The playground, in the shadow of the castle, is a pleasant grassy space. Approaching through the trees, Judy has plenty of time to observe, and she has to admit that Debbie is doing a good job of supervising Michael in the sandpit while still keeping an eye on the boys on the swings.
Careful, Mikey, she is saying, not in your mouth.
Judy suppresses a perfectly irrational urge to say that Michael can eat sand if he wants to. Also to scream, Dont call him Mikey. She never shortens her sons name, though Darren often refers to him as Mike.
Hi, Debbie.
Hi, Judy. You took me by surprise. Look Mikey, its Mummy.
Michael looks at her solemnly. Hes a silent child, not like Ruths Kate, who was practically talking in sentences at a year old. Michael has a few favourite words, but mostly he prefers to observe. Like his dad, Judy cant help thinking. Now he raises his arms to Judy and she lifts him up, burying her face in his dark hair. He smells gorgeous – sand and grass and crayons.
Ill take him home now, she says. Have you got his stuff?
Like most children in day care, Michael travels with more equipment than a travelling circus: nappies, spare clothes, comfort blanket, toys. Debbie hands Judy his bag and says cheerfully that shell see her tomorrow.
Bye Judy. Bye Mikey.
Goodbye, says Judy. As she turns away she can hear Debbie singing as she pushes the boys on the swings. Does she like them more than Michael?
Judys love for her son has taken her by surprise. When he was born, a lovely midwife called Linda told her, Youll never know love like it. And she was right. Judy has always distrusted strong emotion. When she studied Wuthering Heights at school she found it cringe-making. I cannot live without my life! I cannot live without my soul! It was all so embarrassing and unnecessary. She has never felt like that about Darren. She loves him, of course she does, but its a calm and adult affair. They have been together since they were sixteen, they know each other inside out, so much so that often they find themselves with nothing to talk about, unless they fall back on discussing the wonders of Michael.
Cathbad was different. Judy has never felt that she knew him at all, but when she thinks back to that first night they spent together – stranded in a snow-bound cottage – her whole body feels as if it is on fire. He was Heathcliff, if you like. The outsider, the figure from the darkness. And you dont plan a future with Heathcliff. Not if youve got any sense, you dont.
Judy and Darren live in a small modern house on the outskirts of the village. Darren has worked hard on the garden and this summer his hanging baskets are a joy to behold. But Judy, taking Michael out of his car seat, thinks that they too are somehow embarrassing. All that red and pink and cascading foliage. These days she prefers grey and blue, cool colours, the accents of winter. She remembers Cathbad appearing out of the snow, cloaked and mysterious. Theres no point dwelling on the past, she tells herself, opening the newly painted front door; this is the present, this is reality. And, as happens so often these days, she realises that she is crying.
Ruth has also collected her child from the childminder and she, too, is home. But unlike Judy, Ruth feels pure satisfaction at being in her own space, alone apart from Kate and Flint who dont count. Feeling slightly guilty (its a lovely afternoon, they should be on the beach), Ruth puts on childrens TV and settles down by the window to read Jemima Greens diaries.
February 5th 1859
Cold day but I have a fire in the parlour which keeps my little birds warm. Worried about Rs chest but have wrapped him in paper which seems to do some good. Visit from Mr G. He is always so good to us. Left five shillings.
Ruth glances across at Kate, wide-eyed in front of Dora the Explorer. What would it be like to have one warm room in the house, no television, none of the unnecessary but necessary adjuncts of modern life? Jemima Greens diary seems almost to have been written in code. Ruth assumes that the little birds were the children, unless Jemima has a particularly tame flock of sparrows. But wrapping up a child in paper? Whats that all about? Ruth reads on.
February 10
Rs chest worse. I can ill afford a doctor but fear one must be consulted. There is a brightness in his cheeks which one does not like to see, it reminds me too grievously of dear sainted A. I will take him to Doctor H tomorrow.
But, if Doctor H was consulted, it was in vain.
February 21
My beloved R is dead. He breathed his last in my arms. Martha and I laid him out and all the children kissed him goodbye. Dear R! A sweeter child never lived. Mr G says that this is why God has taken him but I cannot hold to that view. But Mr G gave me two guineas so I must be grateful. I have written Rs name in The Book.
