The Doll House. Phoebe Morgan
have wanted a family since I was a little girl. It will happen. I have to believe.
*
Later on, I leave to meet Dominic at the fertility clinic. As I dressed, I put the chimney pot into my pocket, gave it a lucky pat before I left the house. I can feel it bumping slightly against my hip bone; I like it, it feels like a little talisman, a good luck charm. If I do have a daughter I could dig out the doll house, give it to her as a present. One day. I feel bad for being abrupt with Gilly this morning. I know she can’t help having kids, I know I can’t behave like that. Maybe I’ll knock on her door later, apologise.
Outside it is freezing. Minus two, the radio said. Strings of Christmas lights are still dotted around, twinkling stubbornly, even though it’s past the deadline of the sixth. I can see my breath, misty particles floating in the air, glowing under the street lamps. It is already dark even though it has only just gone five-thirty. Despite the weather, I feel a little glow inside me, a swell of hope from the chimney pot cocooned in my coat.
I’m walking along the pavement by the park, past the playground, the empty swings hanging loosely in the darkness. Resting for the evening. A car speeds past, its headlights illuminate the tall, spiked tops of the park railings and I give a little gasp; someone is there, right beside me, I see a face hidden in the railings amongst the dark. My breath catches in my throat. Oh, God. I can’t breathe.
Then the headlights swing by, the golden light throwing itself over me and I exhale; it’s just the shadowy figure of a dog-walker, hurrying along towards the park exit and the gaping steps of the Underground. It’s nothing, it’s nobody. It never is.
I put my head down and keep walking, focusing on my feet clad in their little black boots. My heart rate returns to normal, I can feel my body calming down. I’m used to the feelings now – the immediate rush of anxiety followed by the weak-kneed relief. The cycle of it all.
It is a relief to see the double doors of the clinic glowing ahead of me. Dominic is waiting inside, looking at his watch, wearing the sky-blue scarf I bought him last Christmas. He looks so handsome. As I stare at him through the glass, I remember the times we used to meet after work, back when we first met; I’d sneak out early to see him, desperate to be in his arms. It was so exciting; it was like a drug. Somewhere along the way we lost that excitement, between the endless rounds of IVF and the money flowing out of our bank account like water through a sieve.
I walk a little faster, eager to get to him, to feel his arms around me. I slip my left glove off as I go, run my fingers over the tiny chimney. As I enter, a couple push past me, hurrying through the door, and I catch a glimpse of young, bright eyes, hopeful red lips chapped with cold. An elderly woman follows them out, walking quickly with a slight hobble, grey hair falling across her face. She looks like a grandmother, a grandmother in waiting.
In the entrance room of the clinic we hug hello, I feel the relief of Dominic around me. We might not have the excitement, but we’ve still got each other.
‘You OK?’ he asks. ‘Good day?’
I smile at him reassuringly and almost tell him about finding the chimney, but something stops me. I know he’ll think I’m being silly. He thinks I cling on to the past a bit too much, to memories of Dad. So instead I say nothing, I feel for the chimney pot in the pocket of my coat and tell Dominic that my day has been fine.
‘Miss Hawes?’ The nurse appears and gestures to me. Dominic puts an arm around me as we enter a little side room. We sit down together on the green chairs, our thighs touching.
‘IVF treatment can be a difficult process, Miss Hawes.’ The nurse is smiling kindly at me. ‘Corinne? Sometimes it helps to chat to others who are going through the process. We do have a support group that meets once a month? Would you and Dominic be interested?’
The nurse is looking at me expectantly, her face open, eyes wide. She means well, I know, so I smile back at her, even though tonight I will have more hormones pushed into me, will wince as Dominic injects me with bromocriptine, clomifene, fertinex. We can both recite the drugs as though they are our times tables.
‘I think we’re OK, actually. But thank you,’ I tell the nurse, and then we start going through it again, planning the insemination. I force myself to keep cheerful, keep hoping, and I squeeze my hands around the little chimney pot in my pocket and imagine my dad smiling at me, telling me this is just another challenge. It makes me feel better, and I close my eyes and I wish and I wish and I wish.
Then
The windows of the car are misting up. Mummy has turned off her headlights so that our car sits in the darkness, hidden on the tree-lined street. Now that I’m almost eight, she talks to me more. She says if we’re lucky though, the next time it’s very cold winter time we might be able to get out of the car and go into the house. She says she’s not sure yet, she’ll have to let me know. I like talking to her, it’s the best thing, except for I can’t talk to her on her quiet days, because she hardly says a thing. On those days I have to talk to myself, make up the voices in my head, pretend there is someone else who will chat to me. Really I know it’s just me but sometimes I can trick myself. I can pretend.
I’m seven nearly eight, I’m getting big, and I know I’m getting taller because on the nights when we sleep in the car my legs hurt more. They’re hurting now, it’s harder to scrunch them up small in the passenger seat. I draw shapes on the car window, circles and diamonds and swirly lines that tangle into great messy scribbles. I am bored. I want to go home. We have been here for hours.
‘I’m hungry, Mummy.’ I am hungry, my stomach is growling like a lion. There has been no food all day. Sometimes Mummy forgets. When there is no reply, I pull on Mummy’s sleeve and eventually she gives me a bar of chocolate, squashed and warm but whole, bright in its wrapper. Yum. Just as I’m about to eat it, I am jerked forwards; the car is moving, we are on our way. Mummy is pressing her foot to the floor, glancing into the rear-view mirror, her eyes alive again. She still hasn’t put the headlights on. The chocolate tastes old and a bit stale, but I don’t mind, I eat it anyway. It’s gone too quickly. I want more.
The car is moving very fast; the chocolate whooshes around in my stomach and I begin to feel sick. We bend in and out of streets, faster and faster, until suddenly we are stopping, Mummy is slamming her foot onto the brakes and our little car is screeching to a halt. Outside the world has become very dark, I can just about see the tiny silver stars if I tilt my head back all the way and look out of the window. The dashboard lights glow; their green and orange lines form a face in the reflection and I jump, startled by the way the features leap out at me. That finally gets Mummy’s attention.
‘What is it? Do you see him?’
‘I see a face,’ I say, and Mummy leans over me, right across my lap so that I can smell her hair, the strange sour scent of her skin. I hate the way my mother smells now. The girls at school tease me for it, they say that it’s because she doesn’t wash. I wash myself, I run myself baths in our little flat, fill the tub up until the water runs cold. I sit in them for ages, wishing I could be a mermaid and live underwater. I don’t like the flat, I want to move back to the big house but Mummy says we can’t. All our money is gone. The bad man took it.
London
Ashley
James still isn’t home. Ashley has put Holly and Benji to bed and Lucy has stomped upstairs with her headphones in. The door to her room is permanently closed these days; Ashley knocked about an hour ago but got no response. Her fifteen-year-old daughter is surgically attached to her phone, the little buzz of it vibrates through the house, tailing her around.
She is in the kitchen, pretending to watch television, but her mind is on the big clock on the wall and all she can hear is the second hand moving, tick tick tick, and all she can think about is James, and why isn’t he home