The Drowning Girl

Matt and Karen nod at one another. They have an uneasy complicity, like strangers thrown together at a crime scene. Nobody smiles.

‘She had a nightmare,’ says Karen. ‘I couldn’t settle her.’

Sylvie stretches her arms towards me. I kneel on the carpet and hold her on my lap. Her body feels brittle. She’s still crying, but quietly now. Karen stands and smoothes down her clothes, with an evident air of relief.

‘Can I make anyone a coffee?’ she says.

‘Please,’ I say for both of us.

Matt says nothing. He sits on the arm of the sofa, in a noncommittal way, so it’s not quite taking his weight.

Karen goes to the kitchen. Sylvie’s crying stops, as though it’s abruptly switched off. She clutches me, her body convulses; she vomits soundlessly all over the blue silk blouse.

‘Shit,’ says Matt, quietly.

He moves rapidly to the window, keeping his back to us. Karen comes, takes Sylvie’s shoulders, steers her to the bathroom.

‘I’ll clean her up.’ She’s definite, brisk. ‘You change.’

I feel a profound gratitude towards her.

I rush to the bedroom, unbutton the blouse, grab the first T-shirt I find.

Matt is standing in the hallway; he has his car keys ready in his hand.

‘I guess I’d better go, let you get on with it,’ he says.

‘You don’t have to leave,’ I tell him. ‘Really, you don’t have to.’

I glance down at the T-shirt I put on without thinking; it has a picture of a baby bird and says ‘Chicks Rule’.

‘No, really, I think I should,’ he tells me. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll see myself out.’

His face is a shut door.

‘Thanks for the evening, it was lovely,’ I say lamely.

He reaches out and touches my upper arm through the cloth of my T-shirt—tentatively, as though he’s afraid of what might come off on his hand.

‘It was great,’ he says heartily. ‘It was lovely to meet you, Grace. Look, I’ll be in touch.’

But we both know he won’t be.

I stand there, hearing him leave—the percussive sound of his feet on the pavement, the car door slamming, the hum of the engine as his car moves away. There’s such finality to all this, each sound like the end of a sentence. He drives off, out of my life. I guess that for him I am just another illusion: that like so much else in his life, I am not what he hoped for, not what he thought. Disappointment is a charred taste in my mouth. In the hallway I can still smell his cologne. It fills me with nostalgia already.

Karen has cleaned Sylvie up and found her a new pyjama top.

‘I’m so sorry,’ I tell her. It’s what I so often say to her. ‘I’ll get the blouse back to you just as soon as I’ve washed it.’

‘It’s handwash only.’ There’s a hard edge to her voice. ‘You might want to put some bicarb with it, to get rid of the smell.’

‘Yes. It’ll be good as new, I promise.’

I catch sight of myself in the mirror. I look all wrong in this jokey T-shirt with my hair up—as though I’m a teenager pretending to be a grown woman. I wrench the clip out of my hair.

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.