Her Sister's Child Page 15

  ‘Lizzie!’

  Paula shakes her shoulder, but although she rolls onto her back with a snorting noise, she does not open her eyes. Paula’s foot makes contact with an empty vodka bottle, which rolls noisily across the floor. Some instinct makes her pull back the duvet. Lizzie is dressed in a clean nightie and the huge dome of her stomach is gone. There’s still a discernible bump under the fabric but it’s much smaller, like a balloon that’s had half the air let out of it. The bed sheets are clean and the room seems unnaturally tidy.

  Paula strides quickly to the wardrobe, where she stored the Moses basket, nappies and baby clothes she bought. They’re gone. All of them.

  Hurrying back to the lounge, Paula switches on the light and starts to search the room. She pulls the sofa away from the wall, startling the cat, but there’s nothing behind it. Nothing in the kitchen either, although that too looks cleaner than normal.

  ‘Lizzie, for God’s sake!’

  She shakes her sister more vigorously this time, but she’s passed out cold, only giving another nasal snore. Paula leaves a glass of water next to her bed and heads out into the night. There’s a bar on the estate – the Rumsden – more of a working men’s club than a pub, and she knows that Macca often drinks in there with his dodgy associates. It’s thick with smoke and a faint smell of dirty clothes.

  ‘You old enough to be in here, love?’ asks the barman.

  ‘I’m looking for Macca,’ she tells him. ‘You know: tall guy, mixed race. Lives on the estate.’

  ‘I know Macca,’ the barman says, with a grimace. ‘He’s not been in. Not tonight.’

  Paula thinks for a moment. Her mother will be wondering where she is by now, probably furious that she’s out this late without saying where she was going. But she can’t just leave this.

  ‘Do you know a pub called the Half Moon?’

  ‘I’ve heard of it. Over Muswell Hill way, I think. On Alexandra Park Road.’

  ‘Do you have an A–Z?’

  He pulls a yellowed, much-thumbed copy from under the bar. ‘You’d be amazed how many times I get asked for this.’

  Paula flicks through the pages and finds what she’s looking for, memorises the route for a few seconds then hands the book back.

  ‘Should I tell Macca who was looking for him if he comes in?’

  ‘No.’ She shakes her head. ‘Just tell him he needs to go home to his girlfriend.’

  29

  Marian

  During the drive back to Ranmoor Road, Marian decided she would tell Tom that the twins have already been named. That way they will avoid them being lumbered with Victoria and William. Noah for the boy: she’s always liked the solid, biblical feel of it. And the girl will be Saffron. The Indians called it ‘red gold’, and per ounce it’s more valuable than the metal itself. More precious than gold. That seems fitting.

  Carrying the blanketed bundle up the steps to the front door also feels entirely right.

  ‘Saffron, Noah, this is your new home,’ she whispers. But as she turns the key in the lock and pushes open the door, it’s clear the house is empty. It’s dark and silent. No Tom.

  Her heart pounding, she leaves the Moses basket in the hall and hurries into the kitchen. There’s a piece of white paper propped against the salt and pepper mills, next to Tom’s set of house keys. She recognises his handwriting instantly.

  M, I know this isn’t the nicest way to tell you, but I’ve moved out. I need some space to think, and to make decisions before the adoption process has the chance to get underway. I’ll be in touch. T x

  She stares at it blankly, then races upstairs to the bedroom. The clothes from Tom’s armoire and his half of the wardrobe are gone. His shaving stuff is gone, his precious Dell laptop, and his camera.

  Shaking with shock, Marian walks back onto the landing. Hanging on to the banister like an octogenarian, she staggers down the stairs and fumbles for her bag. Both babies are sleeping, making the silence palpable. She jabs at Tom’s number on her phone, but the call goes straight to voicemail. She keeps trying him over and over again for nearly an hour, but still he won’t pick up.

  When the doorbell eventually sounds with a shrill squawk, she jumps, dropping her mobile. One of the babies stirs.

