A few days later, she rings and tells me the name.
‘Nina Bremner,’ I repeat, turning the name over, sensing its familiarity. And then, ‘Oh, I know Nina!’ I say, and somehow it doesn’t come as a surprise. It feels right; as it is meant to be. While I take down the number, I’m remembering the precise shock in that long-ago moment of recognition, when she stood in my kitchen and I told her the truth – ‘One stone, all these bloody ripples’ – and I could see from her expression how well she understood me. So long ago, and so much has happened since then, and yet that exchange remains sharp and crystalline, a moment of absolution.
Sit down
, she’d said, pushing a chair forward for me.
Drink your tea.
I don’t call her immediately. I realise that in some strange way I’m looking forward to speaking to her, and I want to extend this, the curiously pleasurable anticipation.
Of course, I’m turning Nina (with her neat cap of dark hair, her slim tanned wrists, her deft birdlike movements, her stillness) into something she is not, someone she cannot possibly be. But the thought of contact with her is exciting, a novelty, a bright prospect. I have things to say to her, as well as questions I want to ask about Christopher and that terrible afternoon.
The obstacles of real life play their part in the delay. I take Cecily to the GP for a round of jabs, and her temperature spikes; and then Christopher picks up a bug from playgroup. For days I’m flat out, racing from floor to floor and room to room with sick bowls and damp flannels and sippy-cups of water, changing bed linen, hanging up laundry, making soup, which Christopher refuses to taste.
Sitting in the kitchen one lunchtime with Cecily on my lap, Christopher scowling as I hold out the plastic spoon, I experience one of those moments when one’s life comes into appalling focus:
this is it, this is me
,
there is nothing else
. I haven’t washed my hair for three days, I have mouth ulcers and a stye, I’m wearing yesterday’s clothes pulled off the bottom of the bed in a hurry, we have run out of milk, teabags, apples and loo roll. I think of Ben, out in the world, making phone calls and flicking through the papers, having a sandwich at his desk or making his way through Soho to a meeting, and I put the spoon back in the bowl and say, ‘I don’t know why I bloody bother,’ and the anger in my voice shocks me as much as the thing I’ve said.
Christopher looks at me, his cold-rheumed eyes filling.
Guiltily, I let him loose on Ritz crackers and Cheese Strings.
After lunch, I ready them for their naps. Murmuring, I move through the rooms, pulling curtains and straightening blankets, fetching soft toys and propping them against pillows. Then I gently shut the doors and stand alone on the half-landing for a moment, listening to the click of the radiator and watching the rain trickling down the windowpane, looking out over the backs of the empty houses, the stretches of stock brick obscured by long waving arms of bindweed and runaway thickets of bamboo. The pale grey sky races by in a hurry.
The house fills with the particular atmosphere that accompanies peacefully sleeping children: a rich narcotic silence that creeps down the stairs and twines itself around the table legs. If I’m not careful, I’ll fall asleep myself, on the sofa, with my palm under my cheek and my socked feet tucked under the Welsh rug, and the afternoon will vanish, and the evening will go to pot. So I keep myself busy: I put on another wash, unload the tumble dryer, fold a mountain of laundry, wipe down the kitchen table and restore the sitting room to some sort of order. Then I electrify myself with a cup of espresso, made with the little stainless steel percolator we brought back from our summer holiday, and find the note with Nina’s number on it.
It’s a mobile number, and I’m preparing myself to leave a message – will ‘unknown caller’ tantalise or inconvenience? Will she be a pessimist or an optimist? – when she answers.
‘You won’t remember me,’ I say, ‘Emma Nash. The police gave me your number. You found my little boy, Christopher, when he’d wandered off in the park.’
‘Christopher!’ she says, ‘Of course I remember! He was so sweet . . . I’m just glad I could help, the police told me it all ended well. You must have been out of your mind.’
‘Yes – I was – but I think we’ve met before,’ I say, and then I remind her of the dropped wallet, her kindness all those months ago.
‘So that was you!’ she says. ‘Yes, of course, Emma,
Emma Nash
. I should have recognised Christopher, I suppose, but they change so quickly – and, you know, one toddler looks pretty much like another once your own kid is past that stage . . . How are you doing, have you had the baby?’
‘The baby’s six months old now,’ I say. ‘I was with her in the playground when Christopher wandered off. I guess I took my eyes off him for a moment or two.’
‘It happens,’ she says. ‘You mustn’t beat yourself up.’
‘Well, I do,’ I say. ‘But I really wanted to thank you. It’s mad, isn’t it: that’s twice you’ve basically saved my life.’
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake,’ she says, laughing, but I can tell she feels this isn’t an inappropriate thing to say. ‘It would be good to catch up. Look, why don’t you come round for lunch one day?’
‘I’ve got the kids,’ I say, but she’s not bothered. ‘I’d like to see Christopher again, and meet the baby. You said it was a girl?’
‘Cecily,’ I say. ‘If you’re sure?’
So we fix a date for the following week. I tell Ben about it that evening, but he’s distracted and doesn’t pay much attention. He finished work unusually early and came home via the mini-Waitrose on Tottenham Court Road. Now he’s stationed at the hob, being spattered with fat. Man cookery. It’s a dangerous, absorbing activity.
Ben’s cooking nights are a mixed blessing. On the one hand, he’s adventurous, tempted by Sunday supplements and the fish counter, by voguish or intimidating ingredients like goat’s curd, za’atar and chicken livers. On the other, he’s profligate with equipment, as if the challenge is to employ every single pot and utensil that we own, so by the time he’s finished the sink will be stacked chin-high (the washing up is my responsibility. That’s the house rule. One cooks; the other washes up).
Tonight, as it’s a Friday, he’s really pushing the boat out: a warm salad with scallops, followed by duck with celeriac purée. I’m sure the purée will come in dainty TV-inspired blobs and smears at the side of the plate. Like little speech marks.
‘Isn’t Ben good?’
‘Mmm,’ he says, when I tell him about Nina’s invitation (though I don’t tell him that I already know her, that she’s the person who found my wallet on the pavement all those months ago, because where would that get me? Best not to remind him of that other fuck-up), ‘That’ll be nice,’ and then he puts the tongs down next to the sink, so the dark grease drips and pools on the counter.
I sit there, not saying anything, not reaching for the J-cloth.
‘Isn’t Ben
good
?’ his mother will say to me in a low admiring voice when she and Dirk visit, after Ben has carved his roast, a plate of meat that will have been marinading in its bath of liquor and herbs for twenty-four hours, and which will have kept him busy all morning while I was changing nappies and popping out for emergency garlic and laying the table and filling the water glasses. And I think of all the little meals that fall to me, which are eaten without anyone really noticing the crispness of the potatoes or the bite of the green beans: the modest everyday dishes that pass entirely without comment, competently executed and palatable.
Isn’t Ben good?
I suppose he is.