Dark Place to Hide Read online

  I can’t help but smile. This is so like you: to turn towards making things better, always facing the light instead of the darkness.

  ‘I’ve started having injections.’

  ‘Do they have side-effects?’

  Side-effects…We can’t be having this conversation! My insides are dripping with murky, churned-up feelings and I need to let them out. I need you to face what I’m facing. I have to turn the discussion back to where it should have been heading all along. I have to know.

  ‘You seem to be overlooking something,’ I say, trying to keep my voice even.

  ‘What?’ Your face is tilted up, the light from the window cradling it in innocence.

  ‘Well…we’ve just established that I can’t father a child.’ I glance down at my nails. ‘So how…?’

  You push yourself up on the pillow, more alert. ‘It must have been a freakish one-in-a-million chance, Dibs,’ you conclude. ‘You still produce sperm – you told me that – but a low count doesn’t mean none at all. One must have slipped through. That’s all it takes.’ You fling down your arms in exasperation. ‘Can you believe it? It was probably our one and only chance and I couldn’t keep the baby.’

  Your gaze drops, your face fragments into shadows.

  I refuse to slip into consoling you. Not yet, not until I’m sure of what you’re saying. ‘So – you haven’t, you know…?’

  ‘What?’ You’re wide-eyed now. Incredulous. ‘Slept with someone else, you mean?’

  I grit my teeth.

  ‘God, no! Harper! How could you even think that?’

  My doubt and bewilderment cluster together. ‘It seems the obvious conclusion. If I’m classified as infertile and have been since the sarcoidosis diagnosis eighteen months ago, then it stands to reason…well, my assumption is…was…the baby couldn’t have been mine.’

  You grab me by both sleeves and drag me against your chest. ‘No! No way, darling. Honestly. No way! I’ve never cheated on you. It’s not how we do things is it? It’s not how we operate.’ You shake your head, talking to the floor, rocking me, cooing; ‘No…no…absolutely not…no…no way,’ over and over, hammering it home to me.

  I sit up and look at you, feeling my love for you rush into all the spaces in the room.

  I want to believe you.

  I don’t tell you that I’ve requested a DNA test on the unformed child. Now is not the time.

  ‘Shush,’ I say, rocking you in my arms. ‘I’m sorry. I needed to know…I love you. Get some rest.’

  Chapter 3

  Diane

  Mid-June

  Tara links arms with Diane as they head out of the school gates and cross the road towards the trees. She never stands on ceremony – it was one of the first things that drew Diane to her and she loves her friend’s ‘want-it, go-get-it’ approach to life.

  Tara brushes away the purple petals that have fallen from the nearby magnolia onto the bench. Diane is certain it’s going to rain, but doesn’t want to miss their daily walk over to the park. She glances up at the elegant blossoms, standing proud like candlesticks, and realises she’s barely noticed spring breaking through this year with its bold colours and promise of new life. In fact, spring is already on the cusp of summer.

  ‘You wanted to borrow my phone?’ Diane reiterates, remembering Tara’s request as they left the staffroom. She’s holding her lunchbox under one arm, her folded umbrella under the other, trying to reach into her rucksack for her mobile. She gives up and drops everything onto the bench.

  ‘Please. Mine’s on the blink. Just a quick call to tell Erica I can take the Disco-Jack class.’

  ‘Disco-Jack? What’s that?’ Diane is unbuckling her rucksack.

  ‘It’s a kind of disco shuffle hip-hop thing.’ Tara waves her hand dismissively and sits down, propping her handbag on her knees as if she is in a doctor’s waiting room. She is dressed in an expensive canary-yellow coat, with matching high heels and a navy pencil skirt. Diane looks at the fraying strap of her own rucksack and marvels at the way Tara persistently overdresses. Tall and willowy – a former pole-dancer – Tara Nørgaard teaches older children at the same primary school.

  ‘You can step in and take over a new dance class, just like that?’ Tara loves all kinds of dancing. Her body has a natural rhythm inside it – you can see it when she walks. She has a tendency to wiggle her hips and twirl around without any intention of showing off. It’s simply how her body sings.

  ‘Yeah - well. I’ll buy a DVD on the way home and find out what the steps are. How hard can it be?’