  Whoever is there will go away, she tells herself. It can’t be the Jehovah’s Witnesses that roam the neighbourhood; it’s too late even for them. The bell rings again. And again. And it suddenly occurs to her that it must be Tom. He left his keys, after all, but he probably still wants to talk to her. He might even be having second thoughts. She carries the Moses basket and the nursery supplies through to the kitchen and closes the door, before yanking the front door open.

  It’s Paula Armitage.

  How on earth did the girl find her? She must have asked the office, though they’re not supposed to give out staff addresses. Then Marian vaguely remembers once telling Lizzie which street she lived on when they were discussing North London pubs. Lizzie could have mentioned it to Paula. And once on this street, she would have recognised the car parked outside from Marian’s frequent home visits.

  ‘Something’s happened to Lizzie,’ Paula blurts out. She’s out of breath. ‘I’ve been round to her flat and she not pregnant any more!’

  ‘Lizzie isn’t expecting.’ Marian keeps her voice calm, though her heart is thumping in her chest. ‘She isn’t on my list of clients receiving antenatal care.’

  ‘She was! I know she was. And I went round there just now and her stomach’s gone down but there’s no baby in the flat.’ Her tone is accusing.

  ‘I think you must have been imagining things, Paula. I saw her a couple of days ago and she wasn’t pregnant then.’

  ‘She was; she just hid it. She didn’t want anyone to know so it couldn’t be taken away from her.’

  Marian shakes her head. ‘That can’t be right. Lizzie was probably telling one of her tall tales. You know how she gets when she’s been drinking. She often doesn’t make a lot of sense.’

  ‘But I definitely saw her baby bump. And what about all the baby stuff, then? The basket and the nappies and stuff I bought. It’s not there now.’

  ‘I really wouldn’t know about that,’ Marian says, stiffly. ‘More than likely that boyfriend of hers has taken it and sold it for his next fix.’ This, at least, is a credible scenario. ‘And if you’re right, and she really has given birth, well… the absence of the baby should tell you all you need to know.’

  The girl is confused, and stares hard at Marian. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean that the child might not have survived, and maybe your sister… arranged to, you know…’

  Paula is still staring blankly.

  ‘…dispose of it. With or without her boyfriend’s help. That does happen, unfortunately, especially with addicts.’

  ‘But why—’

  ‘I’m afraid I have to go now. I have things… things I need to do.’

  ‘I’m going to tell someone,’ Paula says desperately. ‘I’ll ask the police.’

  ‘I’m doubt they’ll be able to help any more than I can.’

  ‘You’re her social worker! Surely you should try and find out what’s happened?’

  ‘I will, I assure you. As soon as I’m back at work on Monday, I’ll go and check on her. Now, if you don’t mind…’

  Marian closes the front door quickly, just as there is a thin, insistent wail from the direction of the kitchen. She hurries in there to see little pink fists being pressed into hungry mouths. Both babies are squirming and making hungry sucking and grunting noises. The primal sound wraps around her heart and tugs at it, opening the floodgates of the maternal feelings she’s suppressed for so many years. The babies. The babies are still here, and they need her. They need someone responsible to care for them. It was she, Marian, who saw them safely into the world, and that seems like fate: like a sign that they are meant to be hers.

  She has no way of knowing that she will eventually wish that they weren’t.


  30

  Paula

  That Friday night, Paula lies awake until nearly 3 a.m., turning over and over in her narrow single bed.

  She and her mother had the inevitable row when she returned to the flat just before 11 p.m.

  ‘You didn’t tell me where you were!’ Wendy stormed. ‘If you’re going to be out after eight p.m. you’re supposed to tell me first! Honestly, I just can’t bloody trust you.’

  ‘Because I didn’t know,’ Paula said, truthfully. ‘I went down to the canal with a load of people after school, and… I don’t know… it just got late.’

  ‘And you were drinking, is that it? Is that what’s going on behind my back?’ In the wake of Lizzie’s problems, Wendy has been paranoid about Paula being around alcohol.

  ‘Other people were, I didn’t. That stuff was revolting.’

