I Do Not Sleep (28 page)

This was what Adam told me that sad night when little Hope lost her life. We sat in that attractive seaside restaurant, watching the smiling faces of couples all around us enjoying a sophisticated holiday dinner, all of them beautifully dressed, sipping wine and looking as if they hadn’t a care in the world, and I thought about Hope and Josie, Joey and Ben.

I felt like a bad fairy at a christening, spreading gloom like a curse because inside I was coiled up with grief and anxiety and couldn’t bear any other parent to be lucky, to be blessed with children in perfect health, who didn’t disappear never to be seen again.

I gave up pretending to eat and asked Adam to take me home. He paid the bill without demur, and we walked to the little car park up the road. Inside the Volvo he asked me if I would come back with him to Coombe. I was tempted, but I realised I needed to get back to Hope’s house. I wanted to be in the little cottage she had loved so much, with all its sweet Americanisms, all the Disney charms that had enchanted her. She was still alive for me there; the place was full of her girlish enchantment.

Adam stopped the car at the top of Polperro and insisted on walking me home. We were both quiet, but relaxed together. He held my hand, and when we reached Hope Cottage he kissed me gently and said he’d see me tomorrow morning at nine fifteen, to take me to the hospital in Plymouth.

I let myself in. I sat in Hope’s sitting room, furnished by Josie but with devoted attention to her daughter’s wishes. It was full of good taste, polished floor, high-quality rugs, beautifully upholstered furniture. And yet there were tiny Mickey and Minnie Mouse ceramic ornaments dotted around the room. Tinkerbell hovered over the fireplace. A glittering rendition of the Sleeping Beauty Castle was tucked into a corner on a blond-wood pedestal. Photographs of Hope and her parents were everywhere in silver frames. In all of them she looked happy, full of beans. Tony looked strong, capable and in charge. Josie looked beautiful, delicate, and love blazed from her face as she hugged her daughter.

I sighed, said a prayer and went up to bed. Undressing, I remembered that Adam hadn’t had the chance to tell me how he discovered that Ben was in Cornwall. No matter. At the moment my head was full of Hope and Josie. Nothing else was important right now. Adam would no doubt tell me everything he knew tomorrow. I took a sleeping pill. Tonight I didn’t want to dream. Or if I did, I hoped for peaceful visions of Hope: walking on the beach with Josie, watching her dad building her dream cottage. How lucky and lovely for Hope to have a grown-up doll’s house designed especially for her. How many little girls would covet that? Darling Hope had enjoyed hers; she had adored her parents. She had known nothing but love her whole life.

What more can any of us ask for?

Chapter Forty-Two

Adam drove me to the hospital next morning. He insisted on staying in the car when we arrived. He didn’t know Josie and Tony, had never met Hope, and thought his place was solely to stay on the periphery and offer as much practical help as he could.

I was guided to a small room next to the hospital chapel. It was cold inside, heavily refrigerated. Josie sat bent over a small hospital cot. She looked like Mary tending to the infant Jesus in his crib. Hope lay on the little bed, her beautiful red hair vivid on the pillow. Tony wasn’t there. I moved over to the cot. Josie looked up at me and half-smiled. ‘She looks peaceful, doesn’t she?’ she said. Her face was drowsy. She bent her head down to Hope again and her face nuzzled her daughter’s cheek.

I turned away and walked to a chair at the side of the room. It was a pretty, restful place, gently decorated in shades of soft rose pink. Candles burned on small tables at either side of Hope’s bed, behind her head and at her feet. The cloth that covered her was blue and yellow, reminding me of her little cottage, the sunny doll’s house which had become my sanctuary as well as hers.

Josie kissed her daughter one more time, then crossed the room and sat down in a chair next to mine. I held out my hand and she clasped it, squeezed it and began to talk.

‘She didn’t survive the operation,’ she said softly, still weeping, speaking as if she was unaware of the constant tears rolling slowly down her cheeks. To me she looked noble, full of dignity. ‘Her heart stopped on the operating table; a cardiac arrest. I think the team half expected it. They knew the odds on her pulling through this time were slight. They tried very hard to get her back. They wouldn’t give up. They did everything they could. I’m grateful for that. I know they did their best.’

I gently let go of her hand, stood up and asked, ‘May I?’ She nodded. I walked to Hope’s bed, and looked down at her sweet, childish face. I remembered her huge smile, her happiness when she played with younger children at Emerald Point, her confidence when she showed toddlers round the farmyard, their little faces lighting up when she told them stories about the animals. Hope had loved children. She had wanted her own baby to look after, entirely sure that with her parents’ help she could have given it a happy life. I remembered the graciousness Hope had shown; the constant love that shone upon her. Her life had been short but blessed. Grace and kindness flowed around her in a benevolent loving stream. I could sense that goodness even now, surrounding her as she lay still, at the end of her life.

I bent to kiss her clear brow, and whispered goodbye. Josie waited for me at the door of the room. Holding my hand, she thanked me for being there. I kissed her and told her seeing Hope, knowing Hope, had been a privilege and a gift.

