The Drowning Girl

‘Well, then. I think you ought to come with me.’

I follow her upstairs. As we pass Lennie’s room, we glance in through the door. It all seems happy. They’re busy with Lennie’s toy cooker: they seem to be cooking a naked Barbie in a saucepan, and Lennie has a plastic knife in her hand. Both girls are smiling gleefully.

Karen’s bedroom has a scent of rose geranium, and a sleigh bed covered in white with crocheted flowers. On the dressing table are silver hairbrushes, handed down from her mother, and family photographs in leather frames. It all speaks of continuity, of her sense of where she belongs. I envy her this sense of connection: it looks so solid, so comforting.

She opens her wardrobe and rifles through her clothes. Karen likes classic things—trench coats, silk shirts, cashmere. She pulls out something pale blue, with a sheen—a satiny blouse, with long full sleeves and buttons made of pearl. She holds it against my face to see if the colour will suit me. I feel it’s all wrong for me—too cool, too grown-up—but the feel of it is wonderful, the fabric smooth and fluid against my skin.

‘Well, go on,’ she says. ‘Try it.’

I pull off my cardigan and put it on. It’s low in front, in spite of the demureness of the sleeves, and cut to pull your breasts together: I’m surprised to see I have a proper cleavage. Karen puts her hands on my shoulders and turns me towards the mirror. We look at my reflection.

‘Mmm,’ she says. ‘I like it. And you could put your hair up.’

‘I always wear it down.’

‘Why?’

‘Oh, I don’t know—because I always have done probably.’

She gives me a sceptical look. I feel my face go hot.

‘OK. I confess. It’s because it’s how Dominic likes it.’

‘Liked it. He’s in the past, Grace.’ She wags her finger, with mock severity. ‘Remember: no more father figures,’ she says.

I told Karen once about my father. Just the outline—well, there isn’t much to tell. I told her how I remembered him—how big he seemed, and his warm smell, and the thrill I’d felt when he’d carry me round the streets on his shoulders, and I couldn’t imagine what it was like always to view the world from such a height. And my mother just saying, one day, when I was three, ‘Your father’s gone’—and not knowing what she meant by that, thinking she meant he’d gone but would come back again; so for years when I heard a taxi stopping in the street I’d rush to the window, a little bud of hopefulness opening up inside me. Karen was fascinated. ‘Well, there you are, then,’ she said—convinced that my passion for Dominic is all tied up with this loss, that it’s all about recovering my lost father. She’s probably right, but knowing doesn’t help much; I can’t untie it.

She sweeps up my hair in a twist at the back of my neck, fixes it with a sparkly clip from her dressing table. I look somehow more definite—as though I’m more clearly drawn in.

‘Fab,’ says Karen. ‘Kind of Breakfast at Tiffany’s. And maybe some earrings—just little ones…’

I grin at my reflection, the cleavage, the new hair. It’s fun, this dressing-up. I half notice and then dismiss the sudden silence from Lennie’s room. I feel a light fizzy excitement.

She opens up her jewel box. A ruby glows with a dull rich light. I watch her careful fingers move the jewels aside.

‘I’ve got some sweet pearl earrings somewhere…’

There’s a sudden scream from the playroom, a rush of steps on the landing, a bang as the door is thrown back. Lennie erupts into the room, flings herself on her mother. Her face is blotched with furious red. She’s sobbing, outraged, she’s crying too passionately to speak. I think, OhGod, what’s happened? What did Sylvie do?

I can see across the landing through the open door. Sylvie is still in Lennie’s room, wrapping a Barbie in a blanket. She has her back to us. She seems quite unconcerned.

Karen kneels by Lennie, holds her.

‘Was it something that happened, sweetheart? Did you hurt yourself?’

Lennie’s breath comes in shaky gasps.

‘She says I’m not Lennie.’ The words tumble out through her tears. ‘But I am, Mum, I am.’

Karen strokes Lennie’s hair away from her wet, bright face. She’s frowning.

‘Of course you’re Lennie,’ she says.

‘She says I’m not,’ says Lennie again.

‘Sylvie said that?’

Lennie nods.

‘Sylvie does say funny things sometimes,’ says Karen. ‘You know that…’

I go across to the playroom.

‘Sylvie, what happened? What did you say?’

She isn’t looking at me. She’s preoccupied with the doll, extravagantly solicitous, wrapping the blanket close around it with fastidious care. Her face is a mask. She’s humming very quietly.

‘You’ve got to tell me,’ I say.

I reach out, hold her face between my hands, so she can’t escape me, so she has to look at me. Her skin is surprisingly cool for a child who’s been playing indoors.

‘What did you say to Lennie? Did you tell her that isn’t her name?’

She shrugs.

‘She’s not,’ she says. ‘Not really. She’s not my Lennie.’

She jerks her head, slips from my hands.

‘Lennie’s really upset, can’t you see that?’ I say. ‘I want you to tell her you’re sorry.’

Sylvie says nothing. Her back is turned to me now. She’s busy with the Barbie, running her finger round its face in a detailed little enactment of maternal tenderness.

‘Sylvie, will you say sorry?’

‘She’s not my Lennie,’ she says again.

I feel a pulse of anger. Just for an instant I could hit her—for her detachment, her coolness, the way she eludes me, the way she slides from my grasp.

‘All right. We’re going home then,’ I say.

She puts down the doll that she was tending with such deliberate care—just dumps it on the floor at her feet, as though she has no interest in it. This was meant to be her punishment, to show my disapproval, but it’s as if she’s glad to leave. Without being asked, she heads downstairs to find her coat and shoes.

I go back to Karen’s bedroom.

‘Karen, I’m so so sorry. I think we’d better go now.’

Karen’s face is tightly closed, holding everything in.