  Wendy had leaned in and smelled her daughter’s breath. Slightly mollified by scenting only Impulse body spray and chewing gum, she went on: ‘Anyway, you know why I wanted you back early tonight. We’re going to Auntie Cissie’s tomorrow morning. You need to pack, and we need to head for Liverpool Street in time to catch the ten o’clock train. Please don’t tell me you’ve forgotten!’

  Paula had forgotten, in fact. Forgotten that they were going to spend a week in Frinton-on-Sea with her mother’s elderly aunt, Cissie. Which made no sense given they went every single July, as soon as school had broken up for the summer. But Paula has had other things on her mind.

  She replays the sight of Lizzie lying in her bed over and over, as though it’s a loop of video tape. Had her stomach really been that much smaller or was it a trick of the light? Or had the baby somehow shifted into a position that made it stick out less? Her conversation with Lizzie’s social worker confused her even more. At first she seemed to be suggesting that Lizzie couldn’t have been pregnant. And then it was as if she was accusing Lizzie and Macca of concealing the birth; of giving away the baby, or even worse. Which was it?

  At least she had promised to go and check on Lizzie. Paula is grateful for that, because with the taxi arriving at 8.45 next morning, there will be no chance for her to visit Lizzie herself until she’s back from holiday. If she could avoid going to Frinton, she would, but Wendy won’t hear of it.

  The week in Frinton-on-Sea drags, but in that respect it’s no different from every other year. Cissie, a sprightly seventy-two, lives in a bungalow just off the promenade. She’s kind, but very set in her ways and has never had children. Paula finds it hard to imagine Cissie having been a child herself, because she seems oblivious to how boring Frinton is for a sixteen year old: she thinks mini golf or the antiques centre or a visit to Felixstowe museum are appealing activities.

  In Paula’s opinion, the beach is the only good thing about Frinton. She spends the start of the week stretched out on a towel on the sand, reading Smash Hits and trying to get a tan. On Tuesday evening the weather breaks suddenly, with torrential downpours and forecasts of flash floods. They are condemned to spending all of Wednesday in Cissie’s bungalow playing dominoes, and when the forecast confirms rain for the rest of the week, Wendy decides to change their train tickets and travel back to London on Thursday morning instead of Saturday.

  Paula is relieved, not just to get away from the dominoes and the antimacassars and the kippers for breakfast, but also to have a chance to call on Lizzie. Now, finally, she will be able to get answers to the questions still dominating her thoughts.

  ‘I’m just going to go and meet Carly,’ she lies to Wendy, as soon as their suitcases are through the front door of the flat.

  Wendy frowns. ‘I thought you said Carly was going to Tenerife?’

  Paula colours slightly. ‘She’s been. She got back this morning.’

  ‘Well, at least stay long enough to have a cuppa with me.’ Wendy bustles into the kitchen and switches on the kettle. ‘I think there are still some Penguins in the biscuit tin.’

  Paula hesitates. ‘Thing is, I really want to get going before—’

  The doorbell rings, loudly and insistently. And then again.

  ‘At least see who that is before you go.’

  Paula lifts the intercom. A man’s voice speaks, and her heart leaps in response, thumping against her ribs.

  ‘Mum. He says it’s the police.’

  Wendy stares, the milk jug in her hand. They both know nothing good ever comes from a house call from the police. ‘Go on then – let them up.’

  There are two of them, a man and a woman, both in uniform. Paula instinctively knows that this is bad.

  ‘Mrs Armitage? Wendy Armitage? Would you like to sit down?’

  Wendy obeys. Paula’s heart hammers harder, so hard she can hear it in her head.

  ‘It’s about your daughter, Elizabeth. I’m afraid we have some bad news.’

  ‘Lizzie. She’s always known as Lizzie,’ Wendy says, stubbornly.

  Paula’s hands fly instinctively to her ears, to block out what she already knows they’re going to say.

  ‘Mrs Armitage, I’m afraid that Elizabeth… Lizzie… has passed away.’

  The use of the euphemism throws Paula temporarily. ‘You mean she’s died?’ Her voice sounds strange to her own ears, unnaturally high.

