‘Sonya, I know you’re in there. You can now add “thief” to the list of your spectacular fuck-ups.’
What has happened to all the old certainties – that my dog would love me and only me, that David would remain a cool customer, unknown, and that my father would always at least affect a restrained, polite exterior? I feel as if I have supped of some concoction in the underworld: that night of lying in the tangled sheets has resulted in a falling-through from one realm to another. Oh look how the kitten has morphed into the Cheshire Cat grinning from ear to ear, how Herbie is wearing a Mad Hatter’s hat! And my father? The Queen of Hearts outside, stomping up and down, with no care for decorum.
No point in trying to engage – no point at all. I settle back to watch my father run out of steam through a gap in the blinds, in much the same way he used to watch me as I’d bellow and rant, his motto ‘Never feed the tantrum with attention.’
‘Unacceptable behaviour, Sonya, really, the worst. I brought you up better than that.’ Poor Dad, he really has lost the run of himself. Just as I knew he would, he runs out of steam and strides away down the path, anger in every bunched muscle. I hear someone utter a greeting and his gruff response: ‘Not now, Mary.’ I turn to my two charges, who seem to have come to a truce, Marmie rubbing her delicious little nose against the dumbstruck Herbie’s.
The night is rather lovely, with the two lovebirds staring at each other from opposite sides of the bed. It’s comforting having the warm bodies lying there, not wanting anything at all from me. I fall into a restful sleep, with no visitations from the demented dentist, my childhood dolls, nor any of the sensations of falling or suffocating in shit. When I wake I have the impression of being filled with the colour green: trees, grasshoppers, grass, the colour of buds, of new life.
I move through the morning slowly, strangely luxuriating in the further texts from David: Good morning, Good luck today, Thinking of you. This is so unfamiliar, something I could perhaps get used to. The example set by the animals must be making me soft. I take my time with my cup of tea, cradling it, contemplating the texture, taste, smell. Sister Anne was right: the small pleasures in life really can fill you up. Herbie seems shell-shocked, as anyone would, having been released from prison into a warm, scented bed with a gorgeous feline companion.
I dress carefully, force myself to eat toast and a banana, talk to Herbie and Marmie, telling them to be good, to be kind to each other. Now I know that Marmie is well able to hold her own and would probably win out in any scrap, I’m ok leaving them, just. I still can’t get certain morbid imaginings out of my head: the kitten in his big mouth, or the dog’s eyes scratched out.
34
I pull up outside the shiny building among the dilapidated flats with plenty of time to spare. Adjust my driver’s mirror, look at myself, see, yet don’t see. My image has always been a kind of a blur, only ever reflected back at me through other people’s eyes. My impression of myself is as of a stranger appraising me, not too kindly. Flip the mirror back.
Maureen is there to meet me at reception. How I want to lay my head on her ample bosom, have my hair stroked. I shake my head and stamp my feet as imperceptibly as I can – disturb the patterns, ground their flight. Breathe in: a sacred pause.
‘Ok, Sonya?’
‘Fine, good, thanks, all good.’
‘Tommy’ll be here in a few minutes. I’ll spend some time alone with him first, then you’ll get to see him.’
‘On my own, or…？’
‘I’ll be in the room, just as a formality. Follow me.’
I’m mesmerised by the swaying bulk of flesh that moves with such assuredness, such grace. It’s as if different bulges of her are talking to each other, all nodding their heads in calm agreement. In her office I’m asked to blow, and then to pee into the container. Tea is offered, and the phone rings.
‘He’s arrived. Ok to wait here for a few minutes?’
I nod, clamp one hand over the other. I sit down, as I’m scared my legs might go spastic, give me away.
‘Just breathe, Sonya. I know it’s hard.’
She walks towards the door, then turns. ‘Oh, and Sonya. You’re the mother here, remember?’
And she’s gone, trailing shame in her wake.
A knock on the door, and a voice cuts in: ‘Ok to follow me?’
Already? A small, wiry, grey-haired lurcher of a woman smiles tightly. ‘Just in here.’ The door is opened and there he is: tiny – so much smaller than I remember him, sitting at the children’s table with its purple plastic chairs and bright pink table. He’s wearing clothes I’ve never seen before: a little sailor top and blue corduroys. Somebody has decided on the ‘cute’ look.