I put my husband on the shelf, I whispered in the dream, and he suggested I lock my daughter away forever.
Let your girl stay with your mother, Peter said, his voice echoing down a hallway that smelled of rainsoaked cobblestones. We need time to nestle into each other, and the child is a knot in the rope. Just take her to Mums for a few days, will you?
Peter, weve turned this over a hundred times, I sighed, the words drifting like paper boats on a dark river. Im not giving her up for a day or even an hour.
Its not giving up! he winced, his brow folding like a wilted rose. Goodness, Claire, Im no monster. Think about itwere both thirtyfive, finally found each other and here we are. I want to roam with you, take you to the West End, to a proper pub, to sunrise picnics on the 12th of June, then lounge in bed until twilight. With a child, that?
Impossible? I teased, the dreams edges sharpening. Impossible to be happy with a child?
Peters mouth stayed shut, but the flicker in his eyes told me Id hit the mark.
Hed entered my life a few months before, bumpingliterally into me at the dairy aisle of a Sainsburys in Camden. He nudged me, turned a brilliant shade of crimson, mumbled apologies, then offered a coffee as a treaty for the moralphysical damage. I accepted. His smile was disarming, a halfmoon in a night sky.
He courted me with the elegance of a ballroom dance, and my daughter, Ethel, warmed to him like a sunkissed meadow. He played board games with her, taught her to glide on rollers, even helped with homework when the numbers swam like fish in a pond.
After three years of desolate solitude, his appearance was a draught of water in a desert of silence.
Three months after our first encounter, I said yes to his proposal of hand and heart. My mother, Martha, pursed her lips, warning that I barely knew him. But I was certainI knew his kindness, his care, his love.
Three weeks ago, Peter first floated the idea of sending Ethel temporarily to my mothers flat. At first he spoke of school holidays, then hinted that it would be nice if
Think about it, he droned, the schools good, the air is cleaner, and.
And shes a bother to you, I halfjoked, a thin smile curling.
He didnt argue. He stared at me, a silent statue, and that silence gnawed at me. Yet love had its own gravity, and I told myself it would pass; after all, he had no children of his own.
By the way, Ethel isnt just a kidshes my golden treasure, eight years old, bright and beautiful. From my first marriage to Andrew, who now has twin boys, she remains my jewel. He still visits on weekends, takes her to the cinema, spoils her. Everything, as proper as a tea set.
One afternoon Ethel caught a chill, her temperature climbing. Like any sick child, she sulked. Peter grew sournot overtly, but I saw the furrow in his brow whenever the cough echoed from her bedroom, the way his eyes rolled when I reached for the thermometer.
Maybe your mum could come over? he suggested at breakfast, his voice a lazy river. Shes retired, nothing to do.
I doubt my mother would understand if I asked her to tend to a sick child when Im already here, I replied.
Peter muttered something under his breath, a ripple I dismissed as fatigue.
Soon the little thingsEthels toys scattered like constellations, cartoon noises blaring, her giggleirritated him. When she brought friends home, his temper boiled.
Claire, enough! he exploded. I work all week and I need a Sunday that isnt a circus!
Where am I supposed to stash her? I snapped back. In the cupboard? Tie her up with rope and a gag?
At least take her to the park, if nothing else!
I had to improvise so that his highness could finally catch some sleep.
When the school holidays arrived, Peter announced hed bought a seaside getaway for two.
And Ethel? I asked.
Shell go to her grandmothers, thats all.
Peter, but I tried to protest, were a family.
He looked at me with a strange softness and said, Claire, this is our honeymoon. No child belongs on a honeymoon.
We never went to the coast. I refused to leave without my daughter; Peter sulked and returned the tickets with a theatrical flourish. He lingered in that melancholy for a week, then seemed to thaw.
One night I asked, Do you want kids of your own?
Of course! he brightened. A boy maybe two!
And Ethel? I pressed. Shes yours now, too.
He fell silent, then murmured cautiously, Claire, you know whats mine is mine. I try I buy her toys, I take her to clubs
Right, I thought, hes lending a hand, as if it were a favor.
A few days later Ethel brought home a certificate from schoolfirst place in a recitation contest. She beamed, waited all evening for Peter to see it. He arrived, his face clouded by a work mishap, brushed the paper away.
Later, Ethel, later youll show your nonsense, he said dryly.
Her eyes dimmed, the sparkle fading like a dying lantern. She slipped the certificate into her room, the silence heavy as fog.
Peter, what on earth? I demanded. Why speak to her like that?
Claire, can we not? Im exhausted! I dont have time for childrens awards!
Its not just a childs award. Its our daughters achievement!
She isnt my daughter! he blurted, then stopped.
We sat in a quiet room, the wallpaper a pattern of tiny roses Id chosen long before he arrived, counting themone, two, three
So what does that mean? I asked calmly.
Peter covered his face with his hands.
Claire, Im sorry. I I didnt mean it that way. Listen, lets be honest. I love youmadly. I thought, in time, wed live for ourselves, then have our own children together, a shared future. Ethel maybe she stays with her grandmother, or we could let her father take her forever, since legally hes her dad.
The words slammed into me like a cold wave.
Get out, I whispered, the house trembling.
What?
Out. From my house. Now.
Claire, are you losing your mind? Peter stammered. This is our flat!
This is my flat, I said, voice like ice. It came from my mother. Youre no longer welcome.
He left, calling me ungrateful and foolish, promising Id regret it.
I never regretted it. Not once.
Later, I thought about how I could have been so wrong. I realized I had been seeing only what I wanted to see, building an ideal man in my mind, ignoring the red flags. I was tired of solitude, yearning, even for a moment, to be loved. The dream faded, the London fog swallowing the edges, leaving me awake with the echo of a quiet lullaby.
