I Hope You Dance (27 page)

She cooked tapas – “food to share”. She prepared mussels: “all good mussels open when ready, just like good friends – if they refuse to open, chuck 'em away!” and stocked up on fizzy white wine, as “girls' nights should bubble and sparkle”. Dessert was key lime pie “to add zest and zip”.

Ellie called to say she couldn't make it. Although she would happily have braved the two-mile slog through the snow, she didn't want to risk leaving her horses, in case she couldn't get back. The others all walked together, accompanied by Rupa's husband Harry, terrified she would slip on the ice and hurt herself or the baby. We didn't let Harry stay.

The tapas ready, Mum dragged Dad off to babysit for Esther and Max. It was Ana Luisa's turn to say grace.

“Thank you, God, for bringing us safely here. We are a little bit cross with you about all this snow, to be honest. It was fun to
begin with, having snowball fights and sledging down the school field. We even liked the way it brought everybody together and made a, what do you call it, war time feeling everywhere. But we think it is enough now. Especially because Ellie can't be here. We miss her. Please bless her and those horses. And bless this evening and Harriet, who so kindly made this feast when all the take-aways cannot be taking anything away in this terrible snow. She rocks. Thank you for my wonderful girls. They kept me sane in all my romantic suffering, and never told me to shut up and get over it. They gave me the courage to share my heart, and now my dream has come true. May all their dreams come true too, God. And please make the snow melt. Seriously – enough already! Amen.”

We dug in. I asked them if they knew of any rumours about me and Carl. Lois and Emily had heard a couple, but quashed them as best they could. I described a little of what had been happening, but those women were such good listeners that before I knew it I was blubbering the whole story.

Emily leaned over and put her arm around me – strong, like a fortress. “We've got your back, sister. However you want to play this, we're with you.”

“As long as it's legal,” Lois added, with a shaky smile.

“Speak for yourself! I'm not a pastor's wife.”

“Thanks.” I looked at my friends and felt the colossal weight I carried shift and settle more comfortably across my shoulders. “I don't know what to do. I haven't seen him all week, though. Maybe he's getting bored or going off me.”

Emily frowned. “This isn't about what he feels for you any more. It's about power and winning. I don't think he's going to give up until he gets what he wants. Or somebody stops him.”

I took a big sip of my sparkling wine. “What does he want?”

“To control you? To have you do whatever he says? Or to love him? He's crazy. Who can guess what he really wants from you?”

“You're not really making me feel better here, Emily.”

“I'm not trying to make you feel better. I want you to be safe and
happy. I want you to take this seriously, and deal with it, not learn to live with it.”

She was right. I had spent long enough living with situations I should have dealt with.

Ana Luisa tossed back her hair. “In Brazil, my brothers would shoot him for you. But in this country we have a police force that actually works every day and listens to normal people, and you don't even have to bribe them first or anything like that. Can't you call the police?”

“And say what? That a man stopped me a couple of times to offer me a lift, and told a few people we're going out? That's not a crime.”

“The phone calls are,” Lois said. “Matt and I've had to deal with all sorts of rubbish like that, Ruth. It's horrible. It lurks over you like a hideous black cloud of acid rain, and you watch for it to burst all the time, like a nervous wreck. If you contact the police they'll get a trace put on the calls.”

Right on cue, my phone rang. Withheld number. I rejected the call.

There were three more calls before we finished eating. It was hard to talk about anything else. I could see worry and anger in my friends' faces, but I didn't want to ruin the whole evening.

“How are you feeling, Rupa? You don't seem yourself.” That was an understatement. She had hardly eaten, or said a word, all night.

“I'm not great, to be honest. Sick and tired of being sick and tired. I'm twenty-six weeks now. All the books say I should be blooming.”

“It'll be worth it, Rups.” Emily patted her knee in sympathy. “Hang on in there.”

“Thanks, Emily. Help me up, would you? My bladder's uncontrollable. Literally.”

She left to go to the bathroom, and we chatted about ways we could help her out a bit, until she staggered back in, her face grey like the dirty snow lining the gutters.

“I think my waters broke.” Her knees gave way as Ana Luisa, who was nearest, jumped up to catch her. We carefully lowered her
onto the sofa, and hurriedly cleared some of the food out of the way. And then the nightmare started.

Rupa began to keen, like a lost kitten, her arms wrapping around her stomach as she felt her first contractions. Lois called for an ambulance, but another fierce blizzard raged outside and half the roads were blocked. We wrapped Rupa up in a blanket. She gripped on to Emily's hand tight, crying for Harry, who battled through the storm as fast as he could.

