Читать книгу The Doll House - Phoebe Morgan - Страница 11

3

London

Corinne

‘Are you sure you’re going to be all right?’ Dominic calls from the kitchen. He is standing at the sink, eating a plum for breakfast. The juice drips down his fingers, yellow rivulets running into the silver basin. I reach for my hand cream, rub it into the crevices of my palms, inhale the soft sweet smell of it.

‘Yes. Yes, Dom, of course.’

‘And you’re going to the gallery today? D’you feel up to it?’

‘Of course. Dominic, I’m not ill.’

He turns on the tap, rinses his fingers and shakes them dry. ‘OK. Sorry. So we’ll meet after work at the clinic, yes?’

I nod, he reaches for me and I lean forward to kiss him. He’s dressed for work and he smells lovely; clean and fresh.

‘Yes, sounds good. What are you working on at the paper today?’

He sighs. ‘Alison’s really on my case at the moment. She’s insisting I get on with the Carlington House piece, says she’s being hassled a lot by the owner. Cool place though, didn’t you think?’

I stare at him. ‘I thought it was kind of scary.’

Dominic smiles. ‘Maybe a bit creepy. Weird to think of it abandoned for so long. I’m hoping there’ll be time to start writing it up today. I’ve got a bit of a backlog at the moment, what with . . .’ He tails off.

I feel a flash of guilt. ‘I know, time off. I’m sorry, I’m OK today. Promise!’

He shakes his head, folds his arms around me again, even though the clock is now showing nearly a quarter to eight and he’s going to be late.

‘Don’t ever apologise to me, Corinne,’ he says, the words urgent in my ear, his breath warm on my cheek.

We straighten up. There is a loud banging sound upstairs, the familiar noise of an electric drill gearing up. The people above us are extending their flat, I don’t know what they’re doing up there, they’ve been messing around for weeks.

‘The fun continues,’ Dominic says, rolling his eyes at me. ‘I wonder whether they’ll ever actually complete?’

‘Go, go!’ I say, and I adjust his blue tie, touch his chest. I don’t really want him to, I don’t want him to leave me on my own. He picks up a cooling cup of coffee from the counter, drains it and leaves the flat; the door bounces noisily on the hinges behind him as it always does, far too loud. The neighbours have complained several times, we ought to fix it.

After he’s gone, I go back into our bedroom. I’ve got to get better at being by myself. My dad used to say being able to be alone is a skill; he told me his alone time was precious to him, something he cultivated in spite of all the parties and the attention, the people who wanted to know his name, where he got his ideas from, what project he was working on next. We used to have a photo of him propped up on the windowsill in the dining room – in it he’s surrounded by people, his dark eyes flashing. He looks like he’s in his element, but one night when I was a teenager he told me that all he’d wanted to do that night was be alone, away from the frenzy. I never would have guessed.

I take a deep breath. Perhaps I can find my element too, perhaps being alone is something I can learn to enjoy. The bedroom feels so quiet and still. The bed is made; Dom is good at things like that. He says we have to try to keep the flat tidy with it being so small. It is tiny, nestled in the tangle of streets between Finsbury Park and Crouch End, a two-room affair with a little bathroom leading off the kitchen. I love it; it’s minuscule, miniature, fit for a pair of dolls.

I go to my drawers, the insides pretty with the embroidered linings that Ashley made for me. In the bottom drawer, a clump of black tights lies in wait, flecked with tiny specks of white tissue. The nylon feels dry and rubbery. I think about untangling the blackness and drawing the material over my legs, getting on the Tube and going to work, and all of a sudden the idea seems overwhelming.

I sit down, hugging my knees to my chest. The flat always feels even smaller when I am on my own, I don’t know why. The absence of a child seems worse. I stare at the painting above the clock, the first picture I ever commissioned for the gallery. I brought it home three years ago, hung it proudly in the flat. The blue waves of the ocean, the bright red of a ship. It’s beautiful. I used to love it, the way the thick paint glistened on the canvas, the hint of sunlight dappling the left corner. Aurora yellow, cadmium red. I know all the paint names, or I did. I used to recite them to Dominic when I got my first gallery job, spent hours hunched over the colour chart, making sure I didn’t forget. That was a long time ago now.

