Clover's Child (24 page)

Roger and his band picked Dot up in a white van. As soon as she climbed in, she wished that she had stayed at home. The air was thick with cigarette smoke and their banter only irritated her. It felt juvenile and so very insignificant to be laughing at rubbish when she was grieving. Roger smiled at her in the rear-view mirror; rather than excite her, it made her feel sick. She could only picture Sol and the way he had looked at her and the way it had made her feel. And then she pictured the bright blue eyes of her baby boy. She looked away. How could she begin to explain that she wasn’t like other girls. Not only was she uninterested, she was broken.

The band hauled their equipment round the back of the nightclub while the others found an empty booth inside. Dot tried to smile and join in, but it was exhausting.

Wally sidled up to her as she loitered alone. ‘Not dancing?’

Dot shook her head. No, no dancing for her.

‘Wha’ssamatta? Everyone likes a dance. Come on, I’ll take you for a spin.’ He tried to grab her hand, which she quickly buried in her lap.

She ignored him. Stupid, idiot Wally. She willed him to go away.

‘Not talking to me? Come on, Dot, cheer up, it may never happen! Barb told me you was a laugh, but all I can see is a miserable-faced cow that won’t join in!’

Dot felt her tears welling. Again she shook her head. How many more times was she to find herself backed into a corner? Why couldn’t people just let her be, hadn’t she suffered enough? She wanted to shout at Wally,
Actually it has happened. I gave my baby away eighteen days ago.
Eighteen days, that was all. She wanted to grab the microphone and shout it to the crowd! Maybe then Wally and everyone else might leave her alone.

Dot gathered up her bag and her cardigan. ‘Tell Barb I’ll see her soon. I’ve got to go.’

‘Don’t go! I’m only pulling your leg!’

She stood outside the club and could hear the compere announcing the bloke who had eyed her up in the back of his van. ‘With his band the Detours, it’s Roger Daltrey!’ The band started to play their loud music and Dot pulled her collar up; she didn’t think the Detours would get very far with a racket like that.

Dot sat on the bus and wondered if she would ever go back to how she was before. It was as if getting pregnant meant that she had left the queue of life and everyone had moved up a space, so that her place had disappeared. And no matter how hard she tried or how polite she was, no one was going to budge up and let her back in.

Back home and in the refuge of her bed, Dot placed the shell on her pillow.

‘I’ve had a rubbish night. I was thinking on the bus on the way home how messed up everything is. You don’t know about our boy, I don’t know where you are or where he is and our boy will know nothing about us – how strange is that? We are three people that’ll be connected forever, but I’m the only one that knows it. Not that there is an “us”, I realise that. Never was an ‘us’, and that makes me so sad. Goodnight, darling.’

* * *

Dot left the main gates of Bryant and May with the papers sorted. They would write to her when there was an opening, which would probably be in the New Year, after the Christmas break – a different shift from her previous one, a different job. Night work. She figured that might suit her. She could creep out when most people were creeping in, keeping her interaction with the rest of the human race to a minimum.

Since returning home from Lavender Hill Lodge, she had got into the habit of not speaking and it was harder to break than she might have imagined. As far as her parents were concerned, being mute effectively meant being deaf as well, and they spoke freely in front of her, as though she couldn’t hear them.

Joan busied herself at the head of the table while Reg sat waiting and Dee played with her metal spinning top on the tablecloth, fascinated as the circles and specks turned to lines as it whirred and fell over, as if exhausted by the exertion.

‘It’ll do her good to get back to work. Won’t it, love?’ Joan addressed this to her daughter as though she were a bit simple, then cut the buttery crust of the apple pie with the dishing-up spoon and dolloped large helpings into the four bowls.

Reg spun his spoon between finger and thumb, waiting impatiently for the custard to tumble and his afters to be served. ‘Let’s hope she’s got a bit more to say for herself there than she has here, or they won’t put up with her!’

‘Leave it, Reg…’

‘Christ, can’t a man express his opinion at his own dinner table under his own roof? Is this how we have to live now? Treading on bleeding eggshells when she’s in earshot? Dinner times used to be fun, d’you remember that? Laughing and chatting. I can’t live like this, I really can’t!’

‘For God’s sake, Reg!’

