Not all concealments were bad. Some were instinctive, natural – the soft body of the tortoise hidden by the shell, the defence of a long deep burrow for a rabbit. Nature was full of devices designed to protect creatures from harm. And so it was with secrets.
Steffie’s secret had been born of a will to survive, to protect herself.
She hadn’t tried to fool anyone – hadn’t even considered that she was doing so. She had just come up with a way of coping that worked for her. Greg and her mother were accomplices, the only ones who had become closer as an outcome of the concealment, bonding over their mutual reluctance yet desire to make her happy.
It was pretty basic in design. It was a lie by omission, a rearrangement of facts, as though Tipp-Exing over a calendar of life and rewriting the details.
Jemima Lee was born on 1 July 2005.
That was the new fact, the lie that wasn’t a lie. It was there on Jemima’s birth certificate. It was an actual fact.
And on this truth the construct of the lie was based.
Scrape the Tipp-Ex off, hold the calendar to the light and there was something else there entirely.
Jemima Lee was born on 3 June 2004.
*
3 June 2004 was a warm day with a breeze that went undetected by those inside the maternity ward of Oxford City Hospital. Jemima Lee was, like all babies, utterly adorable, and Steffie and Greg were besotted – tickled pink with love and pride for this product of their love.
They hadn’t been back that long from their honeymoon in the Dolomites. Their marriage was still basking in the glow of the mountains at sundown – in Alpenglow – and it felt as though their daughter were part of that too, that her limbs and hair and blue eyes were tinged with gold.
At eight weeks old, Jemima was thriving – smiling, cooing, beginning to take note of the world around her and to reach out for it in a way that thrilled Steffie.
One morning, during the last week of July, Jemima woke at her regular time with a temperature. Steffie felt it the moment she picked her up – the heat radiating from Jemima’s tiny body. Steffie knew that these things were par for the course, especially in the summer, but she took Jemima to the doctor just in case, who said she had a nasty cold and that Steffie was to keep her well hydrated.
By teatime, Steffie was struggling to keep Jemima awake. Normally at this hour Jemima would be fitful, fractious, but wide awake. It was difficult to judge, but Steffie felt that something wasn’t right. Yet the doctor had insisted that everything was fine. Still, she ended up sitting up all night in the rocking chair next to Jemima’s cot, watching her feverish sleep.
In the morning, Steffie was relieved to see that the symptoms had subsided. She pulled back the nursery curtains with a happy sigh and eased open the window. Then she took Jemima downstairs and strapped her into her bouncy chair in the kitchen, whilst she did the laundry in the adjacent utility room.
But when she checked on Jemima, she was alarmed to see that she had been sick and that her body was jerking, rocking the bouncy chair.
She rang Greg and told him to come home immediately. They drove Jemima back to the hospital that she had been born in, only five minutes’ drive from their house.
On arrival at hospital, it was established that Jemima was very ill. Steffie felt a stab of guilt when the nurses said that her baby’s temperature was unacceptable. She reached for Greg, who held her hand and didn’t let go.
Jemima was raced to intensive care, where she was hooked up to a ventilator.
As night fell, they were told that Jemima had a rare viral infection causing inflammation of the brain. The cause would probably never be established. If she lived, she would most likely be brain damaged.
They waited, watched, for four days. Little information was passed their way, but they both knew what was going to happen and tried to prepare themselves.
But there was no preparation for it.
At the end of the fourth day, the staff unhooked the ventilator, dressed Jemima in a Babygro with a bunny rabbit appliqué on the chest, and placed her in Steffie’s arms.
By dawn, on 1 August 2004, Jemima had passed away.
What Steffie recalled the most of those days in August – of that August that stretched ahead endlessly, like a record going round and round – was the silence.
Sometimes silence could be so loud that it made you scream.
She sat for days in the bay window of their lounge, knees drawn to her chest. She watched gulls circling the air, their wings brilliant white in the sky; watched bin men scooping up the recycling; watched the postman sweating along the street in his shorts. There was plenty going on out there that August, but it was happening with the sound on mute.