The Book must be The Book of Dead Babies, currently lying on the sofa between Flint and Kate. Ruth doesnt feel strong enough for The Book right now. Instead, she turns to the page marked by Frank. It is two years after the death of R and now J preoccupies Jemimas thoughts. Ruth assumes that J is Joshua Barnet.
October 10
I do think that my little J is an angel. No wonder his mama does not want to give him up. He is the goodest baby but occasionally there is an absence which disturbs me. J will stare into the distance, eyelashes fluttering, as if he has seen a vision. Mr G says some children are not long for this world – they see the angels and long to be with them. I pray this is not true. When he is in one of his absent moments, J will smack his lips as if he is tasting heavenly nectar. Maybe it is his mothers milk which he misses though I give him milk sweetened with sugar. Mr G kindly gave me a shilling to buy more Godfreys Cordial.
Ruth is starting to dislike Mr G with his handouts and religious truisms. Is he just a philanthropist (she imagines him in the Victorian tradition with tall hat and pained expression) or something more sinister?
November 1
Js mother is a cold woman. Today J would not go to her but cried for me. The mother became angry and said that she would take my angel away from me. I begged her to leave him here where he is happy. She said that she was seeking new lodgings and when she had found somewhere suitable would call for her boy. Poor J clung to me when she had gone and his eyelids fluttered more than ever. Has he seen the angels?
Ruth reads this with mixed feelings. The first of November is Kates birthday, which makes it worse. Jemima does seem to love the child but Ruth finds herself identifying strongly with Joshuas mother. There have been a few occasions – not many, but seared upon Ruths heart – when Kate has not wanted to leave Sandra. Ruth remembers how, seeing Kate clinging to the childminder, a corrosive anger rose within her. Shes stealing my childs affections, she had thought, ignoring the obvious fact that it was good that Kate liked Sandra and wanted to spend time with her. But she should like Ruth more. Jemima Green called Joshua her angel, but hes not her angel, hes his mothers angel.
On November 18 is the following entry:
Today my angel left this life. He had seemed perfectly contented in the morning. His nose had bled a little but this is not unusual. I staunched it with a wet cloth. Then, just after luncheon, his eyes began fluttering. I thought he was having one of his absent moments and I went to hold him, as this often helps. But oh so suddenly his little body went rigid in my arms. I called for Martha but by the time she arrived he was gone, his face so angelic in its stillness. I was heart-broken, it was some hours before Martha could wrest the child from me. But as we laid him out I came to a decision. Mr G shall not have him. She shall not have him. I shall lay him with Emily and Susannah, where Rowan will stand guard. Then I will always know where he is. Saint Michael will protect my angel child.
Hola! calls Dora from the screen. Hola! shouts Kate. Even Flint looks as if he might conceivably say something in Spanish. Ruth looks back at the diary, at the faded copperplate hand. It occurs to her that Jemima Green wrote very well for someone who had little formal schooling. What did Frank say about her early years? Shell have to ask him again. She turns to Franks note.
Think J may have been suffering from epilepsy, he has written, Symptoms of petit mal include gazing vacantly into space, fluttering eyes and involuntary movements of the lips. Interestingly these fits are sometimes called absence seizures and Jemima calls them absent moments. It sounds as if J may have had a more serious fit and died, perhaps as a result of choking. The way she describes his body going rigid is typical of grand mal.
So Joshua may have died of natural causes but Ruth cant help feeling that there are still a great number of unanswered questions. Who is Mr G? Why does Jemima say Mr G shall not have him? It sounds as if Jemima kept Joshuas body from his mother (Ruth has her own feelings about this) but where did she bury him? Who are Emily and Susannah? Where is the rowan tree that will stand guard? She looks out of the window, across the miles of grey-green grass. She could ring Frank and discuss the diaries (she still has his number from the accident) but something stops her. Frank obviously wants to recruit her to Jemima Greens cause but Ruth still feels reluctant to excavate this particular site. Mother Hook may be innocent but the truth is that Ruth is still afraid of her. She doesnt like the talk of little birds and angel children. Her skin crawls at the thought of laying out children, combing their ringletted hair and preparing them for death. She knows that Victorians often commissioned portraits of their dead children and this knowledge makes her heartily glad that she was born in 1968. And as for The Book of Dead Babies … Ruth wants to throw the dreadful thing into the North Sea.