The Stolen Child Read online

  She jumps down from the bed.

  ‘It’s a surprise for Ben,’ she says.

  ‘Evie. It’s Ben’s party.’ I try not to shout. ‘Why are you doing this when you could be downstairs joining in?’ Is it really something she thinks Ben will like (he probably will) or is she being deliberately naughty and attention-seeking because it’s his birthday? I sigh. ‘What is the matter with you?’

  She shakes her long brown hair over her shoulder and frowns at me.

  ‘You always ruin everything,’ she mutters.

  ‘Come with me, right this minute.’

  I take her hand and pull her along, giving her a little push towards Sophie when we get back to the sitting room. I’ll have to talk to her after the party. I call Ollie but it goes straight to voicemail. I leave him an angry message.

  An hour or so later, all the children are sitting in a line at small wobbly tables and chairs that I’ve borrowed from several parents. They’ve exhausted themselves with pass-the-parcel and musical chairs, they’ve burnt off their sugar rush and they’re reaching the end of lunch. It’s suddenly quiet. Even the parents have stopped talking. I light the candles on the birthday cake and carry it over. Late summer sunlight, angling off the steep moors behind us, slants through the French windows. The children look up and start to sing.

  Ben is shouting, ‘Cake!’ over and over.

  He’s my longed-for son, the one I felt I’d waited a lifetime to meet, the baby I thought I’d never have, the child I love so much I feel my heart might burst. I’m singing and smiling and my eyes are filling with tears, and then I look up and catch sight of Evie. She’s standing, half in the shadows, where the old dining-room wall used to be, wearing a dress I’ve never seen before. She’s watching me and she’s scowling.

  I set the cake down and Ben rounds his rosy cheeks and blows. He looks like a pudgy blond cherub from a Michelangelo fresco. One candle flickers and wavers and Ben tries again, showering spit over the cake. Everyone cheers. Evie folds her arms over her thin chest. She’s scrawny, with bony knees. Her hair is dark, her skin is the colour of milky tea and her eyes are streaked green and brown. She doesn’t look like anyone else in my family. Normally adoption agencies like to match children to parents who could be their real ones – but after the initial shock, it never bothered me – she’s my daughter and I love her. Then Ben arrived, long after we’d given up trying to have kids of our own, with his eyes like his dad’s and a dimple in his chin the same as mine. Maybe it’s started to matter to her. I want to hug her tightly, but Ben shouts, ‘Chocolate! Mine!’ and suddenly I’m surrounded by toddlers sticking fat fingers into the icing and grabbing sugar stars.

  Everyone leaves shortly afterwards, clutching cake in sticky napkins and a party bag, the parents hyped on caffeine.

  ‘That lasted a lifetime,’ I say to Gill and Andy, laughing. ‘Will you stay for a glass of wine?’

  Gill hesitates. Her free time must be so precious, but Andy is already looking for glasses. I pull a chilled bottle of Chardonnay out of the fridge and unscrew it. The first few sips go straight to my head. I didn’t manage a proper breakfast, just Ben and Evie’s leftover toast, and since then I’ve been snacking on a healthy combination of Gill’s fruit cake and Hula Hoops.

  ‘Leave it. I’ll do it later,’ I tell Gill, who’s started to pick up hummus-smeared plates.

  I throw open the French windows and we walk out into the garden. It’s such a gorgeous day.

  Our house is the last one on Rombald’s Lane. It’s tall and thin and made from the dark millstone grit that all the factories round here are built from. The garden is long and thin too, and at the end of it is a small bridleway that runs past the golf course, and beyond that is Rombald’s Moor, the famous Cow and Calf rocks on the skyline, threatening to topple over and tumble down the hill.

  Andy cradles Ellen on one hip, holding his glass with the other hand. Sophie, overcome with tiredness, folds herself onto Gill’s knee as she sits at the trestle table. Bella’s tail thumps against my leg. Ben races around on a bright yellow digger. I’m relieved it’s over and glad it went well. I try not to let my annoyance with Ollie mar this perfect moment, this small oasis of calm. It’s early afternoon, but it feels much later. It’s as if autumn is already upon us and yet it’s still August. The last day of August. My late summer baby, I think, looking at Ben, his halo of hair gleaming golden in the sunshine.

