The Drowning Girl

The front of her pyjama jacket is damp from all the crying. I feel I ought to change it, but she’s starting to quiet; I don’t want to rouse her again. I stroke her hair.

‘This is the real world, sweetheart. You and me and Big Ted and our home and everything…’

Quite suddenly the tension leaves her. Her hand that’s clasping the teddy bear eases open, her fingers are lax and fluid; her eyelids flutter and close. I want to say, Why do you do this, Sylvie? Why are you so unhappy? But she’s asleep already.

CHAPTER 4

On Saturday something cheering happens. Even the timing is perfect—because Sylvie and I are about to set off for Karen’s: if he’d rung a moment later, we’d have been gone. This timing is a good omen.

‘Now, am I speaking to Grace Reynolds?’

A man’s voice—light, pleasant, with a smile in it.

‘Yes,’ I tell him, a fragile hopefulness flaring up in me.

‘Grace, it’s Matt. We met at that weird evening at Crystals, remember?’

‘Of course I remember.’

‘Grace, to get to the point—I’d love to take you out to dinner. If you’d like that.’

‘I’d like it a lot,’ I tell him.

‘Great.’ He sounds relieved, as though it matters.

We fix the time, the place—next Thursday, and we will go to Welford Place. It’s a restaurant by the river I’ve sometimes driven past; it used to be a gentlemen’s club. Quite different from the Alouette, I guess: no red-checked cloths or accordian music or menus scrawled on a board. I imagine silkily ingratiating waiters, and a silver trolley that’s heaped with indulgent desserts.

I can’t recall if I told him about Sylvie; it’s probably best to make sure.

‘I’ll have to fix a babysitter. For my little girl,’ I tell him.

‘Of course, Grace. Look, just ring if there’s a problem.’

I put down the phone and stand there for a moment. I remind myself of his white linen shirt and the hair falling into his eyes; I remind myself I liked him. I have a distinct, thrilled sense of newness. This is all so easy, so straightforward—both of us unattached, and I told him about Sylvie and he didn’t seem to mind.

It’s a gorgeous afternoon, honeyed sunlight mellowing everything. I decide we will walk to Karen’s; it isn’t that far. Sylvie brings her Shaun the Sheep rucksack, with some of her Barbies inside. We talk about the things we pass: a glove that someone has dropped in the road, that looks from a distance like a small dead animal; a caterpillar that Sylvie spots on the pavement, no longer than her thumbnail and the fresh, bright green of limes.

‘We must be very careful when we come back,’ says Sylvie. ‘We mustn’t tread on the caterpillar.’

In the tree-lined road where Karen lives, there’s a cat that sits in a circle of sun.

‘The cat has yellow eyes,’ says Sylvie. ‘Look, Grace.’

She strokes the cat with a gentle, scrupulous touch, and it rubs against her, purring hugely.

‘He likes me, Grace,’ she says.

I watch her as she pets the cat. Just like a normal child.

At Karen’s, the girls go up to Lennie’s room. They’ll probably play their favourite hospital game with Lennie’s Barbies—this always seems to involve a lot of amputation and bandaging. We sit in the kitchen, where there’s a scent of baking and citrus, and Karen’s Aga gives out a welcome warmth. Leo and Josh have gone sailing today, as they usually do on Saturdays. You can hear the liquid sound of chatter and laughter from Lennie’s room—Karen has left the kitchen door open. I notice this, and briefly wonder whether she leaves the door ajar when other, more predictable children come to play.

Karen complains about homework. Josh has been given an alarming Maths project to finish by Monday morning.

‘It’s the poor old parents who have to do it as usual,’ she says. ‘Why can’t they just give us a break for once?’

She puts the coffee pot to perk on the hob.

During the half-term holiday, she tells me, Josh’s homework project was to make a model castle. Karen found cereal packets and paint, and he put together something with a vaguely medieval look, though the turrets kept collapsing. But when she dropped him off at school at the end of the holiday, there were far more fathers than usual accompanying their children, and all of them carrying the most complicated constructions, one complete with a miniature cannon that fired.

‘All Josh’s mates laughed at him and said his castle was crap,’ she says. ‘What’s the point? It’s nothing to do with kids actually learning stuff, it’s just competitive parenting…’

Karen’s coffee has a kick to it. I drink gratefully. She takes muffins out of the Aga and puts them to cool on a rack.

‘Let’s have one now,’ she says, ‘before the little vultures get at them.’

The cakes are still hot to the touch, and taste of butter and orange, with a glittery crust of vanilla sugar on top.

I tell her about my phone call, and her eyes are bright and excited. I’m touched she’s so pleased for me.

‘And you’ve been out with exactly how many guys since being ditched by the Rat?’ It’s her usual name for Dominic.

‘Nobody else. Not properly,’ I tell her.

She has a satisfied smile.

‘You’re ready, you see. It’s like I always said. You’re ready to move on now. Guys can pick up on that.’

Karen is one of those people who live in an ordered universe: her world is like a tidy house where everything matches and fits—where you meet the right man once you’ve achieved some special state of preparedness. Which I always feel leaves out that whole scary, unnerving randomness of who you meet when: of what happens. But just for now, I like the theory. It makes me feel it’s all meant to be.

‘I’ll babysit,’ she tells me.

I hug her.

‘You’re an angel. Thank you.’

‘Well—it’s important,’ she says. ‘A fresh start. Someone completely new. Just what the doctor ordered. And he’s taking you where?’

‘To Welford Place.’

‘Oh.’ She fixes me with a rather analytical gaze. ‘It’s classy, Grace, you need to look the part.’

‘Karen, what are you trying to tell me exactly?’

Her eyes move across me. Today I’m wearing jade fishnets, a little black skirt, cowboy boots from Oxfam and a cardigan I knitted from some wool I found in the corner shop, which I loved because it’s the exact sooty blue of ripe bilberries.

‘You always look lovely,’ she says placatingly. ‘It’s just that it’s all a bit kooky. He does what, your Matt?’

‘I can’t remember exactly. Something financial.’