I left the hospital. Adam was waiting for me in the car. He saw my stricken face and squeezed my shoulder, but said nothing. As we drove away I knew we were both thinking the same thing. Would we ever see Joey in death? And would we be able to bear it?

Chapter Forty-Three

Seeing Hope at peace, all her trials over, made me long for a resolution to our own tragedy. I told Adam I wanted to go to the island. I was anxious to drive there straightaway. He was quiet; he clearly didn’t think it was a good idea. He thought I was too emotional after seeing Hope; and of course I was, still weeping for her and Josie. But I yearned for peace. And I knew that to find it I had to face the island. Len had told me that on his deathbed. He said it was my next step, and although I might not understand to begin with, this first visit was essential. He also told me I should see it with Adam. The time, I felt, had come. For better or worse I was going to look upon Lammana today.

Adam saw I was determined, and drove out of Plymouth without a word. He headed towards Looe, rather than Polperro or Talland Bay. The Estuary appeared on our right as we headed closer to the fishing town, the little railway track running along the riverbank, quiet and deserted. We drove past the small medical centre, where Danny and Lola had taken Edie when she was feverish the other evening. At the bridge over the river we turned right, and then immediately left into West Looe and carried on up the road.

As we neared the sea, the road swept round to the right, now running parallel with the waves. I tensed. Although I’d often shopped in Looe, I’d never come so far before. Staring at the ocean I could see nothing except boats; there was no land in sight, no island, nothing but water.

Adam drove up a hill, crested it and came down the other side. He stopped the car in a grassy area where the road came to an end; after this there was only the footpath, leading back along the coast to Talland Bay, and on from there to Polperro. This was the section of the cliff path I’d walked along every day after Joey disappeared; the walk of which I had absolutely no memory, and here the spot at which I stopped each time, where I stood for hours, according to Jamie Torrance and Annie Trelawney. It was a place about which I had no recollection. As far as I was concerned, I’d never been here before.

Adam got out of the car, walked round to my side and opened the passenger door. In a daze I stepped out onto the grass. I raised my eyes, and there it was. The island. This place I’d been mysteriously drawn to, this quiet teardrop of land that so compelled me, my daily goal after I lost Joey.

But why – why had I spent so much time, so much energy walking to this place? I stared at the small green outcrop, watching the waves crashing against its rocky sandy beach, its forbidding cliff face. I could see no one, and no sign of habitation; and I felt nothing. Not a shiver of recognition, not the slightest sense of why it had meant so much to me.
Joey,
I said silently to myself.
Joey? Why here? What is it? What do you want to tell me?

There was no answer. The wind was fresh and strong here, the waves no longer smooth and friendly but vigorous, purposeful, as if they were holding their true force back, scuttled briskly between the shore and the rocky island. I suddenly had a sense of how difficult sailing conditions could be here, how treacherous. I glanced to my right. Joey’s boat had found wrecked just yards up the coast from here, trapped in a small inlet wreathed in sharp jutting spears of rock. I couldn’t even remember seeing what remained of it, although I surely must have been taken there. Adam had talked about the wreck; I would have been with him when the harbourmaster retrieved the small vessel, towing it back to the boatyard to be broken up. I closed my eyes and tried desperately hard to visualise Joey’s boat, lonely and shattered after it had abandoned my son. That’s how I thought of that wretched hired vessel, a rented pleasure-boat to entertain two boys on a jolly Easter holiday; a boat that brought no pleasure, only tragedy. But, although I knew I’d seen photographs, I couldn’t remember what it looked like.

Everything had fled my mind; everything except my beloved child’s face. I could see that in front of me now. I would never forget him. Or would I? Would this creeping memory loss eventually encompass my boy’s face too? Would there come a time when I could no longer conjure up his smile, his voice?

I clasped Adam’s arm; this visit was a terrible disappointment. I had expected so much, but there was nothing for me here; there was no sense of terror, no strange fearsome apparition like the scarecrow in the allotments that could explain my forgotten obsession with this place. And I remembered what Len had told me: that I wouldn’t understand at first, but this trip here with Adam was a necessary first step to discovering what had happened to my son.

I looked at Adam. He was staring at me, his face pensive. ‘Do you remember anything, Molly?’ he asked gently. ‘Do you want me to see if I can get someone to take us out there?’ I shook my head and turned back towards the car. Adam followed me; we strapped ourselves in, he did a three-point turn and we drove back into Looe. I had no idea what to do next. I stared at the road ahead. I no longer looked at Adam, but it seemed to me he was both relieved and disappointed by my lack of reaction. I was simply baffled. No, not just that. I felt empty, hollow, like a wandering soul trapped in a wasteland.

Chapter Forty-Four

We drove back to Coombe, stopping on the way to pick up fish and chips for lunch. We ate them sitting at the picnic table in the farmhouse garden. Danny, Lola and Edie were out, for which I was grateful. The conversation Adam and I had to have was going to be sombre.