  ‘She’s been a bit out of sorts,’ says Andy.

  I think he’s talking about Sophie, but he nods his head towards Evie, who’s playing at the far end of the narrow garden.

  ‘She’s probably just jealous of all the attention Ben had today,’ says Gill.

  ‘You could be right. It was okay when he was a baby and he was small and cute but now he takes her toys, wants to play with her—’

  ‘Tell me about it! She thinks she’s too grown up to be with a little one,’ says Gill, giving Sophie an affectionate squeeze.

  I look at Andy. He knows Evie better than Gill does. He wrinkles his brow. He doesn’t think that’s the real reason for Evie’s behaviour.

  ‘She has been asking a lot of questions about her parents too. Her biological ones.’ I lower my voice and hope Sophie doesn’t understand what we’re talking about.

  ‘Yeah, she’s at that age where she could be starting to think about the, you know, her place in your family, why she looks different.’

  He looks awkward as if he might offend me.

  ‘I hope I haven’t been spending too much time with Ben,’ I say, biting my lip.

  Gill snorts. ‘You could spend twenty-four hours a day with them and it wouldn’t be enough.’

  ‘Like you do, love?’ Andy says lightly.

  I take my glass of wine and walk over to Evie. There’s a tree in the corner – I’m not sure what kind – but it has a fat, knobbly trunk and low branches. Evie loves it and is always making dens in its split innards; now she’s swinging from one of the branches and talking to herself. I can’t remember if she ate anything at the party.

  ‘Evie, sweetheart,’ I call.

  She jumps and turns. Her eyes are wide apart and she looks like a startled animal, a cat maybe; there are grass stains on her knees. She’s wearing a blue and silver dress – I think it’s a copy of Elsa’s, the princess in Frozen. I didn’t buy it for her. I want to ask her where she got it from, but I don’t want to upset her. She’s frowning at me. Maybe she borrowed it from a friend? I hold out my arms, trying not to spill my wine, but she backs away.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Nothing. I’m playing a secret game. I don’t want you to come over here.’

  ‘Can I play too?’

  ‘It wouldn’t be a secret then, would it?’

  I change tack. ‘Did you enjoy the party?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘I’m sorry you didn’t have fun. You love icing cakes and parties! Weren’t you feeling well?’

  ‘No! Can’t you even give me five minutes peace?’

  I’m startled to hear Ollie’s phrase being repeated by a seven-year-old and I want to laugh, but that would make her feel undignified.

  I carefully set my wine glass down on the lawn and it promptly topples over, spilling my Chardonnay. I lunge at Evie and grab her and tickle her, trying to dispel her bad mood. She screams and kicks and not in a playful way. And then she bites me. I cry out and let go. I look down at the wet patch on my shirt and feel raised welts of teeth marks in my skin. I’m about to tell her off when Ollie steps into the garden.

  ‘Hello, everyone,’ he calls. ‘Christ, it looks like we’ve been hit by a tornado. How can a few toddlers make that amount of mess?’

  I follow his gaze and see that from one end to the other, the house is a chaos of wrapping paper and bits of rubber from burst balloons. The mini chairs are upended, there are heaps of messy plates on every surface and half-eaten bits of pineapple and sausages and crushed crisps strewn across the floor. He’s frowning – presu
mably because we haven’t cleared up and we’re out here drinking wine. I scowl at him – he can hardly turn up after the party’s over and complain about the state of the dining room. I want to ask him why the hell he didn’t get back in time, but I need to deal with our daughter first.

  ‘Evie. . .’ I say.

  She runs away from me, her shiny dress slippery against my palm as I reach for her. When she’s upset she normally goes to Ollie, but she races past him and into the house. I hear her clatter up the stairs. Those high-heeled silver sandals aren’t hers either.

  ‘I’m sorry I’m late,’ says Ollie. ‘Work was manic. We’ve got a deal going through and I couldn’t get away.’ He raises his eyebrows at me. ‘What’s the matter with Evie?’

  ‘She’s—’

  ‘Being Evie?’