My gaze shifts from the painting to the clock below and, as I watch, the crimson figures (geranium lake, paint number 405) flicker, rearrange themselves into new numbers, and that’s when I realise that I have been sitting by the pile of black nylon for almost forty-five minutes.

It’s too late to go to work now. I don’t know where the time has gone. The hormones I am taking make me feel dopey, a wasp in a honey-jar. When I call the gallery, Marjorie sounds irritated and I feel bad. I’ll go tomorrow, definitely.

I get back into bed, lie still for a while, listening to the sound of rain beginning outside, the steady drip drip drip of the pipe on the roof. The builders upstairs seem to have stopped for a bit, the quiet is nice. When I was little I used to go up to Dad’s office and listen to the way the rain spattered on the skylight, hammered down hard so that it bounced off the glass. It used to make me feel safe, because the rain was outside and I was inside. It couldn’t get to me.

There is a sudden sound, a little thud that makes me jump, and I feel my body stiffen, the muscles in my legs tense slightly under the sheets. You’re too jumpy, Corinne, Dominic always says. You exhaust yourself with nerves. He’s right about the exhaustion. I’m not sure I can help the nerves.

Eventually, I start to need the bathroom, so I ease myself out of bed, go out into the hallway. I’ve got to pull myself together, I know I have. I take a deep breath, peer at my reflection in the mirror. I need to keep hoping, I can’t give up.

The tiles are freezing on my bare feet. The hallway is draughty; the front door has sprung slightly ajar. Occasionally it refuses to close properly; I’ve told Dom to fix it time and time again. I frown, step over a pile of yellowing newspapers, push my shoulder against it to make it jam shut, but it won’t. I open the door again and try harder, but something is bouncing it back. I crouch down. Something is stopping the door from closing; something small jammed in the frame. I stare at it for a few seconds and then it comes to me; I know exactly what this looks like.

I bend down, pick up the small object, hold it carefully between my cold hands. Flecks of auburn paint flake off onto my skin, lying on my hands like specks of blood. How strange. It’s a little chimney pot. It looks like the chimneys we had on our doll house when we were little, on the big pink house Dad built for us.

I stand there at the doorway, clutching the little chimney, and a small smile comes to my lips as I remember.

It was no ordinary doll house. Nothing Dad did was ordinary – I remember one of his clients telling him that over lunch, him regaling us with the story that evening, his eyes glowing with pride. ‘Nothing by halves,’ he always said, and he was always true to his word. Our doll house was almost a metre high, with pink walls and a blue painted door, a red-slated roof and four big brown chimney pots made of real terracotta. Each of the rooms was tiny, compact, perfectly formed. Dad was obsessed with buildings, and he’d spent months working on this one, a little replica of our real home that Ashley and I could play with. Whenever Mum would tell him to come to bed, rest his eyes for a bit, he’d shake his head. ‘It’s a challenge,’ he used to say, ‘and there’s nothing better for you than that. I’ve got to get it right.’

He knelt on the floor with us on Christmas Day and showed us how it worked; the intricacies of the rooms and the stairways and the loft, and even when Mum came out with the Christmas pudding I wasn’t drawn away. I became obsessed with finding miniature furniture, little rugs, curtains that I cut out painstakingly from scraps of white material I found in my mother’s sewing box. And the dolls. Oh, the dolls. Dad brought them home for us, one by one, beautiful, smartly dressed figures that we positioned in the house: a long-skirted mother cooking in the kitchen, a baby in the miniature cradle, a father sitting in the little pink armchair stuffed with real feathers. Every time he went away for work he’d come back with another one. He got some of them from abroad, bringing them carefully wrapped in scarlet tissue paper to protect the china, regaling us with tales of the countries he’d been to as we pulled open the presents. His work took him further than any of us had ever been.

I haven’t thought of the doll house properly for years, had always assumed Mum had put it in her attic with the rest of our childhood things. A lump fills my throat.

I bring the chimney pot up to eye level, twist it around so that I can see it from all sides. It is as tall as the length of my hand and as wide as my palm. As I stand in our doorway, I feel a pair of eyes on me and raise my gaze. A young woman is watching me, a dark-haired toddler in her arms, an empty pushchair at her side. I blush, pull my dressing gown more tightly around me, suddenly aware of my bare feet, the untamed hairs on my legs.

