Clover's Child (23 page)

‘All right, Dot? You’re back then.’

Dot nodded.

‘How was the farm?’

Dot stared at their neighbour and walked by without speaking, too broken to even pretend.

She reached out with her bunched-up fist and took a deep breath. Was there any other option, anywhere she could go? Anywhere?
Think, Dot, think…
The answer was no, there was not. Closing her eyes, she took a second before she knocked on the door and waited.

The door to the back room opened, flooding the hallway with its light. It was Dee. She peered through the glass and started jumping up and down. ‘It’s Dot! It’s Dot! She’s come back from the farm! It’s Dot!’

Her mum bustled into the hall and shushed her youngest to one side. ‘All right, Dee, calm down, give her a bit of space, she’s had a long journey.’

Yes, I have, thought Dot. All the way to hell and back again, miles and miles…

Her mum opened the door and the two stared at each other, strangers now. Joan’s face crumpled, it hurt to see the hollow eyes of her wayward daughter – she looked like an old woman. She raised her arms to hug her eldest, but Dot turned away, out of reach, and instead Joan retrieved her suitcase.

‘Come on in, love.’

Dee was so excited, firing questions at her sister as she pogoed up and down on the spot. ‘Did you get me a present, Dot? Did you drive a tractor? Mum said you might! What were the names of the farmer’s kids? I know all me sixes, go on, test me on any six and I know the answer! Six sixes are thirty-six, eight sixes are forty-eight, three sixes are eighteen! See, and I can do them in any order! And I know my fours and fives and half of my sevens! One seven is seven, two sevens are fourteen. Look at my skirt, it’s joined to my vest!’ Dee stopped jumping and pulled up her roll-neck jumper to reveal a tartan mini-skirt that was indeed joined onto a vest.

Dot smiled at her baby sister. Dee had grown taller and was sporting a large tooth in the front where there had previously been a gap. ‘You’ve got big.’

‘I know! I’m the fourth tallest in me class. It goes Alice McFadden, Josephine Ward, Anne Smith and then me! She used her little cupped palm to indicate heights along the wall.

Dot was exhausted trying to keep up with her.

‘D’you want something to eat?’ Her mum cut in. It was and always would be her first thought.
Can I feed her?
Dot understood this, it had been her first thought too whenever she held her son. Dot shook her head, unable to even consider something as mundane as food.

‘Take your coat off then…’ Dot half expected her to add ‘
if you’re staying’
, as if there were any other option. Her mum reached out and fumbled with the top button of her daughter’s coat, as if she was a toddler. Dot brushed away her hand and slid her arms through the sleeves, then hung it on the peg. She felt like a stranger in her family home, a guest who was waiting for an invitation to venture beyond the hallway.

Dee pointed at her sister and laughed with one hand clamped over her mouth. ‘Dot’s got wet boobies! Wet boooobies!’

Dot looked down and noticed the two pale, wet circles that sat on the front of her shirt. ‘It’s his feed time.’ Two fat tears snaked their way into her mouth.

Joan looked as if she had been struck. She gasped.
A little boy then.
She placed her hand over her mouth; it wasn’t just a bump any more, a condition to be hidden, it was a person, her grandson.

Lying on the bed in her little room, Dot stroked the skin of her throat that only hours earlier had felt the weight of her son. She pictured the excited hands of Mrs Dubois, fluttering at her neck in anticipation, waiting to be wrapped around her boy. The same hands which would bathe, feed and change him tonight, would hold his hand when he woke from a bad dream, would clap with delight when he cut his first tooth, said his first word, took his first step. Dot lay with her face in the pillow and let her tears sink into the feathers. She didn’t care if she never woke up.

The next morning, with her chest bound tightly with cotton wool pads and strips of muslin, Dot crept down the stairs and into the back room. The last time she had sat within those four walls it had been to hear her fate, the great plan to pack her off to Battersea. What was it they had said?
‘Get it adopted out and we’ll say no more about it.’
Maybe she should have fought harder. It didn’t matter now; she was beaten and broken, with rocks of grief that lined her stomach and sat at the base of her brain, swirling like ugly sediment, filtering each and every swallow and thought. She did not know it was possible to feel this sad and for your heart to carry on beating; she wished it would stop.