  Ollie retrieves my toppled glass and refills Andy’s. He doesn’t catch my eye. He doesn’t want me to make a fuss or tell him off for missing the party in front of our friends.

  ‘Cheers!’ he says, chinking a bottle of beer against Andy’s glass, and he kisses Gill on the cheek.

  He’s right. I should let it go. He said he couldn’t help it. And Evie is just a little jealous. She’ll be fine after she’s had a slice of cake and Ollie’s made a fuss of her. Ben has had a brilliant time. My husband hands me my glass, full to the brim with green-gold wine, and I stifle my resentment and attempt to smile at him. I mustn’t lose sight of what we have – two beautiful children; an amazing house that I never, in a million years, thought we’d be able to afford; Gill and Andy, my best friends – and this perfect day. I take a deep breath and feel my shoulders relax. I can smell the faintest trace of heather, drifting down from the moor.

  I don’t get Ben to bed until almost 8.30 p.m. That’s after clearing up the detritus from the party, unravelling the carnage Evie had created in his bedroom, two hours of putting him in his bed, finding him wandering down the landing, cuddling him, tucking him back in. In the end, I ignored him and he fell asleep curled round his tractor at the bottom of the flight of stairs to Evie’s bedroom. I carry him gently back to his own room. For a moment I kneel by his bed and rest my head on the duvet. I tell myself it’s just to check he’s still sleeping. He snores loudly and snuffles and grunts like a hedgehog. I’m so tired I could stay here. Ben has dropped his afternoon nap and, because he’s sleepy, he’s cranky in the afternoons and I have no respite – no chance to catch up on emails or even have a cup of tea, go to the toilet or have a shower by myself – and he’s not going to bed on time either. It makes no sense – he needs to rest. On the worst nights I find myself pleading with him to go to sleep. Ollie won’t get up with Ben because he says he has to have a clear head for work. I’m an artist and somehow Ollie thinks it’s okay for me to paint even when I feel slightly insane.

  I force myself to rise and tiptoe out of his bedroom. I go downstairs and pour Ollie and me a large glass of Merlot. Ollie’s lit the first fire of the year – it’s already chilly now the sun has set.

  He glances at his watch and does a double take that would be funny if he were smiling. ‘Jesus. I’m meant to be at The Bar.’

  ‘You’re going out?’

  ‘Work,’ he says, patting his pockets for his phone and wallet. ‘I’m sure I told you. Thank God I persuaded them to meet me in Ilkley and not Leeds. I won’t be late. Sorry, darling. I know I left you to deal with the party on your own.’

  His tone implies it was some dreadful chore, and not a joyful occasion he should have wanted to be there for.

  ‘Do you have to go?’

  ‘Yes. Sorry.’

  ‘But you’ve already been out all day. You missed your son’s second birthday!’

  ‘I said I was sorry. I told you, I’ve got an important deal I need to finalize. Believe me, I’d much rather lie on the sofa with you.’

  He kisses me on the cheek.

  I bite my lip. I don’t want to become one of those women who nags or moans. I pour his wine into my glass and put on my favourite movie, Gone with the Wind, to stop myself from feeling angry with him. I kick off my slippers and curl up alongside Bella in the corner of the sofa. I bury my hands in her soft fur and she sighs contentedly. I sip my wine and congratulate myself on surviving a two-year-old’s birthday party without a jot of help from my husband.

  SEPTEMBER, MONDAY

  A shaft of sunlight angles into the kitchen and lights up Evie’s pale green eyes as she sits at the table eating her cereal. She looks beautiful and ethereal. How did she come to be my daughter? What did I do to deserve her as well as Ben? I lean over and kiss her.

  ‘Mummy!’ she says. ‘You’ve just wiped yogurt on my face.’

  The mornings are always stressful. Since Ollie leaves before anyone is awake, I get no help from him. Today I’m even more distracted than usual – I need to go and see my agent at the gallery in Ilkley. I have a solo exhibition in early spring. I’ve fallen so far behind in the amount of paintings I need to produce, I have heart palpitations thinking about it.