‘Sorry!’ she says. ‘I just wondered if you were OK? You looked a bit upset.’

‘Oh!’ I say. ‘Yes, yes, I’m fine, thank you. Just had something in the mail.’ I smile at her, trying not to notice the way her child is clinging to her chest, its little hands clutching at her hair. She strokes its head absent-mindedly. She hardly looks old enough to have a baby; I hope she knows how lucky she is. God, of course she does. What’s the matter with me?

‘I’m Gilly,’ she tells me, ‘I’ve just moved in.’ She gestures behind her to where the door to her flat hangs open and I see boxes, the edge of a packing crate.

‘Welcome to the building,’ I say, and she laughs. Something about the sound of it is familiar, as though I have heard it somewhere before. The way she gasps slightly, as though she hasn’t quite enough breath to properly let go. She’s smiling at me.

‘Thank you, it’s been a bit of a rocky ride so far but we’re hoping to settle in here.’

‘Is it just you and the baby?’ I ask her.

She nods, looks down. ‘Just me and the kiddy. Do you have any little horrors?’

I flinch, clutch the chimney pot tighter to my chest.

‘No,’ I say. ‘No I don’t. It was nice to meet you, Gilly.’ She looks a bit taken aback but I try not to mind. I step back inside our flat and close the door. I can’t be friends with another mother, I just can’t. It’s too painful. The gasping sound of her laugh niggles at me. I’m sure I’ve heard someone laugh like that before but I can’t think where – the thought slips away from me like the string of a kite that I can’t quite grab hold of.

Inside, I prop the chimney pot on the table. I know it can’t really be from the doll house, but it does look almost identical to what I remember, and even though the rational side of my brain knows it must be something else, it feels almost like it is a sign, a little spark of hope, a reminder of why I put myself through this every time. I want to cling to it, to cling to something. It’s as if this being here is a message from Dad, telling me not to give up hope. I have wanted a family since I was a little girl. It will happen. I have to believe.

*

Later on, I leave to meet Dominic at the fertility clinic. As I dressed, I put the chimney pot into my pocket, gave it a lucky pat before I left the house. I can feel it bumping slightly against my hip bone; I like it, it feels like a little talisman, a good luck charm. If I do have a daughter I could dig out the doll house, give it to her as a present. One day. I feel bad for being abrupt with Gilly this morning. I know she can’t help having kids, I know I can’t behave like that. Maybe I’ll knock on her door later, apologise.

Outside it is freezing. Minus two, the radio said. Strings of Christmas lights are still dotted around, twinkling stubbornly, even though it’s past the deadline of the sixth. I can see my breath, misty particles floating in the air, glowing under the street lamps. It is already dark even though it has only just gone five-thirty. Despite the weather, I feel a little glow inside me, a swell of hope from the chimney pot cocooned in my coat.

I’m walking along the pavement by the park, past the playground, the empty swings hanging loosely in the darkness. Resting for the evening. A car speeds past, its headlights illuminate the tall, spiked tops of the park railings and I give a little gasp; someone is there, right beside me, I see a face hidden in the railings amongst the dark. My breath catches in my throat. Oh, God. I can’t breathe.

Then the headlights swing by, the golden light throwing itself over me and I exhale; it’s just the shadowy figure of a dog-walker, hurrying along towards the park exit and the gaping steps of the Underground. It’s nothing, it’s nobody. It never is.

I put my head down and keep walking, focusing on my feet clad in their little black boots. My heart rate returns to normal, I can feel my body calming down. I’m used to the feelings now – the immediate rush of anxiety followed by the weak-kneed relief. The cycle of it all.

It is a relief to see the double doors of the clinic glowing ahead of me. Dominic is waiting inside, looking at his watch, wearing the sky-blue scarf I bought him last Christmas. He looks so handsome. As I stare at him through the glass, I remember the times we used to meet after work, back when we first met; I’d sneak out early to see him, desperate to be in his arms. It was so exciting; it was like a drug. Somewhere along the way we lost that excitement, between the endless rounds of IVF and the money flowing out of our bank account like water through a sieve.