‘Don’t shout at me, Joan, this ain’t my fault, the fact that you lost your job an’ we’ve been put through the mill. It’s cos she wouldn’t listen, we told her it would end in disaster, but she didn’t bloody listen! It ain’t my fault!’

Joan threw the apple pie spoon down on the table and a large gob of custard splattered against the cotton cloth. She placed her hand against her forehead and rubbed at her temples.

‘What? I’m only saying the truth. It ain’t my bloody fault she’s come back a bit soft in the bleeding head, is it?’

Dee started to cry. She didn’t like hearing her mum and dad shouting at each other like this, it made her tummy feel scared. Dot scraped the chair away from the table and shut the door behind her; she didn’t fancy apple pie after all. She climbed the stairs, taking care not to tread on the steps that creaked; she wanted to be silent, she wanted to be invisible, she wanted to disappear.

As Dot lay down on her bed, names of girls she knew from school and from work flashed through her mind, girls who had slept with loads of blokes and not been caught out. An image of Susan Montgomery popped into her head:
‘Tits and India, here I come!’
It was so unfair. Those girls still attended communion, dressed demurely and got away with it, living however they chose and with their reputations intact. She, on the other hand, even though she’d only slept with the one man, a man she had loved, the man she was going to marry, was forced to carry a label and was open to ridicule because she had got unlucky. It was so bloody unfair. For the first time in a long time, Dot prayed, though not to a benevolent God – she’d stopped trusting in him a while ago; this was more like popping a note into a glass bottle and casting on the ocean to see if she got a reply.

She closed her eyes. ‘Please, give me a way out of here. I’ll go mad if I have to stay under this roof. I will, I’ll go bloody mad.’

A couple of days later, Dot ventured out. She jumped on her old bus and rode the familiar route to the West End, then wandered along the streets with her hands deep in her pockets, watching shoeless assistants in shop windows prepare their Christmas displays. They positioned fat-bellied Santas and sacks of foil-wrapped gifts, placed fake icicles on invisible wires and sprinkled the whole space with silver and blue glitter. She had never felt less like celebrating Christmas in her whole life. She wished she could go to sleep and wake up in January – or May might be better.

She found herself outside Selfridges and pushed through the revolving door that had made her and Sol giggle back at the beginning of the year. The counters were decorated with silver tinsel and tiny bells, miniature Christmas trees with minute glass baubles. The whole store looked beautiful and smelt of baked apples. Dot meandered among the counters, spritzing Chanel on her scarf, admiring Dents leather gloves in the palest blue and fondling French lace handkerchiefs that were far too good to use.

She took the escalator and without thinking about it found herself in the nursery department. She studied the sturdy prams and matching carry-cots filled with hand-knitted blankets and soft toys. Changing mats with matching nappy buckets were set among stacks of terry-towelling nappies. Nursing bras for mothers with natty little flaps that folded down for feeding, rocking chairs with strategically placed cushions ‘for comfortable nursing’ – they had it all. Dot stood next to a display of matinée coats, hats and matching booties, all with delicate white ribbon trim, tied in tiny bows. She was surrounded by pregnant women whose anxious husbands hovered, and women with well-wrapped newborns in strollers, seeking dummies, feeding bottles and sterilising units.

‘Can I help you at all, madam?’ The young girl smiled.

Dot did a double-take to check she was talking to her. ‘Oh, just looking thanks.’

‘Well, if you need any assistance, I shall be over by the counter.’

Dot smiled; she had been similarly trained on how to approach not encroach, assist but not push. The girl had got it spot on.

‘My little boy’s at home…’ She didn’t know why she said it, it just popped out.

‘Aaah, lovely. How old?’

‘He’s nearly six weeks now.’ Six weeks that had passed so quickly.

‘Well, you look very well on it! Is he a good sleeper?’

‘Is he a good sleeper?’ Dot repeated the question as her tears fell. She stared at the young girl, who looked aghast, highly embarrassed by the display. She had been told to expect ‘high emotion’ from some young or expectant mothers, but this was off the scale.

Dot sobbed. ‘I don’t know, I really don’t know. He’s called Simon now.’

‘Can I call someone for you?’ The girl held Dot’s arm, she was sweet, sincere.

Dot thought about the one person who might have been able to make things better, the one person who had caused the whole sorry mess to start with and she cried even harder.

‘No, no, but thank you.’

