Hold My Hand (33 page)

Chapter Fifty-five

She wakes to find her mother stroking her face. Gently, with the back of her fingers. Whispering into her hair. “Wake up, darling. Good morning. Good morning, my love.”

Yasmin stretches, squeezes her eyes closed, then opens them. Slips an arm round her mother's neck and allows herself to be held and loved. The morning ritual: she doesn't know it, but she will remember it all her life; those days when waking was a warm thing, a grateful thing. Look. We have survived the night.

“Guess what?”

“What?”

“No school today,” says Bridget. “Get up and see. You won't believe it.”

Yasmin sits up. Her bedroom is dark, but the light seeping in round the curtains is a blinding white. Her Mum's crept in while she slept and plugged in the fan heater, so the air is toasty. She's laid out jeans, thick socks, a sweater on the bed, and she looks – different today. Sort of excited; like she's lit from the inside.

“What?” asks Yasmin. “What's happened?”

“Get dressed and I'll show you.”

She's got Yasmin's beanie hat in her hand, her purple gloves with the pom-poms. “Hurry up,” she says. “We don't want to miss a minute.”

“Has it snowed?” she asks.

“Yes, dizzy! Yes, it has!”

Yasmin swings out of bed, dashes to the window.

In the night, the world's turned white. As far as her vision extends; blinding, enveloping white. There's snow on the windowsills, snow weighing down the branches of the yew tree. Bushes are mere lumps beneath swansdown blankets, the only demarcation between farmland and moorland the black meanders of the beck.

Over by the wood, by the boathouse, a deer steps from cover. Dainty, elegant, russet. She can see its huge brown eyes from all this distance. It pauses at the edge of the lake and raises its head to look about it. Ten steps, light as a ballerina, across the unbroken waste. It vanishes into the dark.

She is beside herself: can feel the prickle of excitement course up and down her spine. Lets out an actual shriek, turns to her mother with her hands digging into her hair. And she sees for the first time ever what her mother must have looked like herself, as a child; bright eyes, lips thrown wide so all her teeth are showing.

“What are you waiting for?” she says.

It's like Christmas, she thinks. More like Christmas than Christmas was. My mum's more Christmassy than she was then: she's gone all pink and shiny.

The snow has a crust, like sugar icing. It snaps beneath her Wellington and her foot plunges down, down, surprisingly far down, 'til the snow hovers at the very top of her boot.

“It's amazing,” says her mum. “I know you see it on the telly, but you don't actually think this sort of thing happens overnight. What do you think, dwarfy?”

Yasmin squats down, scoops up a handful and throws it in her face. Bridget screams. Surprise and delight. “You little – you
cheeky monkey
!”

She swipes at the rhododendron which grows by the scullery door, flings an armful of snow, sparkling through the air. It catches Yasmin on the side of the face: shockingly, exhilaratingly cold. Sharp and wet. And now they're running, wading, their shouts filling the sunshiney morning as they plunder the pristine crust on the lawn. Yasmin's head is filled with light; her cheeks sting and her fingers go numb. Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful.

Bridget is quickly puffed out. Throws herself onto the ground, face up. Calls “look, baby!” and flails her arms and legs. “An angel!”

Doesn't look like an angel to me, thinks Yasmin. Just looks like a big mess in the snow. But her mum looks so happy, so pleased with herself, that she co-operates, claps her hands and congratulates her. You've got to keep the grown-ups happy, sometimes. Help them feel they're doing well.

Bridget sits up. “Come on. You have a go.”

“Okay,” says Yasmin, because, though the finished product is rubbish, making it looks like fun.

She lies down. Feels the cold suck at her, like a living entity, wrapping itself around her, dark and greedy. She doesn't like it. It feels as though a cloud has passed over the sun.

Suddenly she is sitting up, shivering, looking up at the cloudless sky. Lily, she thinks. I know how it felt. Her teeth rattle in her head, and her whole body seems to be consumed with shaking.

“What's up, baby? You cold?”

Her mum is crouching over her, eyes wide with concern.

Yasmin nods, swallows.

“Oh, it's okay,” says Bridget. Wraps her in her arms, rubs hard at her back. “It's okay. We should have dressed you up more warmly. Silly. I'm silly. Come on. Let's go back to the house. I'll make you some hot chocolate. How would you like that? Some hot chocolate?”

She nods again, the shivering beginning to recede. She feels safe, now, enveloped in her mother's presence. The sun is coming out again. Round the side of her mother's arm, she sees Lily, standing by the boathouse, hands hanging by bony hips, rat's-tail hair, watching. I understand, now, she says to her, silently. I know what it was like.

“Poor you,” whispers Bridget, kisses her on the hairline. “My poor darling. I do love you, you know.”

Yasmin looks up. Her face is shining. How odd, thinks Bridget. A second ago she was as pale as the grave and now…

“I love you, Mummy,” says Yasmin.