I walk a little faster, eager to get to him, to feel his arms around me. I slip my left glove off as I go, run my fingers over the tiny chimney. As I enter, a couple push past me, hurrying through the door, and I catch a glimpse of young, bright eyes, hopeful red lips chapped with cold. An elderly woman follows them out, walking quickly with a slight hobble, grey hair falling across her face. She looks like a grandmother, a grandmother in waiting.

In the entrance room of the clinic we hug hello, I feel the relief of Dominic around me. We might not have the excitement, but we’ve still got each other.

‘You OK?’ he asks. ‘Good day?’

I smile at him reassuringly and almost tell him about finding the chimney, but something stops me. I know he’ll think I’m being silly. He thinks I cling on to the past a bit too much, to memories of Dad. So instead I say nothing, I feel for the chimney pot in the pocket of my coat and tell Dominic that my day has been fine.

‘Miss Hawes?’ The nurse appears and gestures to me. Dominic puts an arm around me as we enter a little side room. We sit down together on the green chairs, our thighs touching.

‘IVF treatment can be a difficult process, Miss Hawes.’ The nurse is smiling kindly at me. ‘Corinne? Sometimes it helps to chat to others who are going through the process. We do have a support group that meets once a month? Would you and Dominic be interested?’

The nurse is looking at me expectantly, her face open, eyes wide. She means well, I know, so I smile back at her, even though tonight I will have more hormones pushed into me, will wince as Dominic injects me with bromocriptine, clomifene, fertinex. We can both recite the drugs as though they are our times tables.

‘I think we’re OK, actually. But thank you,’ I tell the nurse, and then we start going through it again, planning the insemination. I force myself to keep cheerful, keep hoping, and I squeeze my hands around the little chimney pot in my pocket and imagine my dad smiling at me, telling me this is just another challenge. It makes me feel better, and I close my eyes and I wish and I wish and I wish.

Then

The windows of the car are misting up. Mummy has turned off her headlights so that our car sits in the darkness, hidden on the tree-lined street. Now that I’m almost eight, she talks to me more. She says if we’re lucky though, the next time it’s very cold winter time we might be able to get out of the car and go into the house. She says she’s not sure yet, she’ll have to let me know. I like talking to her, it’s the best thing, except for I can’t talk to her on her quiet days, because she hardly says a thing. On those days I have to talk to myself, make up the voices in my head, pretend there is someone else who will chat to me. Really I know it’s just me but sometimes I can trick myself. I can pretend.

I’m seven nearly eight, I’m getting big, and I know I’m getting taller because on the nights when we sleep in the car my legs hurt more. They’re hurting now, it’s harder to scrunch them up small in the passenger seat. I draw shapes on the car window, circles and diamonds and swirly lines that tangle into great messy scribbles. I am bored. I want to go home. We have been here for hours.

‘I’m hungry, Mummy.’ I am hungry, my stomach is growling like a lion. There has been no food all day. Sometimes Mummy forgets. When there is no reply, I pull on Mummy’s sleeve and eventually she gives me a bar of chocolate, squashed and warm but whole, bright in its wrapper. Yum. Just as I’m about to eat it, I am jerked forwards; the car is moving, we are on our way. Mummy is pressing her foot to the floor, glancing into the rear-view mirror, her eyes alive again. She still hasn’t put the headlights on. The chocolate tastes old and a bit stale, but I don’t mind, I eat it anyway. It’s gone too quickly. I want more.

The car is moving very fast; the chocolate whooshes around in my stomach and I begin to feel sick. We bend in and out of streets, faster and faster, until suddenly we are stopping, Mummy is slamming her foot onto the brakes and our little car is screeching to a halt. Outside the world has become very dark, I can just about see the tiny silver stars if I tilt my head back all the way and look out of the window. The dashboard lights glow; their green and orange lines form a face in the reflection and I jump, startled by the way the features leap out at me. That finally gets Mummy’s attention.

‘What is it? Do you see him?’

‘I see a face,’ I say, and Mummy leans over me, right across my lap so that I can smell her hair, the strange sour scent of her skin. I hate the way my mother smells now. The girls at school tease me for it, they say that it’s because she doesn’t wash. I wash myself, I run myself baths in our little flat, fill the tub up until the water runs cold. I sit in them for ages, wishing I could be a mermaid and live underwater. I don’t like the flat, I want to move back to the big house but Mummy says we can’t. All our money is gone. The bad man took it.