  Some of the staff find Tara brash, but she seems spirited, straight talking…fearless, in Diane’s eyes.

  She drops the phone into Tara’s hands. ‘Help yourself,’ she says.

  Diane sits back, peels open the lid of her lunchbox and scoops a forkful of mushroom risotto into her mouth. Tara is half Danish with only the trace of an accent. Maybe it’s tradition over there never to have lunch, Diane ponders, as she’s rarely seen Tara eat anything other than the occasional apple during their breaks. Nevertheless, Tara generally joins her, if neither of them are stuck with playground duty. Since spring, they’ve been returning almost daily to Diane’s favourite bench by the children’s paddling pool.

  While Tara makes the call, Diane is watching a small boy wave a plastic spade at a woman. His mother? His nanny? She gazes at the patches of sand that have clung to his knees and wonders how old he is.

  ‘Tomorrow night at seven,’ she tells Diane as she ends the call, ‘fancy trying it?’

  ‘Yeah, I’d love to.’ Diane has an aptitude for all things sporty, but tends to play it down. Only a handful of staff at St Mary’s know that, as a teenager, she was verging on Olympic standard in the pool. In 2006, she won silver in the 200-metre butterfly at the British Championships. There was a gold the following year in the GB team relay, but in 2008, a hip problem brought her competitive career to an abrupt end.

  ‘You can show everyone how it’s done.’ Tara nudges her friend’s elbow and laughs – a loud whoop like a teenager.

  ‘Don’t you dare!’ Diane retorts.

  Tara is still holding the phone. She’s stopped laughing. ‘What are all these?’ she says quietly. Diane reaches for the phone, wet grains of rice toppling out of her mouth. ‘Dee – there are loads of them…’

  ‘It’s nothing. It’s okay,’ she protests. ‘You shouldn’t…’ Diane finally snatches back the mobile. She hadn’t meant for anyone to see them. Probably around thirty of them by now. Photos of new-borns in carrier baskets leaving the maternity ward. Infants in buggies being wheeled into the supermarket. Toddlers in shopping centres. Heavily pregnant women waiting at a bus stop.

  ‘That’s why we always come here isn’t it, during our lunch break?’ says Tara, looking up. ‘To watch the children in the playground?’

  Diane winces.

  ‘Does Harper know about this?’

  ‘No.’

  Tara puts an arm round her. ‘I didn’t know it had got so bad.’

  Diane leans into her. She feels ashamed, but safe. ‘It’s silly, really. I’m only twenty-six. Harper’s thirty. It’s not like we’re running out of time or anything. This maternal desire – a craving, really – has taken me over. It’s filled me with a constant ache. We’ve been trying for over a year…and nothing’s happened.’

  ‘It will, though. When you least expect it. When you’re relaxed and not so uptight about trying so hard.’

  Diane rests her chin on Tara’s shoulder; she can smell expensive perfume on her collar. She can never do this with Alexa. It wouldn’t feel right, even though Alexa is always pushing for a closer and deeper relationship. Diane feels a flicker of confusion when she thinks of her sister – and the way much of her inner landscape feels too vulnerable and intimate to express with her own flesh and blood. ‘I haven’t been uptight about it…not really.’

  ‘Taking all these photos seems pretty uptight to me.’

  ‘Yeah – okay.’ Diane
pulls away. ‘But otherwise, I’ve been doing all the right things. I’ve never smoked, I hardly drink. I’m fit and healthy, I’ve always eaten well – no caffeine, additives, no sugary rubbish.’

  ‘From your swimming days?’

  Diane murmurs in agreement.

  ‘I know I should be patient, but I can’t stop watching women with kids,’ she admits, staring out at the children running for the swings. ‘I’ve even started buying baby clothes…’

  Tara squeezes her closer, rubbing her arm. ‘It’s going to happen one day. Of course, it is.’

  ‘Is it normal, do you think? To wait this long? To want it so much?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ says Tara. ‘You’re craving a child. It’s the most natural thing in the world to want to be a mother. It’s turned into a bit of an obsession, that’s all.’

  Diane crinkles her nose. ‘I’m even finding reasons to avoid Sally.’