It was the same inside the house too. When Greg spoke, she watched his lips moving, with little regard for the information being passed her way.
It was the funeral tomorrow, he was telling her. She had to get dressed. There was still time to get something from the doctor as the health visitor had suggested – something to help get her through the day.
Greg took her lack of response as consent, made her a doctor’s appointment. And sure enough there was a pill on her bedside table that night, neat and polite on a small saucer.
Diazepam.
It was certainly hypnotic, appealing. She only took it for a couple of days, was frightened that it would prove addictive, like the doctor warned. But those few days in its company were warm and soft, with an overpowering sense of relaxation that she would remember for a very long time.
She had got through the funeral with Greg on one arm, her mother on the other and diazepam in her veins.
Her father had been dead for fifteen years. Her mother hadn’t expected to endure another tragedy, and the shock showed on her face. Yet Steffie barely heeded it, was concentrating only on the miniature coffin adorned with lilies that was elevated on the rostrum behind the woman who was saying that Jemima had lived only for a short while but had brought her parents so much joy in that time.
Then the officiators pressed a button and there was a whirring noise, a small door opened, and Jemima was slowly moved on a conveyor belt beyond view.
They chose a brass plaque near the fish pond in the grounds of the crematorium. The other choice was the rose garden. They felt that Jemima was the sort of baby who would have liked fish more.
They scattered her ashes by the pond.
Ash. Dust.
These things were strong in Steffie’s mind that day – the notion of things diminishing to ash; burning; gone.
She resumed life without diazepam, life by the window on mute, knees drawn to chest, watching not the world outside now but the dust swarming by the window in the sunbeams – dust that was death, ash, coffins, plaques by fish ponds.
Greg tried to entice her away with phone calls from friends, offers from her mother to stay, talk of a holiday in the Dolomites, a change of job perhaps or even of city. How about moving back to her childhood home in Dorset to be near her mum?
But Steffie wasn’t listening, was watching the dust.
By the end of August the dust was so thick in the air of her home she could barely breathe.
She went to bed where she hid under the sheets – where Greg watched her with alarm, asking her what it was that she was so frightened of, what she was cowering from. He called a doctor who said she should rest.
So she did. She stayed in bed, or by the window, listening to the silence, watching the dust.
Until one day, at the end of September, as summer dwindled, as the leaves became insecure on trees, she heard a sound that stopped her heart.
It was a baby crying.
She knelt up on the window sill, peering out of the window.
A mother was passing by, pushing a pram, bending forward slightly to appease her crying infant.
And at that moment, Steffie could hear again – could see details, hear voices, could see a future.
She didn’t trick Greg, nor mislead him, nor was she forthcoming with information. It wasn’t difficult to get a man to make love, especially not your husband and a grieving one at that. So they just did so, night after night, until she got what she wanted.
And on 1 July 2005, Jemima was born.
‘I didn’t deliberately mislead anyone,’ Steffie said, crying. Greg was rubbing her back. Her mother was holding her hand.
‘I know,’ the sergeant said. He was standing now, hands in pockets, head bowed. ‘These things have a habit of evolving in a way that you don’t always foresee.’
‘I thought that if we had another baby—’
Steffie began to cry too bitterly to speak. Her mother took the helm. ‘It would mean that the other one hadn’t existed,’ she said.
Jemima was sitting upright, staring at her family – at the three adults she most relied on – with a look of complete displacement.
Steffie felt her insides smite with shame and grief. She looked at the floor, leant into her mother.
‘It’s called a replacement child,’ her mother said, stroking Steffie’s hair tenderly.
The sergeant nodded. ‘I’ve encountered it before,’ he replied.
‘Then you’ll know that it’s more common than you’d expect.’
‘Quite,’ he said.
‘I didn’t plan it like that,’ Steffie said, wiping her face with her sleeve. ‘Aside from our very close friends, most people – work colleagues, old friends – assumed that Jemima was the same Jemima. And then when we moved away to Wimborne, no one knew anything about it. I could just get on with life, as though nothing had happened.’
