The safe house

‘That’s it, so we don’t forget. Where do we start?’

‘The front door.’ Elsie was wriggling happily on the sofa, one Marmite hand in mine.

‘Right! Let’s take off the garland of leaves. It’s way past Christmas. What should we put there instead, if you’re having a party?’

‘I know, balloons!’

‘Balloons: a red one and a green one and a yellow one and a blue one. Maybe they’ll have faces on them!’ In my mind, I had an image of a line of little girls in their pink and yellow party dresses, all there for Elsie. I remembered the parties I’d been to as a child: sticky chocolate cake and pink-iced biscuits, crisps and fizzy drinks; pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey and pass-the-parcel so that everyone won something, dancing games, Simon Says, and at the end a party bag containing one small pack of Smarties, one plastic thing that would be adored for an hour and forgotten for ever, a whistle, a flat shiny balloon. Elsie should have them all, all those cheap and tacky things. ‘And what’s next?’

‘The doormat, the doormat where Fing put a glass of milk.’

‘Yes, well, I think we’ve knocked over that milk by now.’ Elsie giggled. ‘What shall we put there instead?’

‘Um, what can go on a doormat, Mummy?’

‘Well, there’s someone we are very fond of who’s creeping nearer to your Marmite all the time so mind out, and he likes to sleep on the doormat.’

‘Anatoly!’

‘He can be our watch-cat. What shall we put in the kitchen? How about something we’ve cooked?’

Elsie jumped up and down, so that the plate slithered and I caught the toast stickily on my palm. ‘My cake! My cake in the shape of a horse house.’

I remembered. The one at a friend’s birthday party with the walls made of chocolate flakes and plastic horses in the middle, and Elsie had been sick half-way through. I hugged her.

‘Horse cake. Now, what’s on the TV?’ She puckered her brow. ‘How about my birthday present to you ? Something you’ve wanted for a long time, maybe something that sings.’

Her body went still.

‘Really, Mummy, do you promise? Can I really?’

‘We’ll choose it together this weekend. A canary on top of the TV then, singing away.’

‘Can I call him Yellowy?’

‘No. Now, what shall we put on the stairs?’

She was firm here: ‘I want Thelma and Kirsty and Sarah and Granny and Grandpa, because they’re all coming to my party. And that girl I played with today at school. And the other one too, the one you saw me with. I want to send them invitations.’

‘All right, all your party guests on the stairs. What’s in the bath?’

‘That’s easy. My red boat with the propeller that never sinks, not even in big waves.’

‘Good.’ Another boat sailed into my mind, broken and tipping into the crested sea. ‘Where next?’

‘My bedroom.’

‘What shall we put in your bed then, Elsie?’

‘Can we put my teddy there? Can we get him out of the packing box so he doesn’t miss the party?’

‘Of course. I should never have put him there in the first place. And last of all, I know what’s in my bed.’

‘What?’

‘We are. You and me. We’re lying in bed together wide awake and the party’s over and all your guests have gone and we’re talking about all the birthdays you’re going to have.’

‘Are you very old, Mummy?’

‘No, just grown-up, not old.’

‘So you’re not going to die soon?’

‘No, I’m going to live for a long time.’

‘When I’m as old as you, will you be dead then?’

‘Maybe you will have children then, and I’ll be a granny.’

‘Can we always live together, Mummy?’

‘As long as you want to.’

‘And can I watch a video now?’

‘Yes.’

I shut the door on Mary Poppins and went into the kitchen, where I pulled the window wide open. The sound of London invaded the room: schoolchildren on their way home, giggling or quarrelling, syncopated music from a ghetto-blaster, the roar and impatient rev of car engines, a horn pumping into the stop-start queue, an ignored and insistent alarm, sirens in the distance, overhead a plane. I breathed in the smell of honeysuckle, exhaust fumes, frying garlic, urban heat, the smell of the city.

She was out there somewhere, in that wonderful ungraspable mess, out in the crowd. Perhaps she was close by or perhaps she was gone for ever. I wondered if I would ever see her again. Perhaps one day, across a street, or in a queue at an airport or across a square in a foreign town, I’d glimpse a smooth face tilted upwards in the way I knew so well and stop and shake my head and walk quickly on. I’d see her in my dreams, smiling sweetly at me still. Her freedom was a small price to pay for Elsie’s safety. And I’d look at the newspapers. She had escaped but she hadn’t escaped with the money, not any of it. What would she do now? I closed my eyes and breathed in, out, in, out, to the roar of London. Danny had died but we – me and Elsie – we had come through. That was something.

The sound of Mary Poppins singing brightly to the children and to my child drifted in from the living room. I pushed open the door. Elsie was sitting back on the sofa, legs tucked up under her knees, glaring at the screen. I knelt beside her and she patted me absent-mindedly on the head.

‘Can you watch this with me, Mummy, the way Fing used to?’ So I stayed and watched, until the very end.

The following morning, the underground was more than usually crowded. I felt hot inside all my layers of clothing, and I tried to distract myself by thinking about other things as I swayed against the bodies and the train clattered through the darkness. I thought about how my hair needed cutting. I could book it for lunch-time. I tried to remember if there was enough food in the house for tonight, or maybe we could get a takeaway. Or go dancing. I remembered I hadn’t taken my pill this morning and must do it as soon as I got to work. The thought of the pill made me think of the IUD and yesterday’s meeting, the memory of which had left me more unwilling than usual to get out of bed this morning.

A skinny young woman with a large, red-faced baby squeezed her way down the train. No one stood up for her, and she stood with her child on her angular hip, held in place by the bodies all round her. Only the baby’s hot, cross face was exposed. Sure enough, it soon started yelling, hoarse, drawn-out wails that made its red cheeks purple, but the woman ignored it, as if she was beyond noticing. She had a glazed expression on her pallid face. Although her baby was dressed for an expedition to the South Pole, she wore just a thin dress and an unzipped anorak. I tested myself for maternal instinct. Negative. Then I looked round at all the men and women in suits. I leaned down to a man in a lovely cashmere coat, till I was near enough to see his spots, then said softly into his ear: ‘Excuse me. Can you make room for this woman?’ He looked puzzled, resistant. ‘She needs a seat.’

He stood up and the mother shuffled over and wedged herself between two Guardians. The baby continued to wail, and she continued to stare ahead of her. The man could feel virtuous now.

I was glad to get out at my station, though I wasn’t looking forward to the day ahead. When I thought about work, a lethargy settled over me, as if all my limbs were heavy and the chambers of my brain musty. It was icy on the streets, and my breath curled into the air. I wrapped my scarf more firmly around my neck. I should have worn a hat. Maybe I could nip out in a coffee-break and buy some boots. All around me people were hurrying to their different offices, heads down. Jake and I should go away somewhere in February, somewhere hot and deserted. Anywhere that wasn’t London. I imagined a white beach and a blue sky and me slim and tanned in a bikini. I’d been seeing too many advertisements. I always wore a one-piece. Oh, well. Jake had been on at me about saving