Her entire body shook. There was nothing we could do save offer her painkillers, and pray as if her life depended on it, while wondering if the life of the precious child she carried might.

We called the emergency services back, begged them to hurry. They promised to be there as soon as they could.

The surreal calm that accompanies such moments soon settled, our minds in survival mode, temporarily numb to the tumbling emotions that would drown us if we took our focus off the here and now. I made tea. Emily and Lois let their families know they would be late home, if at all, that night. We called Ellie. Maggie came downstairs and helped us clear away the dinner as quietly as possible – as if noise would somehow make Rupa's condition worse.

Harry arrived. Still no sign of the ambulance.

In the midst of all this, our hushed vigil, my phone rang. Withheld number. Before I could think twice, I answered it.

“Carl!”

Silence.

“Carl, you don't have to say anything, but please listen for a minute. I really, really need your help. My friend's in trouble and the ambulance is taking forever. If you're anywhere nearby, please come. Please help.”

The line went dead. I looked up to see the others staring at me, their expressions inscrutable.

Five minutes later –
five minutes! In a blizzard! –
the doorbell rang. Dr Carl, bag in hand. I nearly wept with relief. What a difference a day makes.

He shooed us out, deftly striding over towards Rupa. Harry stayed, refusing to move further away from his wife and unborn child than absolutely necessary. We hovered outside the living room door, too overwhelmed to do anything but grip each other's hands and wait. There were murmurings, a brief moan from Rupa, and – at last – the distant wail of a siren. We dashed out to greet it.

As the ambulance chugged up the cul-de-sac, half skidding to a stop on a fresh patch of snow, the front door opened and Carl stepped out, shrugging back into his coat. He paused by me, his face grave, gaze steady. “I'm sorry to rush off; I've had another call. A child's gone through the ice at the park pond. Don't worry, though. The paramedics will soon have everything under control. Their van has a lot more equipment than my bag. I'm sure she'll be fine. Thank you for trusting me with this, Ruth. It means a lot. I'll call you to see how she's getting on.”

He slipped and slid down the drive, jogging towards his car. In the silver moonlight, the whole world gleaming white, for a second I almost believed again that he was merely a handsome young doctor, trying to save the world – and me. Lois soon put me right.

“Where on earth is he going?”

“Another emergency. Said a child fell into a pond.”

Lois peered at me. “At ten o'clock at night?”

I shrugged. Stranger things happened.

“And he couldn't wait five minutes to fill in the paramedics, tell them the situation?” she added, her voice incredulous.

“That does seem a bit unprofessional.”

“He didn't even say hello to them.”

In what seemed like seconds the amazing paramedics had loaded Rupa into the ambulance, hooked up a drip and done numerous other medical-type things I knew nothing about. They eased off into the darkness, blue light flashing through the straggly remains of the blizzard. We fell back into the warmth of the living room. Waited. Hoped. Wept. Prayed. It was a long night.

Five o'clock that morning baby Hope was born. She weighed two pounds, one ounce. It had been touch and go, but she was fighting. The doctors were fighting with her. Girls' night officially ended with bacon sandwiches and strong black coffee. I called Dorothy and asked her to pass on the news to Carl. She didn't ask why I hadn't called him myself.

 

Monday, Lois caught up with me at the centre.

“Hi, Ruth. You look like I feel.”

“Tell me about it. Are you going to the hospital later?”

“Not today. Rupa's parents have driven down from Manchester. But I wanted to talk to you about Carl.”

I let out a long sigh. “I've been thinking a lot about that. Now he knows I know it was him making the silent calls, I'm not sure what that means – if he might stop. Unless, of course, I've just pushed him into being stalker Carl all the time. But I had to do it. Do you think it was stupid? Have I made things loads worse?”

Lois put her hand on my shoulder. “Stop.”

I managed to stop.

Lois said, “I've been making some enquiries about Dr Carl Barker. Or should I say ex-Dr Carl Barker.”

“What?” A feeling of dread pulsed through my body, crashing into every organ as it went.

“Let's go into your office.”

We closed the door, shutting out the noisy chatter of the craft group. I collapsed into my desk chair. Lois sat on the sofa.

“I spent most of yesterday afternoon searching for Dr Carl Barker on the internet.”

“And?” A chill crept up my spine.