Lily smiles. Turns toward the pond. Glances back over her shoulder. The two of them are on their feet, now, hobbling back toward the house, hand-in hand. “We'll get you warmed up,” Bridget is saying, “and I'll find you a vest and we can go up to the field. You've never been tobogganing, have you?”

Yasmin looks up at her and shakes her head. “No.”

“You'll love that. Love it. My Dad used to take me, in Dulwich Park, when I was your age. There's a couple of tea trays in the scullery. We'll take them out after. You'll love it.”

Chapter Fifty-six

“Does Mummy know you're in here?”

She hasn't heard him coming. He's tiptoed up the attic stairs and the sound of his furtive movements hasn't broken through the pall of sleep. She is so drugged with cold and boredom and helplessness that she sleeps almost all day, after her wakeful nights in the dormitory.

Lily's unpacked each of the trunks and spread their contents over the attic so that the room is tented against draughts and the heat of the electric fire is concentrated into the small space around the
chaise longue
. Sprawled in its heat in her cream chiffon ballgown, surrounded by her favourite objects, she looks like a fairy in an abandoned jewel box. She stares at him, takes a moment to register the truth of his presence. And then she pulls her dress over herself, tries to cover up.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“Nothing,” she says. “I was asleep.”

“Little thief,” he says. “Mummy said she'd had to lock you up, but I bet she didn't know you'd be getting in here and stealing as well.”

“I ain't stealing,” says Lily. “I was cold, that's all. It's freezing in there.”

“What's that you're wearing?”

He's got his swagger on. She knows the swagger. He always uses it when he's feeling powerful, when he's going to show his power to the world.

“Nothing.”

“Doesn't look like nothing to me.”

He steps forward, into the pool of warmth. “Let's have a look.”

“No,” she says. Pulls it closer around her.

“Little thief,” he says. “Thought you'd dress up, did you? Thought you'd put on granny's dress and turn into a princess?”

Oh, God. Please keep him away from me. I can't bear it.

“I can't wear my own clothes. I've been wearing them for weeks. They're filthy.”

“I should have thought,” says Hugh, “you'd be used to that.”

“Your mother,” she tries appealing to his sense, “has – something's wrong, Hugh. You must be able to see. She's locked me in here. It's not right.”

He's standing over her now. He's fourteen and heavyset and she'll never be a match for him.

“Have to stop you stealing somehow,” he says.

“Please, Hugh.”

“Well we'll just –” he takes one more step forward, kneels over her, “get you out of those for a start.”

Oh, God.

And she's curled into a ball, muscles tight, hands latched over her head. This can't be. It can't be happening. I'm nine years old. You can't be doing this to me. Please, please, don't do this, please…

He's got his big hands on me. He's got them in, between my arms and my knees, and I can't stop him, he's too strong. He's uncurling me like a woodlouse, pulling me open. I'll kick. Kick him. Kick at his face, get him away from me…

“Ouch,” says Hugh. “You little –”

And now he's right on top, pinning her down. Knees on her hips, hands wrenching at her arms. Don't. God. Help me. What did I do? What did I do? He's – oh, god, he's revolting. He's disgusting. I have to – I can't – please, help me. He's got his knees between my thighs, now, and he's pulling the dress up. He can't. He can't do this. He –

She gets a hand free. Slaps at his face. He slaps her back. Grabs her round the waist and hoists her, drops her on the floor. Lily tries to crawl, tries to get away, feels his hand grip the back of the dress, haul her back toward him. They can do anything, these people, anything, to people like us. I don't stand a – God, get him
off
me!

“Come on, come on, come on,” he says urgently, thickly. “Dirty little –”

Her hand, scrabbling beneath the couch, trying to get purchase, falls on something hard. Grips it. She doesn't know what it is, just that it fits her hand, that it's heavy, that it comes with her as he pulls her backwards. And now she's on her back again, and his face – his face is purple and his pupils are like pinpricks, and he's miles away, somewhere deep inside himself, and he's not thinking at all, not seeing a human being, just intent on –

Lily strikes out. Feels the crack as her weapon connects. Sees as she draws it back, that it's a paperweight, chipped and scratched, made of glass. Hears a strange noise come from his mouth, a sort of wail, an animal, incoherent sound, a babble. His hands loose their grip, clutch at his head. And he slumps. Forward, onto her, pinning her to the floor.

Chapter Fifty-seven

A lovely day. A lovely, lovely day. We're right back on track, Yasmin and me. We like each other again, understand each other. She trusts me, now: knows I'm on her side, knows we can have fun together.
Be
fun together.

