The Girl on the Platform

‘Are you sure?’ Tom murmurs.

I nod.

‘It couldn’t have been her dad, or …?’

‘She struggled.’ I blink away tears. They had a white van. I saw her being taken, Tom, and I couldn’t even tell the police where she was taken from. It was just a platform and by the time I had a signal we’d gone by at least three more. They could be anywhere now. And they’ve got her and she’s just a little girl.’

‘Sssh.’ Tom glances at the baby monitor blinking at me from the side table and I realise I am wailing.

I drop Frankie. ‘There’s a little girl out there and someone’s hurting her.’ My cheeks are wet now, salty dampness on my lips. ‘What was the point in seeing her if I can’t tell the police anything useful?’

Tom presses my hands between his. ‘You’re freezing.’ He rubs his palms against the backs of mine. ‘Come and look in on Grace. You’ll feel better.’

I shake my head. ‘What good am I?’

‘Bridge.’ Tom puts his forehead against mine. ‘You won’t be the only one to have called the police about this. Her mum will have reported her missing. They’ll be able to work out where she was taken from. They might even have found her already. You’ve done more than most people would have. Come on. You need to get warm. Take your tablets and come to bed.’

‘I can’t,’ I groan. ‘I have to call Mum. You know she’ll be awake until I do.’

‘I’ll do it.’ Tom pulls me to my feet. ‘I’ll tell her the train was stuck; signal problems. I know you don’t like to lie but …’

I nod, my eyelids like shutters, my head heavy. ‘She’d rush over here if you told her the truth. Do you really think they’ve found her already?’

‘All the platforms have CCTV. You told them about the van, about the two men. They’re probably knocking on doors right now. It’ll be in the news tomorrow or later in the week, I guarantee it.’ Tom pulls me to my feet. ‘Come on, it’s late and you’re done. I’m switching your alarm off. I’ll get up with Grace in the morning.’

‘But it’s your turn for a lie-in,’ I groan, sagging against him as if I have beans in my own torso, but I’m already thinking about the latest train that will get me into work on time.

Tom snorts. ‘You can pay me back at the weekend.’ He guides me to the stairs. My feet are like wood and I am barely able to bend my knees. ‘Or on Neil’s stag do. I’m planning to drink like a Viking and will be mightily hungover.’

I stumble upwards and into the dark hallway. Grace’s door is a little ajar. It took us months to realise that she hated the full dark and needed a sliver of light to sleep. Like her mother.

I hesitate at the doorway and Tom pushes it further open. Inside I can hear Grace’s soft breathing: a gentle snore on every other breath. She lies on her back, one fist curled next to her cheek. Her knees are splayed outwards, frog-like in her sleeping bag. Wispy blonde hair is glued to her forehead, stuck there with tearstains and sleep-sweat.

She twitches in her sleep and, as I watch, her fists open and close, and her legs scythe back and forth. ‘It’s too hot for her pink pyjamas,’ I mutter.

Tom shrugs. ‘We spilled milk on the yellow ones. She’ll be all right. I used the lighter sleeping bag.’

I nod.

He frowns. ‘I do know what I’m doing.’

I lean against the doorframe for one more minute, counting her breaths, wishing I could hold her. ‘I should have brought Frankie up.’

‘And risk waking her?’ Tom shakes his head. ‘She’s got Dobbie, look.’

Sure enough, the little, once-white bunny is crushed beneath her armpit.

‘Come on.’ He nudges me and I nod again. ‘Don’t bother cleaning your teeth.’ Tom steers me into our bedroom and sits me on the mattress. I sink into it, already, in my mind, fast asleep.

He helps me out of my coat and jacket, undoes my blouse and trousers.

‘I’m checking you out, just so you know, sexy thing.’ He makes me lie down. ‘Hang on, I’m going to call your mum quickly, then I’ll bring you your medication.’

I pull myself up on the pillow, drag my arms out of my blouse, leave my underwear on and crawl under the duvet. I hear Tom’s voice, then the sound of running water. After a moment he appears with two pills in one hand and a glass in the other.

I struggle to focus. ‘Was she all right?’

Tom nods. ‘You’ll have to call her tomorrow.’

‘I feel gross,’ I murmur. ‘My teeth are furry.’

‘Brush them twice in the morning.’ Tom strokes my hair back from my face. ‘Take these.’

I lift my head just enough to gulp down water and the green and yellow bullets. Then I let my head fall back. Tom puts the glass on the side table next to my breast pump.

‘I thought you might need it,’ he says, nodding towards it.

‘I do.’ I roll away. ‘I can’t.’

‘Okay.’ He clambers onto the bed, lies beside me and pulls his legs up so that they cup mine.