  Sally Lord is a fellow teacher at St Mary’s and six months pregnant. Every day she carries around with her the treasure Diane wants more than anything. ‘I’m trying to share her delight over her pregnancy. I really am…but, every conversation revolves around birthing pools, baby buggies, stencils in the nursery. She’s so exuberant and glowing. I can’t…’

  Tara nods. ‘Do you want me to have a word with her?’

  ‘Thanks. No. It’s okay. I need to do it myself. I need to explain why I’ve been so off with her.’ She shakes herself. ‘I need to pull myself out of this.’

  ‘You need to talk to Harper about it, girl. He’ll understand – you know he will.’

  ‘I don’t want to put him under pressure.’

  ‘It’s not like this is just you. He wants kids just as much, doesn’t he? You’ve always said it’s your big shared dream.’

  Diane blinks into the distance. ‘It is…yes, it is.’

  ‘Are you worried about how he’ll react?’

  ‘No, of course not.’ She knows it comes out a little too quickly.

  Chapter 4

  Harper

  30 July – 7.50pm

  Alexa’s face falls when I open the door.

  ‘I thought she’d be here.’

  ‘She is. Well, she was. She’s just popped out. She’ll be back shortly.’ Alexa seems to have a lot of bright light behind her; I want to shield my eyes.

  ‘You’re drunk,’ she says, her mouth sagging with disgust. She stomps inside, uninvited. Her white jeans are unironed and she wears a camisole top that leaves her belly button on display.

  ‘It’s been a difficult time. Diane’s gone to get painkillers from the village store.’

  ‘For you, I presume?’ My self-conscious grimace gives away the answer. ‘But that’s miles away. She’ll be ages.’ Alexa sits on the arm of the sofa, swinging a leg, and presses keys on her phone. She always has it in her hand when she’s in my presence, as if speaking to me is only ever a prelude to doing something else far more important.

  ‘It’s not miles. Well – it’s nearly two. She took the car, for once.’

  Alexa stiffens. ‘She never drives.’ Her shoulders undulate like sand dunes as she hitches up the thin straps on her top that keep slipping down.

  ‘I know. She insisted.’ I know how you feel about driving, Dee, and I would never have asked. I was quite happy to suffer with my self-induced headache. I deserve it.

  ‘But she’s taking sedatives.’

  ‘She’s stopped. She’s keeping hold of them just in case.’

  ‘When did she last take one?’

  I’m used to interrogations like this. For your sake, Dee, I always try to go along with her to avoid friction. ‘I don’t know.’ I glance at the clock on the wall, but it seems to be shifting around. ‘Last night?’

  ‘I can’t believe you let her get behind the wheel – after all she’s been through.’

  ‘She seemed…’

  Alexa is swimming in front of me now and I want her to go away. She’s been over several times since the miscarriage. She doesn’t make much effort to hide the fact she doesn’t like me, but I do my utmost to make her welcome. I really do. But she’s not like you. She’s only ever been the palest shadow of you.

  Alexa looks down at her phone, gets up and turns to the door. A muscle at the back of her arm bulges – one I never knew human beings had. She’s superfit. It shouldn’t surprise me now that Alexa’s competing regularly in Ironman triathlons. How anyone can get excited by swimming nearly two-and-a-half miles, cycling another 112, then rounding off the day with a full marathon is beyond me. But then yours is, after all, a family of extremes.

  ‘I’ve got to go,’ she says.

  ‘You’re not going to wait? She’ll only be a few minutes. She won’t want to miss you.’

  Alexa’s phone has given her some urgent new mission and she’s already reaching for the door handle. She doesn’t say goodbye and charges down the path to her car.

  I look at my watch, but there seem to be too many hands floating around the dial. Nevertheless, it feels like more time has passed than I expected. Shouldn’t you be back by now? My mind tracks back to our conversation yesterday about the baby. Was your reaction genuine? I pick up the TV listings in search of a distraction. I don’t want to open up the possibility that you didn’t tell me the truth, that you were protecting me by being primed with a lie, although your reaction was so immediate, it’s hard for me to believe you were deceiving me. I drop the magazine; I’m too unsettled to take any of it in.

