Chapter 26
26
I t wasn’t that Caro hadn’t been aware of time passing. How could she not have been? The scene in front of her had changed so much. All the footballers had long since gone home, grabbing handlebars from a heap of wheels and spokes, their faces flushed with the happiness of exertion. Shadows of birch trees had crept longer and then faded, swallowed up by the silent wave of darkness. And all around small pools of white had bloomed as one by one the perimeter lights had come on, clouds of gnats swirling in their glow. But she’d only known this as a movie goer knows the cinema screen. It was large and all encompassing, but that didn’t mean it was real or had anything to do with her. It didn’t mean that she could participate in it. No, she had been as aware of the passage of time as a stone is aware of its erosion by water. If anyone had stopped, had leaned in, and asked, How long have you been here? she couldn’t have answered.
No one had.
Ben had slept on and on, and the desire not to disturb his slumber had been so strong that she had simply kept walking. Past all the nearest, most recognisable landmarks until she was in an area that she barely knew, and wouldn’t have recognised anyway because she had stopping seeing.
Her feet had throbbed and shooting pains travelled up the front of her shins – too many years pounding hard pavements in high heels – but these physical symptoms Caro had failed to recognise as her own. Her mind was a mirrored lake that reflected only the twilight, the rocking of the pram’s suspension locking her into its rhythm, one step after another, after another, after another…
If she hadn’t taken a turn into a gravelled side road she might have walked off the edge of the earth. But the gravelled side road had come to an end as it opened out into this playing field. And it was here that, for the first time since leaving Helen’s house, Caro had finally stopped walking and almost woken up.
She’d become aware of a low brick building with a covered porch, in front of which were two football pitches. She’d seen that the pitches were filled with kids and the benches under the porch roof were filled with parents. And she’d seen another pram. So it had been as natural as the first turning of the first leaves for Caro to walk up, put the brake on the pram and sit herself down on the end of the bench.
Almost as soon as she had, an older woman, in sweatshirt and jeans, sitting further along had shuffled across and peered into the pram. Her eyes scrunching as she smiled.
‘Gorgeous. Just gorgeous.’ And leaning back, the woman had let her hands rest in her lap as she nodded at the pitch. ‘That’s my grandson there.’
Caro had turned to her. The woman’s hands were covered in large liver spots, galaxies of freckles.
‘Oh,’ she said, and put a hand out to the pram to keep it rocking. ‘He’s my son.’
And although she had felt the tide of surprise that lapped towards her, it was very quickly over and so easily ignored. Not another word was exchanged. The woman turned back to the football pitch and, keeping a hand on the pram, Caro had leaned against the pebbly hardness of the pavilion and closed her eyes. She’d told a lie, but it felt such a soft lie that when a moment later she opened her eyes and saw that the sky hadn’t fallen down on her, she allowed herself to settle into its comfortable contour. And if any kind of shape could be discerned from the swell of emotion that moved inside her, it would have been a house shape. A house in which she could sit, for a while, with her pretend baby and her pretend life. A toe in an ocean she could never be a part of.
* * *
The match had finished long ago.
Adults had stood and brushed themselves down, called out greetings and instructions. Creaked knees and flexed spines, coughed and moved through the dregs of twilight, shuffling on to tomorrow. All around like fireflies, kids had run, loose-limbed, panting like dogs, shouting and laughing and talking, the sound of their voices flutes in the air that trailed away thinner and more distant, until the last notes – see you tomorrow – were silenced.
And still she sat, and still Ben had slept.
‘Caro?’
Slowly, Caro turned to the voice that had come through the darkness, like a sound from another dimension. In a way, it made perfect sense that there should be a voice. Just a moment ago she’d heard first a car, then a door slam, then footsteps on the pathway. But with reality still stretched paper thin, it had been easy for her to slip back across to the dream state. To turn away from those sounds and watch the black trees move silently in the night breeze.
‘Caro,’ the voice said again. ‘Is it OK if I call you that?’
She lifted her head. The man saying her name was mostly a silhouette, but still she felt she recognised him. Something about his shadowed face made her feel that she knew him and so she didn’t feel worried. In fact, she felt very safe.
‘I’m Kay’s friend.’ The man tapped his chest. ‘Shook,’ he said. ‘We met at Kay’s. Can I sit down?’ He nodded at the space beside her on the empty bench.
Caro didn’t move. She watched as he walked around to the other side of her and sat down. Shook. She did remember him. He had lovely blue eyes, that’s what she remembered, but when she turned to look at him it was too dark to see them. ‘What time is it?’ she said.
Shook leaned forward on his knees. ‘It’s late.’
She turned back and looked at the pram. ‘I should be getting back.’
‘I’ll take you.’
‘No need for that…’
But his hand was on her arm. ‘Caro. Do you know where you are?’
Caro opened her mouth; no words came out.
‘You’re at the Memorial Sportsground.’
Caro was still gazing at the pram. ‘What time is it?’ she said again.
‘Let me take you back.’ Shook was on his feet.
‘Libby.’ Caro looked across at the dark and empty football pitch, the memory of something she’d said unspooling in her head. He’s my son… He’s my son… He’s my son. And the voice, the memory of her voice saying those words, was suddenly so loud it deafened her. Libby could hear. Helen could hear. Everyone could hear what she’d said. How long had she been gone? What time was it? She turned to Shook, her face paper white. ‘What time is it?’ she said. ‘What time is it? What time is it?’ And with each repetition her voice grew shriller, and her panic multiplied.