  I was beginning to be recognized at least – by other artists and the owners of art galleries – when I unexpectedly fell pregnant with Ben. Now, although having a family of my own was all I ever wanted, I don’t want to lose my status as an artist, such as it is. I’m finding it hard to balance painting and looking after the two of them. Ben goes to nursery every morning at the school Evie attends, but by the time I get home, clear up the wreckage in the kitchen and take Bella for a walk, I barely have an hour or two at most. Some days it feels as I’ve only just picked up my brush before I have to set it down again.

  I’m feeding Ben Weetabix and it’s going everywhere, running down the inside of his bib and onto his clean clothes. Bella is whining and scratching at the front door. Evie finally finishes her cereal and stirs the milk round and round, closely examining the concentric ripples she’s creating.

  ‘Evie,’ I say, more sharply than I intend. ‘Go and get ready for school. Make sure you’ve washed your face and brushed your teeth.’

  She slides off her seat. I start wiping the beige mush off Ben’s face and am dimly aware of Bella’s tail thumping, which means Evie is with her and not getting ready. I look up and see Evie in the hall. She’s put her coat on, wrapped a scarf round her neck, and is sitting on the floor, trying to jam her boots on. Her hat is lying next to her.

  ‘Evie!’ I shout.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You haven’t even brushed your —’ And then I stop.

  ‘But you said, you said, get ready for school!’

  She flings her hat at the front door, her face crumples and she starts that sobbing-howl I’m so familiar with.

  I take a breath. It’s my fault. I said it in the wrong order. She’s obeying me exactly – getting ready for leaving the house first and then she would have gone upstairs and brushed her teeth. And now she’s crying because she’s done something wrong and she’s not sure what or why I’m angry. I lift Ben down from his high chair and go and give her a hug. Ben puts his arms around her too but she pushes him away. I dry her tears and unwind her scarf and help her out of her coat.

  ‘Go to the bathroom, give your face a wash with soap and brush your teeth for two minutes using the egg timer. And then come down here and we’ll both get ready to go to school together,’ I say gently.

  She takes a juddering breath and nods. I start bundling Ben into his all-in-one suit. There isn’t a name for what’s wrong with Evie. It’s as if she has fragments of disorders. I think this one – having to hear everything in the right order and having difficulty processing information – is a touch of dyspraxia. And maybe she has an element of dyslexia too. The doctors can’t find anything wrong with her and, I hate to admit it, if she’d been my biological child, I would probably have laughed it off as Evie’s quirkiness, which is what Ollie does. Instead, I blame her real mother. She’s damaged Evie in some indefinable way.

  It amazes me how children live entirely in the present. By the time I’m wheeling B
en in the buggy down Rombald’s Lane, Bella on the lead attached to one handlebar, Evie is dancing alongside me, singing and chatting. The resentment towards Ben over his party has gone, there’s no trace of her tears a few minutes before and she’s back to being my lively, lovely, sunny daughter, bestowing magic kisses on her brother.

  ‘Evie kiss,’ he laughs, and blows a raspberry back at her.

  She skips almost all the way to school. At the gates, she gives me a bear hug, almost crushes Ben with an affectionate squeeze, and races off, waving over her shoulder. Her teacher, Jack Mitchell, is waiting at the door to her classroom, welcoming the children.

  ‘Hey, Evie!’ he shouts. ‘What did you make this weekend?’

  He crouches down next to her and I can hear her telling him in great detail about the chaos she created in the Ben’s bedroom. Evie loves Jack. He’s one of those gentle, kind, funny men that children gravitate towards. He’s a child-man, I think, his development arrested somewhere along the line so that he’s perfectly in tune with under-nines. Jack has known her since she was about Ben’s age as he used to work in the nursery and he often babysits in his spare time. It’s not the done thing, I know, but in a small town like this, everyone is grateful to him for his help.

  ‘It sounds like an installation piece,’ he says, and she nods gravely.

  Jack completely ignores me – he’s so focused on Evie – but I’m used to that now and I’m grateful. Who else would listen to her endless tales of Meccano and magic? This year Jack’s got a new teaching assistant, Hannah White. She’s talking to the children inside the classroom. I don’t know her that well yet but Evie seems to get on with her too. Hannah looks up and sees me.