Gone

65

The woman standing in her dressing-gown on the gravelled driveway had gone through most of her life with the name Skye Blue. But, then, what else would hippie Mr and Mrs Blue have called their only daughter if not ‘Skye’? It was obvious, and really she should count herself lucky their name hadn’t been Brown. It was only in the last year, when a good and decent man with the sensible name of Nigel Stephenson had come along and made her his wife that she’d stopped having to make defensive little antihippie jokes every time she signed her name.

Skye Stephenson had a lot more to thank Nigel for than just a name, she thought, as the lights of his taxi disappeared at the end of the road. A lot more. She had peace, fun, great sex and great cuddles whenever she put out her arms for one. She had a beautiful house too, she thought, pulling the dressing-gown around her and going back down the silent garden path to the opened front door – a detached Victorian with bay windows, a front garden full of peonies and a real feel of home. The windows needed replacing and they’d probably have to put in a new heating system before next winter, but to her it was exactly how she imagined a family home. She smiled down the road after Nigel, closed the door behind her and put the chain on because he would be two days on his business trip and the door couldn’t be seen from the street, which sometimes made her feel vaguely insecure.

She inched the draught excluder into place with a toe, stop the cold air coming in and snaking meanly around the downstairs rooms.

Skye’s stitches had healed now and she could move like a normal human being again. She’d stopped wearing the sanitary towel ten days ago and now she really was back to her old self. Still, habit made her go up the stairs slowly, her body still feeling a little full, cumbersome. Her breasts ached all the time. Just the tiniest brush against something and they’d be leaking everywhere. Sometimes she thought she was more eager to get the feeding done than Charlie was.

She waddled down the long, cold corridor to the nursery, stood in the doorway and took a moment to look at him, fast asleep on his back, arms above his shoulders, head turned to the side, mouth making little sucking movements. Charlie – the biggest and most important thing she had to be thankful to Nigel for. She went to the cot and smiled down at him. If it had been left to her she’d let Charlie sleep in bed with her. It would be easier to soothe him when he woke. To wrap an arm around his head and push a nipple into his sleepy mouth. But the screaming brigade of health visitors, relatives and childcare books had trampled her down. Reminded her she was the product of hippies and that, really, if she didn’t set the boundaries now, Charlie would never know which was his bed and which was Mum and Dad’s. He’d be scarred for life and end up a hopeless tangle of separation anxieties.

‘But a few minutes now won’t hurt, will it, little boy? Promise you’ll go back afterwards?’

She lifted him from the cot, grateful not to feel the tug of stitches any more. Put him over her shoulder and wrapped the blanket round him. Then, one hand on his tiny warm skull, the other on his bottom, and moving carefully because sometimes it terrified her that she might trip, drop him maybe, she padded next door to her and Nigel’s bedroom at the front of the house. She kicked the door closed behind her and sat on the bed. The light was off, but the curtains were open, and the room was filled with the yellow light of the streetlamp at the top of the drive.

Careful not to wake Charlie, she lowered her face and gave his bottom a sniff. Nothing. She unsnapped the poppers on the legs of his sleepsuit and wormed a finger in to check his nappy. Damp.

‘Nappy change, little man.’

With an effort, not using her hands, she tipped herself back on to her feet. Carried him across to the baby-changing station by the window. It was quite a number, in green and orange, with a strap to hold him safe and lots of drawers for different things: nappies, bags for the dirty ones, wipes, cream. Skye’s colleagues had bought it for her. She thought the gift showed a tenderness towards babies uncharacteristic of the mostly male solicitors with whom she worked and she was sure they’d only done it out of pity. Probably they were thinking that Charlie signalled the end of her useful career as a divorce lawyer.

Maybe they were right, she thought, as she unsnapped the Babygro – because these days the thought of going back to work made her want to cry. It wasn’t just the long hours she dreaded. Or the backbiting. It was the thought of existing at the sharp end of people’s cruelty, as if Charlie’s birth had skinned her of a protective layer. She didn’t think she’d be able to face seeing naked human nature at its rawest any more. It was more than just the few occasions where she’d heard, in the course of the divorces, accusations of child abuse. It was the acrimony, the loading of blame, the feral struggle for self. In just a few short weeks her faith in her job had evaporated.

‘Hey, little guy.’ She smiled down at Charlie, who had half woken up and was moving his fists weakly up and down, opening his mouth ready to cry. ‘Just a nappy change. Then a cuddle. Then back to your nasty old cot.’ But he didn’t cry and she managed the change with him still half asleep. She dressed him and laid him on the blanket on her bed. Puffed the pillows up against the headboard. ‘Now listen, little Charlie, you mustn’t get used to Mummy’s bed. The Nazis will come after Mummy if you do.’

She kicked off her slippers, pulled off the dressing-gown, and crawled across the bed on all fours to him. She thought he might wake up, want to feed, but he didn’t. After a few seconds he stopped agitating his arms and moving his mouth, and his eyes closed. His face slackened. She lay on her side, her cheek resting on her hand, and watched him sleep. Little Charlie. Little Charlie, who was everything to her.

The bedroom was quiet. The streetlight came in from the window and reflected off points in the room: a glass of water on the bedside table, the mirror, the row of nail varnishes on a shelf high up. Each surface sent back dull, reflective glimmers. But there was an extra glint in the room that she wouldn’t have recognized even if she’d noticed it. High above her head, among the ornate folds and creases of the plaster ceiling rose, nestled a tiny glass disc. The tireless, unblinking lens of a surveillance camera.