‘Will you stroke my head?’ I whisper. ‘My brain won’t shut off.’

‘Yes, it will.’ Tom’s cool fingers find my eyebrows and begin to stroke up and down, softly, distractingly. ‘Go to sleep.’

‘I ca …’

I wake way too early because I roll onto my left breast. It’s a rock. I gasp myself into alertness as pain, like a poked bruise, shivers down my side.

‘Don’t wake Grace!’ Tom is sitting up beside me. Our daughter is lying on his chest, arms and legs dangling on either side of his ribcage, her face crumpled against his t-shirt.

‘I’ve got to express.’ I struggle to sit, trying not to rock the bed. ‘What time is it?’

‘Six-thirty,’ Tom whispers. ‘Can’t it wait?’

‘Are you joking?’ I point.

Tom goggles. ‘I guess it can’t.’

‘I’m in agony.’ I slide my legs out of the bed, watch them pimple in the autumn chill and grab the pump. ‘I’ll do it in the bathroom.’

‘Are you sure?’ Tom sits unmoving, his hands flat on the covers.

‘Do you want anything?’ I mouth. ‘A book, your phone, a bit of coursework?’

He shakes his head. ‘It’ll only wake her.’

I stagger into the bathroom, pee and set up the breast pump. I shouldn’t really be breastfeeding, not anymore, not on top of work, and maybe not while I’m on the Fluoxetine, although the doctor said it would be okay. But Grace has some kind of dairy allergy or maybe an intolerance, I’m still not clear on the difference. She hates the Nutramigen prescribed by the hospital, just spits it at us. My breast milk is at least free and, as long as I don’t eat any dairy myself, it doesn’t upset her stomach. I start to hand pump, my eyes half-closed, almost dozing, but nothing happens, my breasts are too hard. It had been stupid to risk mastitis again for the sake of a bit of sleep.

I sigh, run the hot tap, wet a face cloth and start stroking by hand. Eventually liquid dribbles down my stomach. I refit the pump and, finally, milk hisses into the plastic bottle. I close my eyes again, knowing I’ll hear when it is almost full.

As soon as my eyes drift shut, I see the little girl, as clearly as if she is sat in front of me. She has brown hair, shoulder length and a little curly. Her eyes are hooded by a thick fringe but I think perhaps they’re dark, like mine. Her face is narrow, her chin a little pointed, her nose straight and long.

She is wearing a blazer, almost as if she is going off to boarding school. Very Malory Towers. The suitcase she is sitting on is old-fashioned, leather, you don’t see those around much. Perhaps her family is poor. But then, what about the blazer? I’ll know who she is soon. Tom’s right, she’ll be on the news and I’ll get a name to go with that face.

I open my eyes and check the bottle: eight ounces in less than five minutes. It has to be a record and the breast isn’t even empty. I swap the bottle over, cap the full one and change sides.

Despite my greying maternity knickers, my flabby stomach sticks to my upper legs. ‘Sexy thing’ Tom called me. I know he loves me and he wants to help, but I’m not sexy, not anymore, so how can I trust anything he says when he lies like that to my face?

He’s a good liar too. I’d have told Mum the truth last night and been up for an hour talking her off a ledge. Tom came up with a comforting and plausible story and was off the phone in minutes. I’d never mastered the skill.

When I have two full bottles and my discomfort has eased, I face myself in the mirror. Stretch marks, cellulite, sagging where I’d once had taut skin. My muscles are knitting back together, but slowly. I run my fingers over my waistline. Seven and a half months ago I made a human, squeezed her out of me, now I am feeding that human. I’m not meant to be a stick figure right now. And yet.

‘Sexy thing,’ I mock in a whisper and then I turn my face away.

I put the bottles of milk on the bedside table and crawl back into bed, trying to be soundless, hoping the mattress won’t rock and roll with me. I turn so I am facing Tom and put a hand on his shoulder, close enough that it’s almost as though I am touching Grace. Then I let my eyes fall on my daughter’s sleeping face.

‘Are you all right?’ Tom asks.

I nod. ‘Just happy to be home.’ Then I close my eyes and drift back to sleep.

When I wake again, Tom and Grace are gone and so are the bottles. I touch my breast. I’d been hoping to hear her cry when she woke, planning to feed her myself, desperate for a moment of closeness before I went into work. The pump makes me feel like a cow hooked to a machine, wondering where its calf has gone. Breastfeeding is comfort and love and I’d needed that this morning. Anger squirms in my belly and I clench my fists.

‘Will it matter in six weeks?’ I mutter. ‘Am I being unreasonable?’ I exhale. Of course I am. Tom is letting me sleep in, knowing it means I’ll have to work late, leaving him to do bedtime alone again. He doesn’t know I’m still full after producing sixteen ounces. ‘He was being a good guy.’ I sit up. ‘And you’re being ungrateful.’