“I found a few, but none of them were him. So I asked Dorothy if he ever used another name. Barker is Dorothy's maiden name. Up until his dad divorced her, when Carl was five, their surname was Coombes.”

“So you tried Coombes?”

“Yes.” Lois looked at me, her eyes grave. “A Dr Carl Coombes had his medical licence taken away two years ago. In the States.”

“Why?” The chill had spread to my lungs. I couldn't breathe properly.

“He began an inappropriate relationship with one of his patients.”

“I don't want to hear this.”

“Apparently, they dated for a few weeks. She claimed that when she broke it off, he started to pursue her. Aggressively. Follow her to work, bombard her with phone calls, send her things in the post, turn up at her gym, stuff like that. He always kept things just inside the border of the law, but when she complained, there was an investigation and the relationship on its own was enough to get him fired.”

“What happened? Did he leave her alone after that?”

Lois took a deep breath. She looked me straight in the eye. “She committed suicide three months later.”

The buzzing in my head increased. I couldn't think, let alone say anything.

“But – listen to me, Ruth. Moira Bourdin had been suffering from depression long before Carl came along. She had chronic health problems, including crippling arthritis. That's how they met. She lived alone, had no family to speak of and couldn't work. Carl may have been the final straw, but he didn't drive her to suicide. She was a very troubled woman.”

“That's why he picked her.” My voice sounded as though it was the other side of a pane of glass. “He likes troubled women. Weak women. Hopeless screw-ups he can control and manipulate and eventually break.”

“Yes. But you aren't one of those women any more, Ruth.”

Then why did I feel like one?

I showed my parents the information Lois had found online. I also had a very difficult conversation with Maggie. I didn't want her to be afraid, but I did want her to be aware of the situation, so she could be careful. Lois spoke to Martine, and Matt arranged a meeting with Dorothy. I absolutely insisted on being present.

Dorothy claimed to know nothing about Carl having been struck off and subsequently deported. She thought he had returned to the UK to be nearer his family, and work at a private hospital in Sheffield. Matt asked her the name of the hospital, the name of any colleagues we could speak to, any friends. She knew nothing. I asked her where he lived. She confessed that four months ago he moved back in with her, as his place was being remodelled, but had asked her not to tell anyone, as it didn't look good for a doctor of his status to be bunking at his mum's. She had never seen his house.

Yes, she knew Carl and I were seeing each other, but had promised to keep it a secret, as Maggie hadn't been told.

We had several questions. What did he do all day when he went off to work? How did he pay for petrol, phone calls, swanky meals out and diamond bracelets, especially now Dorothy guarded her purse more carefully? Where was he now?

Dorothy fell apart when she saw the articles describing the scandal in America. Bewildered by his behaviour over the past few months, too upset to be humiliated, she sat bent over an untouched
bowl of red pepper soup and wondered what on earth to do when Carl picked her up that evening.

The police were wonderful. A serious young officer came to the house, listened, made detailed notes, got straight on to my phone company to trace my call records and promised to pay Carl a visit.

Except that Carl Barker, ex-Dr Carl Coombes, had disappeared.

The phone calls stopped.

 

A weak February sun appeared, and the snow began to melt.

I went to work, administrated, filed, sorted, visited desperate clients in dire straits, wrangled with debt companies and whizzed through important, life-saving numbers with the calculator inside my brain. I spoke to Rupa, dropped round my mother's fortifying fish pie and joined with several other women (and three men) in knitting a square for a patchwork quilt that we sewed together in hope, for baby Hope. Enough knitters joined in to give all the premature babies in the two Nottingham hospitals Hope blankets. The craft shop in Southwell ran out of wool.

One Saturday, my fingers feeling itchy, I dug out a pencil and a piece of Mum's best writing paper, thick and slightly coarse in texture, and I sketched a boat, riding on a choppy ocean. I gave the boat two storeys, depicted by two rows of round windows, and a sloping roof. Peeking through the windows I added two elephants, two monkeys, two racoons, a pair of lizards, some stripy snakes, a sheep, a reindeer and several smaller animals like rabbits and hedgehogs. Crawling up the side of the roof were snails, ants, a pair of chameleons with curly tongues and some furry caterpillars. Bats hung under the eaves of the roof, and a toucan and a wood pigeon nested on the top. In the central window I drew a man and his wife. They looked like Harry and Rupa. I drew in the name of the boat. It was “Hope”. I then dug out a Bible from Dad's study. It took me two hours to find the words I wanted to say to Harry and Rupa – and to Hope. I inscribed them in tiny letters on the side of the boat, along the rooftop, around the portals. I wrote them in the
rainclouds and weaved them in between the fish swimming under the sea:
I have made you and will care for you. I will carry you along and save you. Do not be afraid, for I am with you. I will strengthen you and help you. When you go through deep waters, I will be with you.