Her dad swung into the room and stopped suddenly when he saw her. His look of pity told her how shocked he was at the sight of her. ‘Hello, Dot, you’re back then,’ he mumbled as he delved into his little tin for a pre-rolled fag.

She nodded.

‘Are you…?’ he began, swallowing hard.

What did he have to feel nervous about?
She waited for the rest of the question –
Hurt? Devastated? Destroyed? Angry? Defeated? Heartbroken? I’m all of them, Dad, I’m all of them.

‘Sit down, Dot.’ Her mum broke the tension, putting a plate of poached eggs on toast on the table before going back to the kitchen to make tea.

Dot sat at the table and held the cutlery, staring at the plate as though she couldn’t quite remember what came next.

Joan plonked the cup and saucer down. ‘Not hungry, love?’

Dot stared at her. What did it matter if she was hungry? Her grief blocked her throat as surely as any stopper, making the swallowing of food impossible.

She took small sips of tea. Her mum and dad were in the kitchen; she couldn’t make out all of the conversation, but she clearly heard her dad utter the words ‘Fucking doolally’, and for once in his miserable life he was right.

Dot spent the best part of ten days lying on her bed, unable to converse, eat or look anyone in the eye without dissolving into a shaking mess. Her weight plummeted. She found it hard to get comfortable on the mattress, with the sharp bones of her hips and buttocks jutting against the base. Her breasts, at first engorged and painful, leaked their wasted product onto muslin cloths and an old flannel until eventually the milk stopped, dried up. This was for Dot a whole new level of distress, this was the moment in her mind that she finally stopped being Solomon’s mum. She had replayed a fantasy over and over in her head, that the Dubois would turn up at 38 Ropemakers Fields and hand her a carry-cot, in it would be her boy, dressed in his blue romper suit and wailing for a feed. He would cry until she nestled him against her and all would be right with the world as she cradled his dark curls in her palm. Now that she had stopped producing milk, she knew that this could never happen.

One morning, when Dot had finally dragged herself downstairs and was listlessly filling the old kettle at the sink, her dad came in from the garden. The two were still awkward in each other’s company. She doubted she would ever be able to erase the words that he had launched at her all those months ago, tiny bombs that had exploded in her head and heart, damaging both beyond repair. She gathered her dressing gown around her body, as though it offered protection, and fixed her eyes on the floor.

‘I found this.’ He smiled as he stretched out his arm.

Dot looked up towards his raised hand. In it he held the giant conch shell that her grandad had given her when she was little; she thought it had long gone.

‘I must have shoved it in the privy years ago, it practically fell on me bonce!’ He laughed, trying to elicit a response.

Dot didn’t react, though only a few months ago it would have sparked a whole stream of banter between the two of them.

‘Might have knocked some sense into you, Dad!’

‘Cheeky mare!’

But that was before. Dot doubted that she would find anything funny again.

Forgetting about the kettle that now whistled on the stove, she took the shell from his hand and, cradling it to her chest, slunk back to the quiet confines of her bedroom.

Folding her dressing gown over her knees, she placed the shell on her lap, running her hand over its contours, stopping at the little nodes and crevices that pitted its surface. Turning it over, she placed her fingers inside the smooth edge. Its pale pink lustre looked manufactured; it was so beautiful, perfect. She pushed her hand inside and tried to imagine what creature might dwell in such a beautiful home, a creature which was apparently considered good eating in some parts of the world, if you had a plate big enough.

Dot shook her hair back over her shoulder, cupped the shell in both hands and tentatively raised it to her ear. Closing her eyes, she listened – and there it was! The rushing of the wind over the ocean, the sound of waves breaking against the rocks and the lapping of the smaller waves against the shore. She could hear the sea! She sat for some minutes, straining to hear more – maybe the people in the sea, or people on the beach, a certain someone on the beach. And then it occurred to her, the most logical thing: if she could hear the sea and possibly the beach, then maybe someone on that beach could hear her. Like a mollusc telephone, connecting her across the miles to the land of pineapple juice and callaloo.

She smiled as she pulled the shell round until it hovered near her mouth. Then she spoke quietly into it.

