Читать книгу Once Lost - Ber Carroll - Страница 11

Chapter 6

Emma

When Louise’s mother disappeared, Ann-Marie — my mum — stepped in. She fed Louise dinner a few nights a week, bought her clothes when she grew out of her old ones, and even supplied her with a training bra and sanitary pads. Sometimes, when Simon was motivated enough to find a few hours’ casual work, my mother would ‘break into’ their flat, vacuuming quickly, stealthily cleaning the kitchen and bathroom but not going overboard for fear he’d suspect. It was my mother who kept Family Services abreast of what was happening, my mother who oversaw Louise’s homework (Just do it in our place, love, and have done with it), and my mother who had the hideous task of treating Louise’s hair for nits in secondary school (But you’re fifteen years of age, I thought we were past this … Maybe you should keep your hair shorter, love). My mother, for all her faults, was there for Louise in every way she could be. Mum was like one of those glue-on patches, trying her best to cover and fill the nonstop holes, those times when Louise needed a mother and no one else would do.

Jamie drops Isla off at six, as agreed. Although he is pathologically unreliable, her drop-off time seems to be hardwired into his addled brain. I scoop her into my arms, and by the time I stand up he’s already gone, his hands stuffed deep in the pockets of his parka, his soft-soled shoes soundless on the footpath.

The first thing I do with Isla, other than that hug at the door, is wash her. I fill the bath, strip off her clothes, and scrub her from head to toe. While I’m shampooing her hair, I ask her how it was.

‘Alright,’ she replies, in a non-committal tone that reminds me of her father.

‘What time didya go to bed? Was it late?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Did he have other people around?’

‘No, it was just me and Daddy. We watched a movie.’

‘You did?’

‘Yes.’ Isla’s small face is suddenly earnest. ‘Daddy is trying very hard to be good.’

Is he? Well, that’s bloody news to me, and to be honest, I don’t quite know how I feel about it. You see, if Jamie cleans up his act, I have no hope of stopping these visits, or of him disappearing from our lives. And if he doesn’t clean up his act, Isla continues to be in danger, but there’s always the hope that he’ll eventually self-destruct and go away. Can you see my dilemma?

All I want, really, is what’s best for my daughter. Louise’s mother, or rather her mother’s absence, has made me very conscious of my own mothering. Isla’s wellbeing, education, happiness, safety, I take them all very seriously. Even when I’m tired and grumpy, I try to rise above my own feelings and do my best for her. Even when we’re laughing and being silly, I’m thinking to myself, humour is good, I’m teaching her how to see the funny side of things, that’s an important lesson.

Wrapping Isla in a fluffy towel, I sit her down on the side of the bath and blow-dry her hair. Every now and then I direct the warm air at her face to make her giggle.

‘Are ya hungry?’

‘Starving.’

A small hesitation on my part. ‘Did you have lunch?’

She shakes her head. ‘I had a sausage roll for breakfast. That’s all.’

Jamie is always forgetting to feed her. For a start, I don’t think he realises how much children eat: breakfast, morning tea, lunch, afternoon tea, dinner, milk before bed. More significantly, and more worrying, is the fact that I suspect he doesn’t have much food in his flat. A weekly grocery shop would not be part of his routine.

Eddie, who actually enjoys grocery shopping and anything to do with food, has a roast chicken crackling in the oven for tonight’s dinner. He understands how important it is to me that Isla has a hearty meal when she returns from these weekends. As we leave the bathroom, Isla’s hand in mine, the smell from the kitchen, chicken juices and gravy, wafts up the stairs.

‘Eddie’s preparing a feast,’ I say brightly. I must be holding Isla’s hand too tightly because she wriggles it free. ‘Sorry, love. I’m just really happy to have you back.’

I vividly remember my mother clutching Louise’s hand in the school yard. It must have been early on, maybe Louise’s first day back at school. I remember feeling a pang of jealousy that my mother was holding Louise’s hand, not mine, and then feeling rather ashamed of myself because Louise was obviously scared and upset and that was why my mother was gripping her hand so hard. As Mum and Louise stood there in the yard, the wind whipping their hair, they both looked so pale and bereft and frightened that they could have been mother and daughter. If I had that moment back again, I would rush forward and take Louise’s other hand. I would obliterate that momentary misplaced jealousy, and replace it with a show of solidarity.

Eddie feeds us, and it is indeed a feast. His cooking is plain — his repertoire consists of traditional dishes only — but he excels at what he does. The chicken is succulent, the potatoes are golden brown, and the vegetables have a slight crunch. While we eat, he chats easily to Isla, drawing information without her realising what he’s doing. He’s wonderful with her. Present in every possible way.

At school, missing fathers were par for the course, but a missing mother was another matter altogether. We came up with all sorts of stories, each one more far-fetched than the last, to try to explain it. She must have got hit by a car and died, unidentified, on the side of the road. Or maybe she knocked her head and lost her memory, forgetting where she lived and that she had an eight-year-old daughter waiting at home. Or perhaps she’d been captured and taken prisoner, locked in the cellar of some lunatic’s house.

Nobody, not even the most cynical of us, could accept that Louise’s mother had simply walked out.

We were only eight years old, but we knew that mothers, even the crossest and most disillusioned ones, didn’t do that.