With her head bent, she took the escalator and ventured out into the cold.

Christmas Eve had always been her favourite night of the year. Ever since she was little, she had felt the magic in the air. Lying in her bed, with her eyes screwed shut and her feet tucked up inside her nightie, she was always convinced she could hear the jingle of the bells on Santa’s sleigh and the pitter-patter of hooves on the roof as the reindeers parked up. She never failed to leave a raw carrot for Rudolph and a glass of milk and two biscuits for Father Christmas. In recent years she had laughed as her dad insisted that Santa preferred a glass of stout to a glass of milk. She and Dee weren’t so sure. This year, she sat in her room dreading Christmas Day, the first of many that she would mark without her son.

She ran her fingers over the inside of her shell. ‘I wonder how you do Christmas in the sun? Do you still have pictures of snow everywhere and icicles like we do? Do you have the same fat Father Christmas? I can’t imagine it; I don’t think it’d feel Christmassy if it was warm. I should’ve asked you, there’s lots of things that I wished I’d asked you. I don’t know much about your family, what it was like for you growing up in St Lucia. And there are things I never told you; did you know I’m allergic to strong cheese? It makes my throat go itchy! Our little boy’ll be getting on, eh? I expect he’ll be spoilt rotten tomorrow, his first Christmas. It’s been bloody freezing here. You wouldn’t be able to stand it – I remember you didn’t cope too well in March, let alone now we’ve got a bit of snow. But it’s the wind that gets you, goes right through you, blows your cobwebs out, and I know you weren’t too fond of that. I’ll think about you tomorrow, but then I think about you every day so that’s no shocker. I wonder if you’ll think about me?’

Dot was woken by her little sister’s squeals. ‘He’s been! He’s been!’

Plodding down the stairs, she took the seat next to the hearth and wrapped her dressing gown around her legs. The fire roared but only seemed to heat the space directly in front of it, as if the wind whipped the warmth up the chimney and blew it at the birds perched in a long line along the roof. Dot rubbed her thighs with her palms; she felt cold.

Dee tore the wrapping from her
Bunty Annual
, revealing a suspiciously toasty-looking Bunty on the front who was ice skating yet wearing nothing more than a mini Santa dress to cover her modesty.

‘Yeeeees!’ Dee jumped up and down in her nightie, delighted with her pressie. Next came a Barbie in an air hostess outfit. The little girl was beside herself with joy.

Dot reluctantly, awkwardly, received her gift of tights and a jar of bath salts. She felt like a guest that had turned up at the last minute and whom the family felt obliged to ask to stay for dinner, even though they didn’t have enough veg.

That night, as snow fell on the cobbles of Ropemakers Fields, Dot held her shell in her arms and rocked it almost as if it was a baby. ‘I’ve been thinking about whether it would have been better never to have met you, better never to have known that another kind of life existed. Then I wouldn’t know what I was missing, but that would be all right, cos I wouldn’t know! But then I think about not having Simon and even though my heart is ripped in two, proper ripped in two, I wouldn’t have missed those weeks when I fed him and held him and he slept on me. I wouldn’t have missed that for the whole world. Night night, Happy Christmas.’

A few days after Christmas, Dot once again donned her coat and slipped out of the front door unnoticed, in need of some air and a change of scenery. She hadn’t really planned where she would wander but soon found herself outside Paolo’s. It had been months since she last set foot inside.
See you tomorrow, soldier boy. Exhausted, but happy! Your Clover xxxxx

She pushed the door with her shoulder, uncertain as to whether reopening this wound was a good idea or not. The place was warm as usual, but strangely darker, grubbier and smaller than it had been on previous visits, as if in the cold light of day and without Sol’s love to polish her world, it had lost its fairy-tale sheen.

‘Here she is! Merry Christmas!’

‘Merry Christmas.’

‘Blimey, girl, I thought you’d fallen in the docks! Long time no see.’

Dot smiled. ‘Can I get a coffee please, Paolo.’

‘Certainly, love. Coming right up. Your usual seat?’

She nodded and slid into the booth. She stared at the table top and pictured their hands joined together across its shiny surface. She daren’t look up, couldn’t bear to see the empty space that used to be filled by him. Instead, she made out she was waiting for him, killing time like she used to, wondering if her eye liner was straight, her hair all right, her breath nice…