‘Hello… I found my shell, it was in the old privy that me dad stores all his rubbish in. I never thought I’d see it again. I’ve got something to tell you: I had a baby. I know that’s putting it blunt, but what else should I say? That’s the fact, I had a baby, a little boy, and he’s called Simon. Actually, I called him Solomon, but he’s known as Simon now. He’s not with me. I had to give him away, to a couple who have money and can do right by him; the man’s a university professor, clever. I know Simon will have a good life, I know that’s true, but I didn’t want to let him go and I get this pain in my heart every time I think about him. He was so beautiful. He looked just like you.’

The conch shell meant finally, Dot had someone to talk to. She did her best to avoid having to interact with anyone else. She skulked around the tiny terrace like a miscreant, creeping from bed to bathroom to kitchen and then back to bedroom, hoping she wouldn’t bump into her parents. The only person that appeared unaffected was little Dee. She would boldly enter her sister’s room after school and quote her latest times table at her. Mostly it didn’t matter to Dee whether Dot responded or not, she was just glad of the audience. But finally, one evening after she’d faultlessly recounted her ‘eights’ and still hadn’t got any reaction, Dee said, ‘You look right poorly, Dot. You don’t reckon it’s them tonsils back again, do ya?’

And then there was Barb. Dot was home for a full two weeks before word got back to Barb that she had returned from Kent. The evening her friend’s bubbly tones drifted up the stairs and under her door, Dot pulled the bedspread over her head and willed her to go away. She wasn’t ready; she didn’t know if she would ever be. But her mum had other ideas.

‘Go right on up, Barb, she’s full of cold, but she’ll be pleased to see you, I’m sure.’

Dot counted two lies. What did it matter, two more to add to the piles of deceit that multiplied and lodged in every crevice of her mind.

Barb knocked and simultaneously twisted the Bakelite handle until she was stood by her friend’s bed. She was a little nervous; it had been a while. ‘Hello, mate! Long time no see!’

Dot pulled the cover under her chin and tried out a small smile. The moment the two started chatting, it was as if they hadn’t been apart. It was the sign of true friendship, being able to pick up where you left off, no matter how much time had passed.

‘Jesus, Dot! You look bloody awful, your mum said you had a cold, but blimey, you look like death! What did they have you doing on that bleeding farm, pulling a plough?’

‘Something like that. I can’t seem to shake it off.’ In those words lay a kernel of truth.

‘You gotta get better for Saturday night, we’re going out!’ Barb clapped her hands together with excitement. ‘Wally’s mate’s in a band and they’ve got a gig up town, we have to go!’

‘I’m not sure. I’ll see.’

‘No, Dot! Not “I’ll see”; the answer is yes! We are going – I’ve really missed you and we are going, even if I have to drag you there on one of your bloody tractors.’

Dot groaned.

‘They’re really good, it’s Wally’s mate Roger who he met on the sheet metal, they’re called the Detours and they’re fab, so let’s get dolled up and make a night of it. We’ll pick you up at six. And make sure you wash your bloody hair, you look like an old tramp!’ Barb blew her friend a kiss before departing.

Dot hated the idea of having to leave the house, but similarly the idea of spending time with people who would treat her as they always had was quite nice, people that only knew the old Dot. It was something she was going to have to get used to, the fact that a beautiful boy existed in this world because of her and no one would ever know about it. He was her little secret.

Saturday night arrived and it felt strange to wash the grease from her locks and pull on clothes other than pyjamas, a bit like shedding her protective layer. Dot was shocked at how much weight she had lost. The side zip on her dog-tooth-check pencil skirt pulled up with ease; she remembered buying it at the market when her biggest worry had been how to best show off her curves. She looked at her profile in the bathroom mirror, ran her hand over her flat stomach. Could it really have contained a little person, or did she dream him? She wondered sometimes.

Reg was at the bottom of the stairs. ‘You look lovely, you really do.’ He smiled as he wound a woollen scarf around his neck.

She tried to respond, breathed in to speak, but the banal words of thanks or other minutiae refused to pop into her mouth. She could only envisage shouting at him,
They took my baby, I have nothing and you made me do it!
It was better for both that she simply gave a little nod.