‘Except,’ said Sergeant Lamb, ‘that you couldn’t.’
‘No,’ Steffie said. ‘It was always there – the past, our little lie …’
The dust, she added mentally.
One day, when she was settled into the new house, with Jemima as a toddler at her feet, Steffie had looked up the replacement child phenomenon online.
What she read had filled her with dread.
Psychiatric.
Pathognomonic.
Unresolved parental grief.
Restrictive, overprotective parenting.
More often than not, the replacement child developed psychiatric problems – anxiety and confidence problems. They would also be likely to experience difficulty dealing with separation, the website had said.
This was bad information indeed – information that she couldn’t share, but which anyone – including Greg – could have accessed at any point for themselves. It was there for them to see: the potential damage that she could be inflicting on their child.
Her choice was to either carry on as they were or resurrect the pain they had left behind in Oxford.
It seemed like no choice at all. She had felt tense with indecision, and the amathophobia that had begun in the aftermath of Jemima’s death – the fear of dust – returned now, exacerbated, intensified.
It seemed an innocent, harmless sort of phobia. Dust itself could be easily dealt with – could be swept under the metaphorical carpet simply enough. It felt like a very private, rather stupid fear. The best way to deal with it, she had felt, was to forget all about it, try to deal with it herself as best she could until it went away.
Yet it was neither innocent nor harmless. And before it went, it destroyed their marriage.
Greg had been surrounded habitually by dust, by wood chippings and sawdust. It was all around him, all over his clothes and hair, in his very skin, in the air hanging inside the lodge, in the air above it.
She began to turn away from him, too often. He was grieving also, she knew, but she just couldn’t love him the way he wanted. But Olivia could, and had.
Moving to the apartment with Jemima had helped – her phobia, at least. Her anxiety abated, the dust settled.
And in Oxford a little brass plaque near a fish pond grew cloudy and dull, for no one went to polish it.
The sergeant was reaching for their hands in farewell. ‘I’m sorry for everything you’ve been through,’ he said.
Steffie forced herself to stand up straight, to shake the sergeant’s hand.
‘I hope things get better from here,’ he said. And then he and the constable left, closing the door behind them.
Steffie turned to Jemima, who was crying softly into her broken hand.
She approached her cautiously, perched on the edge of the bed, reached out to tuck Jemima’s hair behind her ear. She was petrified that Jemima might reject her, recoil.
But she didn’t. She looked up at Steffie. ‘I didn’t want you to be sad any more, Mummy,’ Jemima said.
Dr Mills came to see them off when Jemima was discharged a month later. He shook hands with Greg, before turning to Steffie with a smile. ‘I’m so pleased how this has turned out,’ he said, not knowing the half of it, seeing only the medical outcome. ‘The best of luck.’
Steffie was surprised by how short he was. ‘Thank you so much for everything you’ve done for us,’ she said.
She could have sworn he had been a lot taller when they had first met him. When she mentioned it to her mother on the way home in the car, Helena told her that this was a recognised phenomenon: when you met someone whilst in a state of shock and perceived them to be your rescuer, they appeared larger than in real life. She had read it in Reader’s Digest only the other week, she said.
Steffie smiled, went to reach behind her to hold Jemima’s hand and then thought better of it. She turned forward again, kept her eyes on the road ahead. Jemima didn’t want to be prodded about, or even touched at the moment. She was coy with them, reticent, processing things. But the promising thing was that she was listening to her headphones again – was getting back into ballet, although walking on crutches and her left arm still heavily casted. And they had just stopped off to buy purple gobstoppers.
As Jemima slurped on a gobstopper, kicking her good leg against the car seat in time to the music, wearing her grey skater sweater and polka-dot leggings, Steffie glimpsed more than a flash of the old Jemima; and beyond her … the old, old Jemima – a ghost whom she couldn’t dispense with lightly, who didn’t deserve that, and yet whose memory made Steffie’s heart twist with pain.