I heard those words as I wrote them. They prodded and poked at my soul. I had been in deep waters – drowning, flailing, up to my neck, no land in sight. Had he been with me – God? That question felt uncomfortable and comfortable at the same time.

I gave Rupa and Harry the picture, having spent another morning adding some bright colours and a few final flourishes. They cried. I blushed. Then I cried too.

 

I went to tea-dance classes with Maggie and a growing bunch of older and younger members, wondering how long my parents could run the group together without actually dancing with each other. Wondering how long Ruby would keep coming, and at what point she would concede defeat. Wondering if Hannah Beaumont would ever get up and dance.

I scuttled through the town, head down, ignoring the urgent need to scan the roads for black cars or bright-eyed men, trying to believe Carl had gone, and that if he hadn't, somebody else would spot him before I had to. Determined to carry on life as normal, having tasted freedom on the tip of my tongue, I did everything I could to find it again. I watched my tiny pile of saved pennies grow and my humongous pile of debts shrink, laughed with my friends, ate with my fractured family, tried, tried, tried to breathe deeply and enjoy my surprising new life.

Valentine's Day came and went, I held my breath, barely slept. No card, no flowers, no Carl. I breathed a little easier.

The last day of February an envelope addressed to me landed on the doorstep. The handwriting stirred up delicious, forbidden treacly feelings in my stomach. I closed my bedroom door and read the postcard inside.

I used the postcard to fan my burning face a few times before hiding it in my underwear drawer. I tried to get cross about my wayward feelings, to focus on Maggie, who had enough to deal with watching out for a potential crazy stalker after her mum, let alone the man who lived next door. I couldn't. I couldn't get cross about them. I felt ridiculously happy just at the thought that David would be back soon, that he thought about me, that I could pass him on the road and say good morning, or walk down a country lane with him, or share a pot of tea.
A pot of tea! Together!

I would count my blessings, be grateful for what I had, refuse to hope or dream of more. Well, I would try.

 

Three days later, my old friend Mr Hay the headmaster called to ask why Maggie had not turned up for registration. It wasn't school policy for the head to follow up on every absent child, but given the concurrent non-attendance of Seth, and Maggie's history, he was taking a personal interest.

“Oh dear.” I managed not to swear.

“So you thought she was in school?”

“Yes. She left at the usual time in her uniform. I'll try her mobile.”

“I'd appreciate that. Let the receptionist know when you hear anything, please. I'll speak to Mrs Harris.”

Maggie's phone went straight to voicemail. I wracked my brain trying to recall any suspicious behaviour. She'd been out the night before, supposedly watching a film at Seth's house. He had walked her home in time for her ten o'clock curfew and she had gone straight to bed. That morning she got up late, rushed about, grunted when spoken to and slammed the front door so hard the
hinges rattled when she left. A typical Monday morning. A tendril of Carl-fear began coiling around my neck. I rang Lois.

“Ruth. I've just spoken to Ken Hay. I'm furious, disappointed and baffled enough to feel slightly anxious. They've done such a good job of earning our trust – I can't believe they'd chuck that away without good reason.”

“Maggie was an expert skiver in Liverpool. If she'd wanted to sneak a day off, she would have been a lot cleverer than this about it.”

“So it was spur of the moment. Or else she wanted you to find out.”

“Why would she want that?”

“In my vast experience of kids bunking off, because she's either mad at you or has a problem and wants you to find out but can't tell you.”

Some scary thoughts rattled around my head like a pinball machine. Pregnant. Being bullied. Flunking her exams. Pregnant. Carl.

“What about Carl?” I asked, near frantic with fear.

“What – you think he's kidnapped them? It would be a big stretch to imagine he'd done something to Maggie – but Seth? That boy has learned the hard way how to protect himself.”

Lois had a point. “What do you think then? Has Seth given any clues?”

“No. He seemed fine this morning when he left. Even smiled a couple of times. I'm flummoxed. We might have to sit tight, remember how well they've been doing, and try not to burst a blood vessel when they come home.”

“I'm not that bothered about the skipping school. It's the reason
why
that fills me with dread.”

There was a crash followed by a howl on the end of the phone. “Sorry. That's Martha. I have to go.”

