Authors: Caryl Phillips
The Lost Child (28 page)
I feel the hand of a policewoman squeezing my elbow, and she tells me to get up in a sweet voice like she’s my friend or something, and one of the magistrates asks me if I understand the gravity of the situation, and so I nod and say yes, but I’m not sure what all the fuss is about. I haven’t mistreated anybody or damaged any property, so why can’t they just mind their own business? The same magistrate starts to ask me about my actor friend, calling him Mr. Francis, and he wants to know how we know each other, and so I tell him that we met in a pub by the community centre, and I leave it at that. Has he ever troubled you? What business is it of his? But I tell him no, and he asks me if any other men have touched me since I’ve been in the flat, but before I have a chance to tell him what for, he wants to know where I get money, and if any men have ever given me any money, and I say no, then no again, then no in a louder voice, and now the sound has gone again, and I can’t hear what they are saying, but I’m talking and my arms are flying about in front of my face and I’m still talking, and I’m trying to get my arms to stay still, but I can see from how these people are looking at me that I’m not making any sense.
The policewoman is in the back seat of the car with me, while an older woman in a blue jacket and white frilly blouse is twisted around in the front passenger seat so she’s facing me. She keeps asking about my family, and if I have anybody that I would like her to get in touch with, but all I want to know is where is this car taking us. Again she starts up tormenting me with the family talk, almost begging me to tell her if the man who owns the house is my boyfriend or just somebody I see from time to time, and she asks me this as though whatever I say will be alright by her and won’t cause any problems for anybody, but I can tell by just looking at her that this ignorant woman has never read a book in her life, and so I don’t say anything and I close my eyes.
After I stopped turning up at the library by the shopping centre, there was nothing to keep me in the city anymore. I was banned from both my son’s school and the house he was living in, and the social worker had told me that I had to give him some space. So I thought, I’ll give him some space and I’ll move to London for a few months and let everything settle down. But before I took off for London, I had to sort something out. As I walked down the cul-de-sac, I saw him bent double over his car, mercilessly polishing the bonnet with a yellow duster, and behind him the sprinkler was taking care of the front lawn with its absurd, robotic rhythm. I came right up next to him, and when he looked up, I could see it in his eyes that he wasn’t sure. I’d weathered a bit since he’d last seen me, and I’d also chopped my hair really short. Jesus, I’d been through a lot, so what did he expect? He seemed lost for words, but I had no intention of standing there playing silly buggers with him, so I just asked him straight out to give me something of my mother’s, a brooch or a necklace, as I was going to London and I wanted to take a part of her with me. Monica, he said. Please, Monica. But I cut him off and told him that it was wrong of him to do what he’d done and not tell me that she was ill, or even let me know where she’d been laid to rest, but he didn’t say anything; he just held on to his cloth with both hands and stared. And then he told me to wait where I was, and he disappeared inside the house. When he came out, he handed me her slender gold watch and three five-pound notes and told me that this was all he had in the house, but it was to help set myself up in London. I looked at him but said nothing, for he was a small man now. I hope, he said, then he stopped. I thought, God, he’s not going to bawl, is he? I hope that you find what you’re looking for in London, he said, and I hope that you know you’ve always got a home here, but then he dried up. He just kept staring at me until I couldn’t take it anymore, and so I turned and walked away. And this woman in her ridiculous frilly white blouse wants to know about family?
I sit at the back of a room with a group of women, and we’re all watching the BBC news on a colour television set that’s stuck high up on the wall. The place is like a prison, but it’s not a prison. It’s also cold, even though it’s summer outside, and the room is lit with ugly fluorescent tube lighting. When I got here, they took away my clothes and then told me to take a shower. When I finished, they gave me this nightdress to wear. It makes me look undignified, and I have a feeling that this is the idea, but at least it’s clean. I asked for a belt as the thing is hanging off me like a tent, but they let me know that no belts are allowed. I then had to open my mouth and stick out my tongue, and they gave me a tablet that started me going all fuzzy, then tired, and then the coloured nurse said that I would soon be asleep, but I’m still sitting here watching television although I’m not sure what the man on the news is going on about.