As a mother, there was no delete button; there was no way of sidestepping the truth. She had to admit that her first baby had died. And that her second baby was sitting here with them now, real enough, brimming with talent and life.
She reached for the radio and turned it on, listening to the soothing murmur of low voices.
She sighed, glanced at Greg beside her and her mother behind her.
The police inquiry was closed. They weren’t pressing charges against the Kirkpatricks. They wanted the matter over with, to get back to some form of normality.
They were going home, much changed from when they had left – how, exactly, time would tell.
*
One week later, they were in their apartment after school, when Jemima hobbled forward and stood looking at Steffie. ‘I’d like to go to Noella’s,’ she said.
‘Oh,’ said Steffie, who was just taking off her coat, dropping her work bag on to the sofa. ‘Yes. Of course.’
Jemima remained still, leaning on her crutch.
‘Now?’ Steffie said.
Jemima nodded.
‘Oh, OK.’ Steffie picked her bag back up and reached for her coat. ‘Do you need to bring anything?’
‘No,’ said Jemima. ‘Let’s go.’
‘Oh,’ Steffie said again. She glanced around the apartment, tapping her coat pockets to check for her keys.
Outside in the street, it was quiet. Rain was falling lightly. The occasional car passed, tyres shrill on wet tarmac. It was the last day of March. Trees were beginning to bud; daffodils in pots by front doors nodded their heads in greeting.
Steffie and Jemima walked slowly, Jemima hobbling but refusing help. The determination that the physiotherapists had spoken of was beginning to prove itself. The idea of Jemima dancing again didn’t seem ludicrous, but inevitable.
Evening was approaching, but it wasn’t yet rush hour. It was a peculiar time of day when a lull fell as a changeover approached, reminiscent of life on the hospital ward, Steffie thought.
Jemima still hadn’t spoken much about the accident, nor about the events leading to it – about the past. It would all come eventually. But for now everything was fine, was healing. Except for one missing thing, or person: Noella.
Jemima hadn’t mentioned Noella at all, had resisted being drawn into conversation about her. It was most odd, but Steffie hadn’t pushed it. Something had evidently occurred between the two of them that Jemima wasn’t ready to discuss. Or perhaps it was simply that Jemima associated Noella with an old world that she no longer wished to haunt.
Either way, Steffie thought it was progress that they were on their way to the studio at last. It seemed a shame that two people who had spent so much time together were now estranged, for an inexplicable and probably trivial reason.
So she was thinking as they rounded the corner of Peach Street and Noella’s studio came into sight. The top windows were open and Steffie felt a little pang of nostalgia and regret when she saw the yellow light spilling out and heard the tinkling of the piano and, as they drew closer, the hypnotic chanting of Noella’s instructions.
And one and two and three and four …
They stopped at the door. Steffie turned to smile sentimentally at Jemima, but Jemima was standing still, foraging through her coat pocket for something.
It was an envelope, one of Steffie’s brown business envelopes.
Jemima held up the letter, motioning towards the letterbox.
‘Wait,’ Steffie said. ‘We’re not going in?’
‘No.’ Jemima hobbled forward, pushing the envelope through the letterbox. And then she took off slowly again, her crutch making a plaintive creaking sound that Steffie hadn’t noticed before now.
‘Jemima!’ Steffie said. She stood gazing up at Noella’s for a moment. The music had stopped. She couldn’t hear Noella’s voice. It felt as though everything were stopping as Jemima walked away.
And then Steffie hurried after her. ‘What’s going on?’ she asked. ‘Why won’t you see Noella? What happened between the two of you?’
Jemima was crying noiselessly.
‘Mims,’ Steffie said. ‘You have to tell me.’
They stood looking at each other, Jemima squinting up at the rain and the streetlight that they had stopped underneath.
‘It’s nothing, Mum,’ she said.
‘It doesn’t look like nothing,’ Steffie said.