“I'll speak to you later.”

“Stay cool, Ruth.”

“You too,” I replied, feeling anything but.

As the clock crept past four and on towards evening, I did not stay cool. I left another message on Maggie's phone, tried a couple of her friends to ask if they knew where she was, paced up and down the living room and fretted about how long I could leave it before contacting the police, bearing in mind that I had discovered her missing backpack and toothbrush.

Sometime around nine, Lois phoned. “Don't freak out.”

“Okay, that has me freaking.”

“Seth texted.”

I stood up quickly from the sofa. “What did he say?”

“‘Sorry, but Maggie had to get away. Don't worry.'”

“Did you reply?” I pressed one hand to my forehead, trying to steady the pounding.

“I rang and texted but he's turned his phone off. Then I got smart.”

“And?”

“I rang his half-sister, Cheryl. The one in Mansfield.”

“The one who works as a lap-dancer to fund her drug habit?” My hand slipped down over my eyes.

“Yeah, that one. Anyway, they turned up there a couple of hours ago. She's going to let them stay tonight and Matt'll go and fetch them in the morning. We figured racing over to Mansfield at this time probably wouldn't help the situation, whatever that is.”

“So they're spending the night together. At a lap-dancer's house. With drugs. And Maggie is too mad at me to let me know.”

Lois blew out a sigh. “If you want to go and haul her out, we can drive you over. But, for the record, we trust Seth not to do anything stupid.”

“Like bunk off school with his girlfriend and take her to
Cheryl's house
?” My voice had gone supersonic.

Lois, who had spent eight years dealing with troubled teens and their associated adventures, remained calm. “It'll be fine, Ruth. One night in that house and Maggie'll be itching to come home.”

“She's fourteen, Lois. I don't want her staying there. I don't
understand why she's gone. We've been getting on so much better. I'm terrified she's in trouble.”

“She's a good kid, Ruth. You're a great mum. Whatever it is, we'll get through it.”

When I dragged myself up to bed, having driven my parents half crazy with my wittering and worry, I discovered in my underwear drawer a postcard ripped into quarters. Ah. I called Maggie's phone. As expected, it went straight to voicemail, but I knew she wouldn't be able to resist listening to her messages at some point.

“Maggie. It's not what you think. There is nothing going on between me and David. Nothing. I've kept my promise. There is
nothing
going on. It's just a postcard. Please be careful. I love you. Bye.”

Did she sleep that night thinking her mother had betrayed her? Or did she lie awake, like me, feeling sick, empty, like a human pile of refuse? Guilt, my old friend, slunk back into bed with me. I gazed at where the pictures of Maggie hung shadowed on my bedroom wall. I did not think about David.

 

I don't know who was more angry: me or my daughter.

Matt picked up the kids straight after breakfast. I waited on the front step, a bag of jumbling emotions, as Maggie slowly heaved herself out of the back seat of Matt's car and stomped up the drive towards me. Pushing past, she flung open the door and went inside, running up the stairs with me three steps behind her.

I had pre-emptively wedged open her bedroom door with a flip-flop, thwarting her attempt to slam it in my face. This did not ease her temper.

“Get lost!” she screamed at me, the tremble in her voice betraying her. “I have nothing to say to you.”

“Well, maybe I have something to say to you.”

“I don't care what you have to say! It's all lies!”

Deep breath. Count to ten. Remember I am the adult.

“Are you all right? It was okay at Cheryl's?”

“What do you care?”

“Can we talk about the postcard?”

“Ungh!” She took off her boot and threw it at me. “Go. Away!”

“I'm not going away until we've talked about what happened. I understand you're mad at me, Maggie, but skipping school, running off to that dangerous house and refusing to let me even try to explain is not an acceptable way to deal with this. If I found something of yours – something private, a letter – and read it, then jumped to conclusions and refused to talk to you about it, you would consider that hugely unfair. I've done my best to be open and honest with you since we moved here. To respect you with the truth, and trust you in return. Don't you trust me enough to at least hear my explanation?”

Maggie was still, holding the other boot down by her side, her shoulders hunched up to her ears and her face glowing red. She stared at the floor for a long time.

“I need a shower. My hair stinks of weed. And some breakfast. But if we're being honest, I can't think of a single explanation that excuses you keeping a postcard like that from David.”

Half an hour later, we were in the living room. It felt more like a courtroom.

“So.” Maggie shrugged her shoulders, angry. “Explain.”