Trio - [63]

She needed seaweed now to make a pattern round them all, and some shells. At the water’s edge she squatted down, selecting slippery strands of bladderwrack, with its leathery skin and bulbous pods, and fronds of the other slimy, bright-green weed.

Another girl came up close. She had a fishing net. Theresa watched the girl’s toes disappear into the soft sand.

‘There’s a crab over there,’ the girl said. ‘In the big rock pool.’

‘Can you see it?’

‘I’ll show you. What’s your name?’

‘Theresa.’ She got up, leaving the seaweed.

‘How old are you?’

‘Six.’

‘What’s wrong with your ear?’

Theresa blinked. The question stung her, she felt a bit sick.

‘Nothing.’ She pulled her hair over it, hiding it. ‘It didn't grow right.’

‘Does it hurt?’ The girl had a mean mouth. Theresa wanted her to shut up and go away.

‘It looks horrible. Are you a bit deaf?’

Theresa grabbed her bucket and ran up the beach. When she reached the shingle she slipped, skinning her toes against the pebbles. She began to cry. She couldn’t see the place where Mummy and Daddy and Dominic and the babies were.

She walked on. Stupid, horrid girl. She hated her ear. Mummy said it was nothing to worry about but she didn’t know, she didn’t have a lump like a slug on her head, did she?

She sobbed some more, her tummy hurt. She was lost. Then she saw her castles, the flags tiny specks in the distance and nearby Daddy rolling the big beach ball to Dominic. She squeezed her face to make more tears come and then ran to them. Mummy was reading, lying on her front on the blanket. The twins were asleep on the picnic rug. Theresa wailed so Mummy would hear her.

‘Theresa, what’s happened?’

She cried some more first, really loud to show how bad it was and then she told her about the horrid girl and hurting her toes. She saw Daddy look at Mummy and felt Mummy squeeze her tighter. ‘It’s not horrible, Theresa. Little girls like that say silly things.’

‘I wish I was dead,’ she said.

‘Sshhh! Don’t say that. We love you. What would we have done without you? When we fetched you home it was the happiest day of my life.’

Theresa swallowed, sniffed up her tears. ‘Tell me,’ she said.

‘It was a lovely June day. We’d already been to see you once…’ Her mother began the familiar story and Theresa relaxed back into her embrace. Mummy was big and soft. Theresa’s skin was damp and sticky with salt and sand but warm where she touched her mother. She listened, waiting for the comforting words to work their magic and make her feel better.

Caroline

Things had unravelled after Davey’s birth. As she nursed him and changed him her eyes kept blurring. Stupid unbidden tears. She kept telling herself that it would be all right, that no one would take this child from her, but the fear grew in her like a tumour until every situation became a tangle of threats.

The midwives told Paul she was overwrought, that she needed help, but when he offered to hold Davey while she bathed or rested she shrank away from him. He found her tearing the newspapers into tiny pieces. Talking of demons. The news was horrific, they’d charged Ian Brady and Myra Hindley with the Moors murders. He cursed himself for leaving the thing around.

After another week of sleepless nights and frantic panics Paul was at the end of his tether. He spoke to his mother on the telephone. She arranged to travel down from Yorkshire in two days time. Reassured that help was on the way Paul went to find Caroline upstairs.

She had closed the curtains and lay on the bed. The air smelt stale. When he put the light on he noticed afresh how messy the room was. Nappies and baby clothes strewn about, a pile of ironing on the chair. Dirty glasses and cups on the bedside table.

Caroline winced at the light, looked at him with suspicion.

‘I'm going to clear up a bit,’ he said. ‘All this mess isn't helping. Why don’t you sit downstairs? I’ll call you if Davey wakes up.’

She sighed and got up sluggishly. Her chestnut hair had lost its gloss and hung in lank strands, her complexion was sallow.

‘Or would you like a bath?’

‘Have you put the water heater on?’ She spoke sullenly.

He sighed. No, he ruddy well hadn’t. He didn’t know how to do all this. The house was her province. ‘No, but I can.’

‘Don't bother,’ she said coldly.

‘My mother’s coming to help us out.’ He tried to sound matter of fact. He propped his stick against the wall, started picking up the baby clothes from the dressing tables and putting them on the bed.

‘No!’ she cried as though he had hurt her.

‘Just for a few days, till we’re on top of things.’

She stood there, her face crumbling, shoulders shaking.

‘Oh, Caro,’ he said gently. He moved towards her.

‘No!’ she yelled and swung away from him, stumbling and knocking into the bedside table, knocking the lamp over and a glass. There was a crash followed by a beat of silence then the stringy wail from Davey in his cot in the next room.

Paul moved but she was quicker, sobbing loudly. He followed her, feeling frightened but not sure why.

He watched her lift Davey up, hold him close, humming a tune broken by her irregular sobs. He wanted to join them, to comfort both wife and child but he knew there would be another rebuttal if he tried.