Читать книгу The River House - Margaret Leroy - Страница 14

I sit in the soft late afternoon sun that falls across my office, sipping a final coffee. I like to stay here sometimes before I head for home, letting the day and all its tensions fall from me.

The file of the last child I saw is on the desk in front of me. Gemma Westerley—a little waif in frilled socks, with hair the colour of straw and a naked, timid smile. She has special needs, though for years her teachers didn’t realise; she was quiet in class and her exercise books were orderly with hearts drawn in the margins, and nobody saw how little she understood. Now her teacher is worried she might have been abused. Her confusion is still here in the room, like a trace of smoke or perfume. I make some notes, then put the file away.

I plan my evening. There’s fish in my bag for tea. I went to the market at lunchtime and braved the fish stall with its glazed dead eyes: this made me feel like a good mother. Amber is going out later, to the Blue Hawaii for a birthday party, where they will drink cocktails named after sex acts and laced with too much v dka, and I want to make sure that at least she’s eaten properly. And when Amber has gone I shall start to tidy Molly’s room.

At the thought of Molly, I feel a little surge of anxiety. I wonder whether she woke on time this morning, and whether she has made friends with the girl with the black shiny hair. I wonder when she will ring me.

I look through some post that wasn’t urgent—courses I could go on, and a catalogue from a firm I’ve used before. They make hand puppets and therapeutic games. The catalogue is glossy, full of colours. I flick through. There’s a crocodile with a zipper mouth, to use with children who’ve been abused, to help them tell the things they’re keeping secret. There’s a wolf that’s half as big as a child. ‘A large scary wolf who can also be afraid. Is he then so scary?’ I think how Amber would have adored him when she was little and had a scheme to keep a wolf as a pet. And there’s a grey velvet caterpillar, with poppers you can undo to hatch a yellow butterfly. I shall take the catalogue home and see if there’s anything useful. Perhaps I should order the crocodile for Gemma. But I’m tempted too by the chrysalis that turns into a butterfly. I’m not sure which child I would use it with: but I love its velvet wings.

My mobile rings. I scrabble in my handbag, thinking it’s Molly.

It’s a number I don’t recognise.

‘Now, am I speaking to Ginnie?’

My pulse has skittered off before I consciously recognise his voice.

‘Yes.’

‘Ginnie,’ he says. ‘It’s Will.’ I notice how he doesn’t give his surname. ‘Look, I’ve got some info on your little patient. Quite interesting.’

‘Thanks so much,’ I tell him.

There’s a little pause, as though he’s drawing breath or working out how to put something. The sun through the window is warm on the skin of my arms.

‘Would you like to meet up to talk about it?’ he says.

‘That would be really helpful,’ I tell him.

‘I wondered about after work today,’ he says. ‘About six. I could do that if it suits you.’

I tell him, yes, it would suit me. We talk for a moment or two with enthusiasm about how useful this will be—to talk about it properly. Our voices are level, reasonable: we are two professionals planning a case discussion. I have a crazy fear that even over the phone he can hear the thud of my heart.

‘There’s a pub,’ he says. ‘In Acton Street. D’you know it?’

I explain, perhaps with rather too much emphasis, that it will be the easiest place in the world for me to find.

‘I’ll see you there,’ he says.

I put down the phone but his voice is still inside me. Desire ambushes me, taking away my breath.

I ring Amber. It’s her voicemail.

‘Sweetheart, look, I’m going to be late, I have to go to a meeting. There’s some lamb stew from yesterday in the fridge. It just needs heating through. Make sure you heat it for ten minutes, and be really careful to switch the ring off afterwards.’ But I know she’ll ignore my message, and go to the Co-op for crisps and a pack of Cherry Bakewells.

In the cloakroom I study myself in the mirror for a moment. I think of the dream I had of him. I hold my hands under the tap then pull wet fingers through my hair. At least I have a lipstick. My skin is still flushed from talking to him.

I take my coat from my office, and the bag with the fish in—though I’ll probably have to throw it out, it needs to be cooked today—and the catalogue with all its therapeutic toys. I decide I shall order the butterfly.