  The policewoman puts a hand on her shoulder, leads her to a chair. ‘I’m afraid so, yes.’

  The policeman is talking now, telling her that a neighbour noticed the curtains had remained closed for a few days and called the on-site caretaker, who had a key. Lizzie was alone in the flat, and she was dead.

  ‘When did you last see your daughter?’ he asks Wendy.

  She shakes her head mutely, staring straight ahead at the wall as though it can somehow give her answers.

  ‘Mrs Armitage?’

  ‘Not for a long time. Years.’

  ‘And you?’

  This is directed at Paula. She knows you shouldn’t lie to the police, but she also knows that this is not the time for her mother to find out that she’s defied her instructions and been visiting Lizzie. ‘Same.’ She shrugs. ‘Long time ago.’

  But she’s betraying her sister, and the shame of this betrayal brings a sudden torrent of tears.

  ‘I’m so sorry.’ The policewoman is squeezing her hand. ‘It must be a terrible shock even if you weren’t close.’

  ‘Is there anyone we can call? To come and be with you?’ the other officer asks.

  ‘No.’ Wendy shakes her head, her eyes still fixed on the wall. ‘It’s too late for all that. Far too late.’

  31

  Marian

  It takes Marian a while to realise that the shrill sound is not part of her dream, but the front doorbell ringing.

  She opens her eyes and glances at the bedside clock: 8.15 a.m. She finally got the babies to sleep just before five. This followed a nightmarish seven-hour game akin to musical chairs during which she climbed constantly in and out of bed, picking up first one baby then the other, feeding them, changing them, attempting to settle them, moving one then both of them into bed with her before returning them either together or separately to the Moses basket. And so on, endlessly throughout the night. If one of them squirmed and wailed in the basket, it would always set the other one off. Eventually, somehow, they had both sunk into a deep sleep and so, drained beyond belief, had she. It was like that the night before, and the one before that, and the one before that. For a whole week.

  The doorbell rings again insistently, and Marian climbs groggily off the bed and throws on her tatty dressing gown. Even though she’s attempting to be quiet, the babies start to whimper. When she visited clients with new babies, they always seemed to sleep like statues through any amount of domestic chaos. Her twins – as she is starting to think of them – are disturbed by the slightest noise.

  By the time she’s reached the front door, they’re both screaming angrily. She comes out onto the step and pulls the front door to behind her so that whoever it is won’t hear. It’s only the postman, holding out a large cardboard box.<
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  ‘Thank goodness,’ she says to him. ‘I only ordered this yesterday, but I really need it.’

  Inside the box is a second baby basket, a sturdier one, ordered from an upmarket online store. And packed inside it, wrapped in finest white tissue, are two cashmere blankets: one shell pink, the other palest blue. The pink one is appliquéd with an ‘S’, the blue one with a ‘N’.

  Marian ignores the crying long enough to make herself a strong cup of coffee, which she downs in one go before warming two bottles of formula and carrying them upstairs. She changes two dirty nappies amid a cacophony of yells, then sets about trying to feed the babies, a process she never dreamed could take so long. Saffron first, because she always seems the hungriest and drinks the quickest. Noah doesn’t suck very well, and it takes forever to feed and burp him. She watches him anxiously, taking in every suck.

  Come on, she urges him silently. Drink it up. You need to start putting on some weight. Still he fusses, refusing the teat and turning his face away.

  She is aware that she should probably bath the babies, but she lacks the energy. Instead she carries them downstairs in the white ribbon-trimmed basket that Paula Armitage bought, and transfers Noah to the new, plainer basket. She tucks the blue blanket around him and the pink one around his sister and waits a few seconds to see what happens. Each baby squirms and reaches out their limbs for their missing twin, but eventually, after a few half-hearted cries, they both fall asleep. Marian darts upstairs to run a bath for herself, but before the tub is half full, Noah has started wailing. She recognises his cry: thinner and weaker than his sister’s.

  She storms downstairs again. ‘Stop it!’ she hisses at him. ‘You’ll wake your sister. Please, please, just stop it!’