I spot my dressing gown on the back of the door and smile. I’d left it on the kitchen chair the day before so Tom must have brought it up. I check the time: it’s nine. Tom’s been looking after Grace for at least three hours. I should get up. If I hustle, I can catch the half-past train, but I crave Grace like a junkie. If I spend half an hour with her now, I can still get into work before the 11 a.m. meeting.

I slip my arms into my robe, tie it closed and find my slippers. I hesitate for a moment, wanting to go and find my baby, but my mouth tastes like yesterday’s McDonald’s and I need to clean my teeth. I do as Tom suggested and clean them twice. Then I pad downstairs.

I find Tom and Grace in the living room. Grace is in her baby bouncer and Tom is on the sofa with one arm over his face.

‘Hi,’ I whisper, suddenly hoarse, and Grace catches sight of me. Her eyes shine and she babbles wildly, lifting her arms and clutching her hands as if she can grasp me from the doorway and carry me to her.

Instantly, I’m on my knees beside her, barely aware of moving across the room. I scoop her up and hold her tightly, putting my nose against the patch of warm skin behind her ear and inhaling: Johnson & Johnson baby cream, sleep sweat and something indefinably baby, uniquely Grace. One day I’ll reach for that smell and it’ll be gone. I want to cry at the thought.

I teeter on the precipice of the anxiety that’s gripped me for months. The feeling that every moment with Grace is rushing away from me and the terror that any second, she’ll be taken: first by Sudden Infant Death Syndrome, then by other illnesses, accidents, some grasping stranger, time itself. It is all going too fast; she is changing too fast. She’ll be at preschool before I know it. I gasp.

Her hair is soft against my forehead, her skin like cream.

Grace wriggles, pushing against my chin, gurgling and babbling as she berates me for being so late, and regales me with incomprehensible tales of all the things I’ve missed.

I peer past her to see Tom grinning at me. He’s missed my moment of vertiginous terror, thank goodness. ‘She’s missed you.’

I smile.

‘She’s been annoyed all morning, desperate to go upstairs and find you. Maybe she’ll forgive me now.’ He sits up. ‘I called your office and told them you wouldn’t be in today. Is that okay?’

I nod, relief unwinding in my gut.

‘Do you want a coffee?’

I nod again. ‘Almond milk, remember.’

‘I know.’ He rolls his eyes. ‘I’m not a complete idiot.’

‘Sorry.’ I stroke Grace’s back, letting my fingers linger on her warm neck. ‘Coffee would be great.’

Tom leaves us alone together. There had been a time a few months back when he’d watched me like a spy in a Bond film, driving me crazy … crazier I suppose. But now he trusts that I won’t break; even after last night, he trusts it. Or rather he believes in the drugs. I glance at the kitchen. He isn’t peering around the door at us while the kettle boils. In fact, I can see him looking at his phone, probably checking the football scores. Trusting me.

I smile into Grace’s hair and she grabs mine and yanks it hard enough to make me wince. I detangle it from her fist.

‘Mummy’s fault. I should have tied it back.’ I push it behind one shoulder. ‘What did you tell the office?’ I call as I tickle her tummy and she squeals out a giggle.

Tom sticks his head around the door. ‘Migraine.’ He gestures. ‘Gives you a day off with no awkward questions.’

Another smooth lie told for my benefit. I can hardly object. ‘Thank you.’ I tilt my chin towards the clock. ‘I could have gone in. I was thinking about the ten o’clock train.’

He shakes his head. ‘Not today.’ He vanishes for a moment and returns with a coffee cup. ‘I’ll put it up here, so she can’t get hold of it.’

‘How would she get hold of it?’ I frown.

‘She’s starting to pull herself up.’ As if she has heard him, Grace wriggles out of my grip, reaches for the coffee table and hauls herself, wobbling, onto her pudgy little feet.

I watch, open-mouthed. ‘Is that normal? Should she be doing that already?’

Tom looks like he’s won the lottery. ‘She’s going to be a runner, like her dad.’

‘I missed the first time. Did you video it?’

Tom bites his lip. ‘Sorry.’

‘It’s okay.’ I focus on Grace. She is grinning at me. Showing two front teeth and a reddened gum; teething again. I smile. ‘Yes, you’re very clever, baby.’

She thumps back onto her padded bottom and reaches for Frankie-Lion.

‘I …’ I look up at Tom and take a deep breath. ‘I know we said it made most sense for me to be the one to go back to work. I know we said you should stay at home with her and that you could do that course … but …’

‘But it’s killing you.’ Tom kneels beside me and the scent of his shower gel tickles my shrivelled libido. ‘I can see that.’