Bridget stands in the doorway to Yasmin's room, listens to the sound of her breathing. My child: my beautiful child. Days like this, days when they're together and she's learning, and Yasmin's learning, and she can feel the knowledge pass between them, when they wear themselves out with the cold and the joy of it – these are the days when she know it's going to be all right, when she knows that somehow, despite everything, despite their precipitous situation, despite the past, despite the unknown future, they will be okay. They'll be okay because they have each other, and each other is all they need.

Ten o'clock, and she's already on the verge of sleep. There's steam coming from the bathroom door, carrying with it the fragrance of lavender. She thinks maybe she'll call Carol later, once she's clean and cheerful: let her know that things are all right again. It's been ten days since they last spoke and she can't stay out of phone's reach forever. She'll leave a message, anyway, at least, cancelling last night's cry of despair. Poor Carol. Not fair to put this burden on her, when she's finally getting her own life back.

Bridget pulls the bedroom door almost to, leaving a crack of light to dissipate the darkness within, and walks up the corridor, undoing the belt of her dressing gown as she goes. The flat is toasty. She's whacked the heating up on the assumption that Tom Gordhavo will never notice the cost among that of keeping the pipes in the rest of the house from freezing.

Instead of her usual quick-change, she drops the robe onto the bathroom floor and looks at herself in the mirror as she pins her hair up. It's a long time since I did this, she thinks, not since soon after Yasmin was born, when the shock of the change in my body and Kieran's disgust drove me to scuttle past reflecting surfaces as though they would steal my soul. It's not as bad as I remember. Maybe I've got used to it; maybe it's got better again over the years. My stomach's nothing to write home about, but my breasts are okay – round and soft and welcoming, as breasts should be – and the work here has taken some weight off me, the lifting and carrying and polishing have given me more muscle tone than I had before. My skin's better, too. Away from the pollutants of London air, the relentless burden of worry, it's clearer, less lined, softer; the dark circles under my eyes have begun to recede. She smiles at herself, sees the corners of her mouth dimple.

The bath is almost too hot to bear. Bridget lowers herself in inch by inch, falls back against the back of the tub, and sighs. Inhales deeply and splashes hot oily water over her arms and hands.

The lights go out.

Oh, God damn it. I thought Mark said he'd sorted that out.
Damn
it. Just when I'd got comfortable.

She heaves a heavy sigh and sits up, feels the suck of the water as she levers herself out of the bath. To her eyes, unadjusted after the dazzle, the room is pitch black. She feels her way over the lino, toe by toe, until she finds her dressing gown, discarded in the corner by the sink. After the heat of the bath, the air is cold on her skin, and she knows it's going to be a lot colder down in the main house.

“
Damn
it,” she says again. Feels the sough of towelling on her goose-pimples, ties the belt tight around her. Goes to the kitchen and finds the candle.

The stairs no longer feel alien. Her bare feet know, now, the uneven treads, and the shadows around her no longer hold unknown dangers. She just wants to get back into the bath. Wants to get warm and comfortable again. Is irritated, not timid.

Cold moonlight bathes the ground floor where she has left the curtains unopened. She puts her head into the fuse cupboard and sees that nothing has tripped.

“Oh, God
damn
it,” she says again. It's the outside power lines. They're off the grid for the foreseeable.

“Bums, bums, bums,” she says. Isn't even really aware that she's speaking out loud. Right, well. I'll have to go out to that damn shed and get some wood in for the morning. I'll do it
in
the morning. Just go to bed now. Damn it, why didn't I accept that camping stove? It's going to take forever to get the woodburner up and running in the main kitchen, and we won't be able to have anything hot to eat 'til I do. Hopefully there's enough hot water left, anyway, that I can get a decent hot water bottle out of it. And if the worst comes to the worst, we can just spend the next few days holed up in the living room with a fire.

She goes through to the drawing room to get the spare stock of candles. Big, fat church candles, part-burned and beautiful, left behind by the Aykroyds. It took a lot of elbow grease to get the dribbled wax off the dining room table, but she'll be glad of them now.

Bridget marches smartly, looks neither left nor right. She's less familiar with these rooms by night and the shadows are deeper, longer. She feels the familiar prickle of the hairs on her arms. Curses herself for a superstitious housewife. There's no-one here, Bridget. You
know
there's no-one here.

The candles are where she thought they would be, in the window seat where Yasmin hid all those weeks ago. She lowers her single light into the cavernous space, checks for spiders. Takes three – all she can carry in a single armful – of the candles and starts to make her way back toward the dining room.

As she passes the front door, something catches her eye. Outside. A small splash of light.

Bridget stops. Funny.

The light moves. Skitters over the snow in the front garden, flits up and plays over the windows. She can see it hit the back wall of the dining room from where she stands in the hall.

Torchlight. It's torchlight.

There's someone out there.

The front door is unlocked. So is the back. She's got complacent. She's stopped worrying.

And she knows who it is. Who would be creeping around her house in the snow. In the dark.

Kieran's here.