  Even though Dr Swann insisted my tests were conclusive, I searched the infertility forums online late last night, just in case I could prove him wrong. But there were no success stories; no miracles for men with my condition, or at least none documented. I keep hearing your words: One must have slipped through. I must be the exception.

  If that is the case, I can’t help feeling wholeheartedly cheated. Our one chance and it has slipped away. The chances of it happening again naturally…well…are virtually nil. Of course, I’ve started the treatment, but I haven’t told you yet about the success rates. Sixty per cent at best, for activating pregnancy, but a third of these are lost through miscarriage. It’s not a rosy picture. I don’t want to make things any worse than they already are.

  As I poured the juice for breakfast, I looked up. You were standing at the bottom of the stairs in pyjamas speckled with dancing pink fish.

  ‘Explain it to me again,’ you said. Your buckled forehead told me you’d been worrying about this instead of getting proper rest. I pressed you to sit down and laid a blanket over your knees, even though it was toasty in the sitting room with the morning sun.

  ‘You remember when I had sarcoidosis?’

  ‘That was ages ago.’

  ‘Eighteen months.’

  Confusion nipped the skin between your eyebrows. ‘But, that was some sort of virus – wasn’t it?’

  ‘It usually affects the lungs and skin, but everyone reacts differently. What we didn’t know was that it can affect testosterone production.’

  ‘Oh…’ The sound was clean and simple, like the response of a child.

  ‘And too many of the sperm are deformed or have poor mobility.’ My mouth twisted with shame at bringing these far-reaching deficiencies into your life. ‘It’s why my libido has been a bit iffy in the last year or so.’

  You leaned back looking exhausted.

  At some stage, you’re going to ask me how long we have to wait before my treatment makes a difference. The specialist says the gonadotropin injections won’t have any effect for six months and possibly long after that, if I have adverse reactions. I didn’t tell you that I’m already having side effects; my appetite has dropped in the past two weeks and I’ve had two nose bleeds at work. He told me that in rare cases the side effects – blood-clotting, fluid retention in the chest – can be fatal. He had to tell me these things. I’m hopeful, of course I am, about this coming right for us, but I’m not banking on it.

  8.30pm

  Another cluster of bricks tu
mble down the fireplace, making me jump. I’ve been slumped here on the sofa unaware of how much time has gone by. The bricks land in the hearth, like winning coins on a one-armed bandit. I wish I was better at DIY. You always laugh at me for my Heath Robinson-style attempts at fixing things with pieces of string and gaffer tape. At least I try. The builders are due in five weeks to rebuild the chimney. We also have subsidence in the extension at the back of the cottage with another surveyor coming next week, to see if we qualify for insurance. Our home is crumbling around us.

  The light is peeling away from the sky. You left an hour ago. It takes less than ten minutes to get to the village shop in the car. You ought to be back by now.

  I try your mobile, but there’s no reply. Where else would you go? Surely you wouldn’t stop at the pub when you know I need the painkillers? You wouldn’t, anyway – not if you’re driving. You wouldn’t do anything to put yourself at risk. I know you are a reluctant driver at the best of times – it’s down to that time you didn’t swerve fast enough (your words) and hit a deer.

  A surge of panic hits me. Were you still too drowsy with the medication to be driving? Is it my fault? Has something terrible happened? I should have stopped you, like Alexa said.

  As soon as I set foot outside, I realise I’m too drunk to stay upright on my bicycle, so I go back for Frank, who thinks this extra romp is a special treat, and we head out on foot. Frank snuffles through clumps of dandelions at the roadside. Nettledon is split into two parts. On the south side are detached cottages, spread out, with clumps of trees, and we are the last one before the farmland stretches down towards the valley. The pub, shop and church are on the north side surrounded by terraced cottages and in-between is a stretch of road, with trees and thick scrub on both sides belonging to the council. There are tight bends on this lane and the road is narrow.

  We get to the signpost for the footpath and Frank pulls on the lead, trying to drag me into the woods. I apologise and tell him we have to stick to the main road. There’s no path and I need him by my side. Blades of grass gather between my toes and the heads of tufty weeds find their way inside my sandals.