She screeched the car to a halt on the roundabout and ran across the drive and round to the back of the house. Forcing her legs to move faster than they were able to, she was stumbling over her own feet. Her mind worked overtime as she imagined the state she would find Rosie in. The temperature outside had dropped to -4°C last night. There was no heating, running water or food in the shed. The kettle was empty.
‘Rosie! Rosie!’ she rasped through the door, desperately short of breath.
As she fumbled with the key, struggling to turn it in the rusty lock, she noticed a white piece of paper sticking out of the bottom of the door. Her heart stopped. Filled with dread, she scanned the scribbled note that Rosie had written on the back of a seed packet. Help me, Mummy…
‘Oh God, Rosie!’ she screamed as she scrunched it into her pocket and tried frantically to force the key again and again. She was ready to kick the door down, but then the lock clicked open.
Rosie was curled on the floor under Mira’s tartan blanket, her lips blue, her teeth and bones chattering.
‘Oh my child, oh my Lord above.’
‘Thirsty,’ she croaked.
Mira shook a watering can, finding a small amount of water to pour into a mug, which she put to Rosie’s shivery lips. As Rosie sipped, Mira pressed her fingers onto Rosie’s wrist, to measure her pulse. She counted. The child’s steady heartbeat and the process of counting calmed her. The panic subsided. Wisps of relief seeped into Mira’s consciousness. Gradually, her own breathing became normal. She sat there with her, for a few beats, stroking her forehead, aware now that Rosie was going to be well.
‘Let’s get you home, Rosie Rabbit.’
Mira scooped up Rosie’s juddering body and carried her across the garden.
Barry came out and trotted next to her. ‘Is she okay?’
The sound of his weedy voice curdled her stomach.
‘She’ll be fine once she’s warmed up,’ she spat back at him.
Weighed down by the child’s body, she staggered on. With each step, she became more and more fearful of letting Rosie go. She braced herself for the abuse she would receive from Gemma and Peter.
She looked down at this beautiful child, clinging to her for strength in such a dear, trusting manner, and she recognised the terrible errors she had made. Rosie’s tantrums might have been coming from Rosie’s mouth, but the real cry for help had been coming from Mira’s past. By confusing the two, Mira had put Rosie in danger. She had torn a family apart. She did not deserve Rosie’s trust.
When Peter and Gemma opened the door to her, Gemma’s face crumpled and she let out a cry so piercing and full of heartache that Mira almost collapsed with Rosie in her arms still.
As Peter took her from Mira, Rosie reached out for Gemma. Her weak arms wrapped themselves around her mother’s neck while Gemma kissed her daughter’s face until there wasn’t an inch of skin that hadn’t been touched by her love.
‘Thank you, thank you,’ Peter choked. ‘Thank you for finding her.’
‘But it was my fault!’ Mira cried, stepping back from them, waiting for retribution. ‘I locked the shed, I wasn’t thinking, she was in there and... oh, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry for everything.’
Gemma’s pale and drawn expression hardened. ‘She’s safe now. Thank you for bringing her home,’ she stated tersely.
Her gaze returned to Rosie’s face, her wide smile returned, full of happiness and gratitude and forgiveness. Through that smile, Mira recognised Gemma’s absolute devotion to Rosie. Beads of sweat broke out across Mira’s forehead, from the exertion of carrying Rosie, and from the searing sense of shame. Gemma’s dignified restraint was worse than a punch in the stomach would have been.
Peter took Rosie from Gemma. In a huddle, they began to move inside. Mira watched on, at a loss, fixed to the spot. But before Gemma had a chance to slip through the door, Mira touched her shoulder and Gemma spun around as though ready to throw that punch.
Mira spoke hurriedly but gravely, ‘I’m not asking for your forgiveness and I don’t blame you either if you never give it, but if I could explain… I don’t know how to say it… I’m not making excuses, but nobody looked out for me when I was a girl and I thought if I could look out for Rosie, it would make up for it somehow. I’m sorry, so sorry,’ Mira paused, trying to hold back the tears. ‘If I could take it back… Oh… I’m sorry… I tried to save Rosie when I should’ve tried to save me. I’m talking nonsense. Sorry, I’ll go.’
Gemma opened her lips, as though poised to say something, but they pursed again, tears gathering above her lashes.
‘Goodbye Mira,’ Gemma said.
Faced with a closed door, Mira murmured to herself, ‘Yes, sorry, yes, I just wanted to… Yes, I’ll leave you alone now.’
Humbled and chastened, Mira turned away, to return to her own home next door, as though she was drawing away from them, up into the sky, pulling back the lens of a camera from close-up to wide angle. She found herself looking at the bigger picture. They were her next-door neighbours, but their stories were miles apart. She had her own life to focus on now. She had her own child to find. And his letter was waiting for her on the desk.
* * *
Barry was standing by the bureau. His eyebrow and top lip twitched in unison as though they were connected by a thread. Oliver’s letter was pinched between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand.
Mira sensed danger. On her return from next door she and Barry had drunk a finger of brandy and eaten some sponge cake together. She had tried to talk to him about what had happened, but he had been snippy with her and she had found it difficult to seek out his eye contact.
‘Can I have that?’ she demanded now.
The letter was hanging at his thigh. It was like seeing a baby dangling out of a window in the arms of a mad-man. She knew she would have to be cautious with him, gently-gently wheedle and sweet-talk him into giving it up.
‘Let’s put it away, eh?’
‘I should never have given this to you,’ he said. He waved it in the air carelessly.
Mira wanted to lurch at him, to snatch it, but the risk was too great. The letter held precious information. There would be no other record of his contact. She tried to remember Oliver Ivory’s address, but she could not.
‘It’s my property,’ Mira stated.
‘Because of this, you almost killed that girl, love,’ he said, flicking at the paper.
‘What happened to Rosie was an accident. It has nothing to do with the letter.’
‘It has everything to do with it.’
‘Give it to me,’ Mira ordered, thrusting her hand out for it.
‘NO! I WILL NOT!’ he bellowed. The flesh on his face shook. ‘I forbid you to contact him.’
‘What gives you the right to forbid me, Barry?’ A door in her brain opened and years of stored-up animosity began to spill out of her mouth. ‘You know nothing about real life. You’ve cut yourself off from the rest of the world, just like your dear mother did, keeping this fusty old house “just so”, and planting geraniums for all those bored housewives, and whinging on at me when they have petty complaints about molehills on their crochet lawns…’ She wiped her mouth of spittle. ‘And yet somehow you think you know what’s best for me? I had a life before you. I carried a baby in this belly. I’m OLIVER’S MOTHER, for crying out loud!’ She was panting and sweating so hard, she thought she might die.
‘You’re not his mother anymore. You gave him up!’ Barry shouted back, clutching the letter to his chest.
Mira squeezed her eyes shut. ‘I won’t hear it!’ She held her hands over her ears and yelped.
A moment later, she felt his hand patting her shoulder and smelt his breath as he spoke, ‘My Mira Meerkat, leave it be. It’s too late now. There, there now.’
Her eyes shot open. She looked down to his other hand for the letter. It wasn’t there.
Malevolence swelled in her veins.
‘Where is the FUCKING LETTER, Barry?’