The nurse has a deep cleavage, and she should cover herself up more. She asks me whatever did I eat to make myself so sick, but before I can reply, she pushes my head down into the plastic bucket and tells me to let it go—you’ve got to get it all out—but I haven’t eaten anything all day, so there’s nothing to come out. I’m trying to tell her that it’s the bloody tablet that’s made me sick, but I know she doesn’t believe me. She gives up and slowly gets to her feet. I watch her wipe her hands on the backside of her uniform, and then we look at each other for a moment before she starts to talk. They put you in this isolation room because you’re a top risk, Monica, but it’s up to you. If you want to do something irresponsible, then go right ahead, but you’ll have nobody to blame but yourself. I don’t say anything, and we continue to eyeball each other. Look, she says, if you want to put something on your stomach, just press the bell, love. I hate to see you like this. Really, you need to pull yourself together.
Apparently the library trolley comes around every morning. The volunteer woman stands by the door while I look at the books that are piled on top of it without any order of any kind. Everything’s just random, and then I notice that the woman has put a hand on her hip. Don’t you like reading then? She’s smiling now, like she’s got one over on me, but it’s easy to tell that behind that wide forehead of hers nothing has been imprinted. You know, it helps to pass the time if you read a bit. There’s one there on royal gardens, you might like that, for there’s lots of pictures in it. It’s quite popular actually. I look at Miss Librarian and wonder what her problem is. How dare they call this thing a library trolley? Book trolley would be better, for all it contains are scattered books that people have left behind, and I don’t get the sense that this woman gives a damn whether you ever return them or not. I pick up the glossy book on royal gardens and realize that it would have helped if my actor friend had brought me a book or two to the flat. Now that would have made the time pass a little easier.
At the end of the day the coloured nurse knocks on the door, and she opens it without waiting for me to say anything. She tells me that it’s six o’clock and time for me to go to the dining room and meet some of the others now that I’ve had a rest. But one look at the place, and it’s clear that I can’t stay, as it’s full of people sitting at tables in neat rows like some kind of eating factory, and I ask the nurse if I can please go back to my room because I’m not feeling too good. She says I’m free to go back by myself anytime I like, and so I tell her thank you. But she doesn’t stop there. She looks hard at me and then nods as though a thought has just struck her. You can also go outside to the courtyard and then come back in and eat a bit later. You don’t have to run off to your room if it’s a ciggie that you want. I want to laugh, but I keep a straight face and I tell her that it’s alright, it’s just that I’m not feeling too well.
Jesus, I shouldn’t have said that, for now I’ve got the doctor standing over me. I’m sitting on the edge of my narrow bed, looking up at him while he shines a bright light into my face. He has a beard and moustache, and I wonder why he wears them because they make him look older than he is. He has to be about my age, but he looks about fifty-odd, and his teeth are yellowing, which isn’t right for a doctor. I can give you only one pill at a time, and I’m afraid I can’t leave the bottle. You’re not very good with pills, are you? He looks at some papers in my file and asks me what went on at the house in Shepherd’s Bush, and then he quizzes me and wants to know about any male visitors. I shake my head, and he mutters something to himself and asks me if downstairs is itching, but the coloured nurse seems annoyed and whispers in his ear, and he stops his questions. I remember when the detective came to my hospital bedside and told me that they’d found him. It was maybe a week after he’d gone. That’s when I took the pills. I’d swiped a bottle when nobody was looking, and I tipped them all out on the bed. It said there were twenty-four, but it turned out there were only twenty-three in the bottle, and I wondered how many times I’d been done like this. I took them, one at a time, but it didn’t work, and they soon brought me back around. Anyhow, I suppose all of this is in my file.
I wake up in what feels like the middle of the night, but the door is locked from the outside, and the room is pitch black. They didn’t tell me that they lock us in at night, but I’m not surprised. I fumble my way back into bed and pull the scratchy blanket up to my chin and reckon that I’m probably in this so-called hospital because I won’t tell them what they want to hear. When I was a girl at school, I was always the one asking questions. Then, when the two boys came along, I was the one always answering questions. Now I don’t ask questions, or answer them, which is probably why everybody’s fed up with me. There’s no mirror in this room, which I’m sure is deliberate. In fact, there’s nothing in this room except me and the bed. I can’t remember much else about the room, or even what I’m wearing, so I’ll just have to wait until the light begins to stream in at about five o’clock, I think, but I’m not sure how long I’ll have to wait.