Jemima wiped her eyes. ‘Please,’ she said ardently. ‘Let’s just go home.’
Steffie hesitated and then took Jemima’s arm.
‘OK,’ she said, helping her along.
Jemima didn’t resist the help now, was weakened somehow. And Steffie was glad to help – decided finally to leave the Noella issue, to focus all her energies on helping her daughter walk; and to dance again, if that was what she wanted to do.
Noella bent to pick up the envelope on the mat. She didn’t recognise the handwriting.
When she saw the name of the writer, it caught her breath.
Dear Noella
I hope you are well and injoying classis!
I am sorry I havent been to see you but I dont know what to say. I am not sure why you gave me the drink at my etwals audition but I dont think you meant to hurt me and Im not going tell any one in case it gets you into trobble.
I dont think you should come to the pheenix in septembur because it wont feel like a fresh start. I think you should stay at Noellas and help ordenairy people be great dancers. You may even find anothur star like the epic Jemima Lee! ☺
If you care about me, you wont come.
Thank you for teeching me ballet. I wont forget you.
Love from Jemima Lee x
Noella sat down on the bottom step of the stairs leading to the studio.
She read the note again. And then folded it back up and put the envelope in her skirt pocket.
She sat for a long while in the darkness. Her pupils had gone home. It was just her in the studio tonight, and every night.
She gazed at the closed door, a creak of light lining the side where the streetlight seeped through. Otherwise it was blank, dark.
So … she thought, she was to stay here with the ordenairy people.
She thought she might cry or scream. But instead she felt calm. It wasn’t a calm of resignation, nor of numbness, but of something else.
It was the calm of possibility.
Was it possible that Noella was back where she had started … looking for gems in the dirt of her childhood back yard – digging for scraps of china or plastic beads that she might rub clean on her dress and hold up to the light and admire?
Was it so very bad that she had ended up where she had begun, where she was supposed to be all along?
An ordinary life, amongst the ordinary. Not elite, not competitive, not high-profile or esteemed.
Entirely ordinary.
She tapped the envelope in her pocket, stood up.
‘Very well, ma petite chérie,’ she said. ‘So it must be.’
And she climbed the stairs to the apartment that lay at the back of Noella’s School of Dance, Wimborne, knowing as she climbed that she was going to have to start looking for some merit in that title, starting now.
That summer, when Jemima could walk without a crutch but still with a labouring limp, just two weeks before her induction at the Phoenix Academy, they took a trip to Oxford.
They were never going to be one of those families who talked about their grief, aired it alongside photographs and shrines. They had chosen another route and it was too late now to change course. And that was all right, Steffie sensed; at least, it would have to be. And yet there was something that they could do to honour the child they had lost – something they could do now and in the future.
The crematorium was on the outskirts of town. It was an attractive place with a long gravel driveway and sweeping views of the surrounding countryside.
They gathered at Jemima’s plaque by the duck pond, Greg and Steffie side by side, heads bowed, their living daughter between them.
There was no evading the pain. The pain was dust, death. No one could remove them.
And yet that day there was no dust there. The air was clear, the sun was warm. The afternoon smelt of roses. The pond was wobbling slightly as fish moved about, rippling the water, life moving on.
Steffie knelt down, began to polish the plaque with a yellow duster until it shone, until she could see her face reflected in the brass.
She stood back up, tucked the duster into her coat pocket.
‘I’m glad we chose the fish pond,’ was all she said.
‘Me too,’ said Greg, his voice unrecognisably low.
Jemima was fiddling with something – the clasp on her satchel. And then she stepped forward and gently looped something over the edge of the plaque.
Steffie stared at the object. It was the tiny ballet shoes that Jemima cherished – the little charm that she had fallen asleep holding the night before the audition.
Jemima was gazing up at Steffie, seeking her mother’s approval.
‘Thank you,’ Steffie said, overwhelmed. And then she reached for her daughter’s hand. ‘Come on,’ she said, forcing a smile. ‘Let’s go.’