‘What can we do?’ I laugh bitterly. ‘We can barely afford the bills on my salary. Move into an even smaller place?’

Grace smacks a button on her bouncer and Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star twangs into the air.

Tom touches my shoulder. ‘Your health’s the most important thing. I’ll sign up with a recruitment agent on Monday, see what’s out there. I can do coursework in the evenings.’ He looks at Grace, his expression regretful. He doesn’t want to leave her any more than I do, and he doesn’t want to go back to office work, but one of us has to. I rest my cheek on his hand. He touches my hair. ‘I still think it’s crazy you won’t ask your mum for help. Wouldn’t she loan us enough so you can have a breather? Just a few months of mortgage payments would ease the burden. You could go back to work when you’re ready.’

I flinch. ‘She does help. She takes Grace one day a week so you can write. That saves us a fortune in nursery fees. And she’s already given us—’

‘It doesn’t have to be a gift. We could make it a loan, draw up a repayment plan. Neil will spunk legalese all over it, if we ask him.’

‘So, Neil would know we need a loan from Mum.’ I stiffen and he pulls away.

‘Just think about it?’ He focuses on me with that look, the one that says I’m his whole world. The one I’d do anything for. His eyelids crinkle. ‘Even if I go back to work tomorrow, I wouldn’t be earning as much as you.’

‘And it would be another job you hate.’ I sigh. ‘What about your parents? Wouldn’t Charlie and June—’

Tom squeezes my shoulder. ‘They would if they could. If they had any money at all, they’d give it to us.’

‘So why won’t my mum?’ I add the unspoken sentence. ‘I just don’t like to ask. She’s been on her own since Dad … you know. She needs financial security. That cushion helps her feel safe. I can’t take that away, even if it’s only borrowing it for a while.’

‘I do get it, Bridge. But at some point, you have to ask yourself which is worse: asking your mum for a loan, which she honestly can afford to give us, or going to work when all you want is to be home with Grace?’

I wipe my face, I’m leaking like a tap, more tears. ‘If she offered, I’d take it, but asking her for money … it feels wrong.’

‘Just think about it.’ Tom hands another block to Grace who bangs it on the first one and grins up at him. They’re so alike.

Tom reaches over my head and picks the remote off the table. ‘I know we don’t usually, but would it kill her to have a bit of Paw Patrol?’

Grace has already seen the remote and she knows what it means. She yells excitedly at the television until Tom pushes the button and the screen lights up.

‘I thought we’d agreed the TV doesn’t work in the mornings,’ I say, and he shrugs.

‘It doesn’t … usually.’

‘Tom …’

‘Look how happy she is.’

And she is. She crawls into Tom’s lap as she watches, mesmerised, one fist in her mouth, the other clutching Frankie. I roll my eyes and focus on the mantra Aunt Gillian gave me to help me through my teenage years. ‘Will it matter –’

‘– in six weeks’ time?’ Tom finishes and I laugh.

‘It might.’

‘It won’t, honestly. A couple of episodes of Paw Patrol won’t send her square-eyed.’

I sigh and watch for a moment, the bright colours on the screen an incomprehensible blur. My thoughts return to the night before and I pull my phone from my dressing gown pocket.

Tom frowns, ‘What are you doing?’

‘I just want to check the news.’ I look at him. ‘Is that okay?’

His face tightens. ‘Are you sure? Now? In front of Grace?’

‘I need to know.’

‘Fair enough, but it’s still early, don’t be surprised if there’s nothing.’

I lean against his shoulder and scroll through the BBC website.

Politics, which I have to avoid unless I want to spiral into further depression. An over-tired lorry driver has caused a pile-up on the M5, two dead. Another stabbing. A celebrity I’ve barely heard of has got engaged. Yet another store I like is going into administration. That footballer is being arraigned. I keep scrolling down past more celebrity news and into sport.

I frown. Tom glances at me. ‘Nothing? Told you it was too early.’

I ignore him, my fingers tapping: kidnapping, train station.

The most recent article that pops up is about a three-year-old boy taken from a platform in India in 2017. Kept for four days by a drug addict. No-one was caught. Nothing about last night.

Although my fingers itch to hit refresh and keep hitting it until I get answers, I lay the phone on the table and reach for my coffee.

The doorbell rings.

Tom looks at his watch. ‘Who could that be?’

‘Stay there.’ I struggle to my feet, leaving Tom with Grace. ‘It’ll be the postman or something. I’ll deal with it.’

I pull my dressing gown tighter as I reach the door and open it. Then I stand with my mouth slightly ajar. Tired, cold, exposed.

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