The coloured nurse has brought me a big bowl of cereal and a plastic spoon, and she’s set them out nicely on a tray. She asks me how I slept, and I say, very good, although the right answer would be, not much, but I don’t want to be rude. She tells me that the doctor has said there’s really no reason for me to be here and that things have obviously just overwhelmed me, haven’t they? I agree and tell her that I’m going to university in October, and she gives me a crooked smile. That’s marvellous, darling, but you’ve still got to eat. She tells me that it’s another nice day, and I tell her that if I wasn’t in here, I’d be in Hyde Park. Well, she says, I’m sure we’d all prefer to be in Hyde Park on a day like this, but I think you’ve got to try to trust people a little, and not be so defensive. Not everyone’s out to get you, love. If you open up a bit, then we can assess you properly, and the sooner we do that, the sooner we can think about you leaving.
I sit in the common room next to a woman who is too thin. She asks about my book, and I decide there’s no reason to ignore her. I can see the veins sticking up on her arms, and her face is all angles with a thin covering of skin pulled tightly across her skull and cheekbones. What makes it really sad is the fact that she’s pretty, or rather she was pretty, but I imagine that nobody’s ever told her this. I open the book and explain to her that it’s all about royal gardens, and she says that my accent suggests to her that I’ve travelled quite a distance, and I tell her I must have because I used to have two children and heaven only knows where they are now. I laugh out loud, and so she laughs too, just to be polite. That’s funny, she says. I let her know that after the pills I spent another three weeks in the hospital and they told me that Ben would have to stay with these Gilpin people. At least until I was back on my feet and capable. That was nearly a year ago now. Last summer. She mops her brow with the sleeve of her nightdress. It’s hot, isn’t it? Yes, I say, and then she tells me that she’s sure I’ll like it in the courtyard. After everything I’ve just told her, that’s the best she can come up with? It’s hot and I’ll like it in the courtyard. I’m sorry, but nobody can say that I didn’t try. Once I realized that I’d messed up, I did everything I could to try and get Ben back. She suggests that we go for a walk and have a little explore. What’s your name? I tell her Monica, and she seems to think that’s quite a pleasant name. A bit unusual, she says, then smiles. But quite pleasant.
Seeing him step gingerly from the neglected barn, where he has sheltered from the fury of a sudden storm, and pass into the weak March sunlight, an onlooker might initially mistake him for a furtive man who hides in hollows and picks berries, a sad fellow who wraps himself in nostalgia for a happier past that has been swept away by ill luck and squibs of gin. But this is unequivocally a man of quality whose loose-jointed stride is soon long and true, and whose descent to the floor of the valley is assured. He effortlessly straddles an old stile, and is alert enough to sense that the moist air is now filled with the newly liberated scent of heather. He draws deeply upon the fragrance, and notes the tint and form of every flower, the texture and density of the many varieties of moss, and he is mindful of the nests of tadpoles wriggling furiously in the streams. On the other side of a narrow beck he sees a small patch of turf surrounded by clear springs, and he discerns a makeshift pathway of large flat stones that he decides might serve as dappled steps along which he can navigate his way to the safety of the green island.
Once there he lays down his bag and strips off his cloak and shirt, revealing a stout but firm stomach that suggests that this man’s appetite for good food and wine has not yet been corrupted by addiction. Wading ankle deep into the water, he scoops rivers to his face and lets the cool, sweet taste soothe the inside of his dry mouth. He stretches his arms above his head and feels the fresh breeze pass by both sides of his body. Two hours before dawn, he left his house to the sound of the dogs barking wildly, as though some unseen hand was administering a vicious beating. He instructed Joseph that he should quieten them so their unruly noise would arouse neither his sensitive wife nor the children. Joseph whistled and then released a string of unintelligible curses that soon had the beasts whimpering and then rolling on the ground with flapping tongues as though anticipating some tantilizing surprise. As he strolled away from his residence, he looked up and imagined the sky to be a black velvet glove that might, at any moment, reach down and lift him into the starlit heavens and propel him on an altogether different journey. However, he quickly averted his eyes and continued his lonely pilgrimage. Sometime later, the first light of daybreak arrested his attention, and he realized he could now see his fidgeting fingers, and the spongy soil on which he was walking was visible beneath his feet; then dawn broke with a quietly confident majesty that would have caused a less secure man to fall to his knees in supplication, but he pulled his cloak to against the morning chill and simply increased his pace.