Читать книгу The Drowning Girl - Margaret Leroy - Страница 13

CHAPTER 7

‘Ms Reynolds. Please come in.’

Her window looks over the garden. There was frost in the night; today there’s a thin yellow sunlight and the dazzle and shimmer of melting ice, and the grass is striped with the sharp straight shadows of trees. Children bundled in scarves and hats are playing on the climbing frame; you can hear their shouting and laughter.

I sit in front of her desk. There’s a pain in my jaw that I woke up with this morning, some kind of neuralgia probably. It nags at me; I wish I’d taken some Nurofen. The secretary brings the coffee tray. Mrs Pace-Barden pours coffee into a little gold-rimmed cup, and slides it across the desk towards me. My hands feel big and clumsy clasped around the tiny cup. She pours some for herself, but doesn’t drink it.

‘I’ve brought you in today,’ she says, ‘to have a little talk about Sylvie.’

She’s solemn, unsmiling, her forehead creased in a frown, but I tell myself this is good, that she’s taking Sylvie so seriously.

‘Yes,’ I say.

‘I have to tell you, we do find Sylvie’s behaviour very worrying.’

She has rather pale eyes, that are fixed on my face.

‘Yes, I know,’ I tell her.

I sip my coffee. It’s weak and bland but scalding hot because the milk was heated; it hurts my throat as I swallow it.

‘These tantrums she has—well, lots of children have tantrums, of course, we’re used to that… But not like Sylvie,’ she says.

She leaves a pause that’s weighted with significance. I don’t say anything.

‘My staff do find it very difficult,’ she says then. There’s a note of reproach in her voice. ‘When Sylvie has one of her tantrums, it takes the assistant’s total attention to settle her. Sometimes it takes an hour. And this is happening several times a week, Ms Reynolds.’

‘Yes. I’m sorry,’ I tell her.

‘And this phobia of water. D’you have any idea what started it?’

‘She’s always had it, really,’ I tell her. ‘It’s a fear of water touching her face. I mean, children are just frightened of things, aren’t they, sometimes? For no apparent reason?’

‘Of course. But Sylvie’s reaction is really very extreme. You see, Ms Reynolds, water-play is very much a part of the environment here. Most children love it. They find it relaxing.’

‘But couldn’t she be in another room or something?’

Her face hardens. Perhaps I sounded accusing.

‘We’re always careful that Sylvie is as far away as possible. But even that isn’t enough for her. And obviously we can’t ban it entirely—not just for one child.’

‘No, of course not,’ I tell her.

Her eyes are on me, her pale unreadable gaze.

‘And if anything it all seems to be getting worse now. Wouldn’t you say so?’

‘It certainly isn’t getting any better,’ I say, in a small voice.

‘I was wondering—have there been any changes in your circumstances? You know, anyone new on the scene?’

I think of Matt with a tug of regret.

‘Nothing like that,’ I tell her. ‘We have quite an uneventful life.’

She picks up her cup, takes a pensive sip.

‘And this house she draws over and over. The house with the blue border, and the doors and windows always just the same… We do encourage her to draw other things. Beth tried to get her to draw some people—you know, just very gently. “Can you draw a little girl for me?” But she wouldn’t. She’s a good little artist, I’ll grant her that, but I worry that there’s something rather obsessive about it…’

I remember girls at school who’d mastered horses or brides, who always did the same doodle in the margins of their books.

‘I think she was just so pleased she’d learned to draw houses,’ I say.

She ignores this. She leans towards me across the desk, her fingertips steepled together.

‘Ms Reynolds.’ Her voice is low, intimate. ‘I hope you don’t mind me raising this, but you’re quite sure that this isn’t a place where something happened to her?’

There are patches of burgundy in her cheeks. I hate this. I know she’s asking if Sylvie might have been abused.

‘I’m absolutely sure,’ I tell her.

‘You see, it can be a way that children cope with trauma—this kind of obsession. Reliving the trauma over and over, trying to make sense of it. Beth did try to find out—she asked her who lived in the house. But Sylvie wouldn’t say.’

‘Maybe she doesn’t think about who lives there.’

‘Well, maybe not,’ says Mrs Pace-Barden, not persuaded. ‘Let’s hope I’m wrong. I can see that this is all rather painful for you. But for Sylvie’s sake these things have got to be addressed.’

‘If there was anything, I would know,’ I tell her. ‘She’s always with me, or here at nursery, or playing with Lennie, her friend. There’s nothing I don’t know about.’

‘As parents, we like to think that,’ she says. ‘We think we know all there is to know about our children. I understand that—I’ve got children of my own. But sometimes we can delude ourselves. Sometimes we don’t know everything…’

She takes the coffee pot, refills my cup although it’s still half full. It’s a moment of punctuation. I feel a flicker of hopefulness: that she will come up with some help for Sylvie, some kind of programme or plan.

I see her throat move as she swallows. She isn’t quite looking at me.

‘I hope you don’t mind me raising these things. But we need to get this sorted. Because, to be frank, Ms Reynolds—unless the situation improves, I’m really not sure that we can keep your daughter here.’

I put my cup down. Slowly, concentrating hard, so the coffee won’t slop in the saucer. Suddenly everything has to be done with such elaborate care.

‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘I can see this is a shock for you. But the truth is we just don’t have the resources to cope with a child with problems on this scale. She’s a one-to-one a lot of the time and that’s not what we’re about here—not with the three-and four-year-olds. It’s intended to be a pre-school class—they’re learning independence. We really can’t cater for children as needy as Sylvie seems to be…’

I fix my gaze on the garden through her window. Everything seems to recede from me—the fretted shadows across the bright grass, the wet black branches of trees—and the children’s voices sound hollow, remote, like voices heard over water.

‘But surely there must be someone who could help us?’ I hear how shrill my voice is.

‘Well,’ she says slowly, ‘there is a child psychiatrist I know. We’ve used him before, with children here. Dr Strickland. He works at the Arbours Clinic. It’s possible he could take Sylvie on for some play therapy.’

‘All right. We’ll see him,’ I say.

‘Good,’ she says. Her smile is switched back on again, her hockey-mistress buoyancy restored. ‘I think that’s an excellent decision. I’ll write to him, then,’ she tells me.

Outside, there’s the drip and seep of the thaw, and the sky is blue and luminous. I walk rapidly along the road, through the moist, chill air and the dazzling yellow sunlight. I feel fragile—cardboard-cutout thin, my vision blurred with tears.