The Forgetting(22)
Arriving at the goats, Leo squealed with delight as one of them trotted over to the wooden fence, pushed its muzzle through the gap between the slats, low enough for Leo to reach out and stroke it. Watching her son, it was astonishing to Livvy how much he’d changed in the six months since his birth. It seemed, at once, that he had been in her life forever and yet, at the same time, that she had known him for the swiftest blink of an eye. She could no longer remember life without him and yet, some days, it seemed to her only moments since she had first held him in her arms. Friends with older children constantly urged her to savour every moment, commit it all to memory, warned her that so many of the details later disappeared into the ether, like the contrails of an aeroplane evaporating in the sky.
‘Livvy?’
Livvy turned around, took a moment to catch her breath, so unexpected was the presence of the person standing beside her, clutching a handbag to her chest as though fearful someone was about to steal it.
‘What are you doing here?’ Livvy heard the accusatory tone in her voice, did not try to suppress it.
Dominic’s mother held Livvy’s gaze for a few seconds before her eyes were drawn to Leo in his pushchair. Livvy watched Imogen hungrily devouring the sight of her grandson, eyes darting from one part of him to the next: head, shoulders, knees, toes. There was something voracious in it, as though Imogen were a character in a fairy tale who would, if Livvy were not careful, gobble Leo whole.
‘I asked what you’re doing here. Please don’t tell me it’s just a coincidence.’
Imogen’s eyes flicked up to Livvy as though, for a moment, she had forgotten she was there. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. It’s just that I know you often come here on Friday mornings—’
‘How do you know? Have you been following us?’ Even as she spoke, Livvy knew the question was rhetorical. The blue Ford Fiesta skulking past their house. The knock on the door when Dominic wasn’t home. Imogen’s sudden appearance here now, her clear knowledge of their weekly visits. A cold veil of panic blindsided her momentarily.
‘I just thought it might be easier, perhaps, on neutral territory . . .’
There was a moment’s hesitation, and then Imogen crouched down slowly, as though her knees were acclimatising to the movement, and stared at Leo as if she had been cast under an ancient spell.
Something clicked inside Livvy, a need to protect her child from this woman who had already wrought such emotional havoc for Dominic. She pulled the buggy away, pushed it behind her, one hand glued to the handlebar even as she turned back to Imogen.
‘Can you give Leo some space, please.’ Her voice was firm, unequivocal, her hand tightening on the buggy.
‘Leo? That’s such a beautiful name. Was that your choice or Dominic’s?’
Livvy silently cursed herself for having let the name slip. ‘It’s really not appropriate for you to be here. You must be able to see that.’ A voice inside Livvy’s head shouted at her for sounding so calm when the truth was that this woman was stalking her – stalking her and Leo – and she needed to get away. She needed to speak to Dominic, decide how best to handle it.
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to alarm you. I just didn’t know what else to do.’ In spite of the apology, Imogen’s tone was defiant, self-righteous. ‘It was one thing, Dominic not coming to see his father in the hospital, but to ignore all my messages about the funeral . . .’
For a second Livvy faltered, the words shaping themselves into meaning inside her head. ‘Dominic’s father died?’
Imogen eyed her quizzically, and Livvy felt like a creature being scrutinised under the lens of a microscope. ‘On Saturday. Didn’t he tell you?’ She paused, as though to emphasise the obvious answer to her question. ‘I left him two voicemails and sent him a text message.’
The words darted in Livvy’s ears and she tried to catch them, make sense of them, but it was as if Imogen had spoken in a foreign language.
Her mind rewound to the events of the weekend. The three of them had been to the park, to the swimming pool, to Bristol Museum to see the Egyptian mummies. It had been a perfect weekend. At no point had Dominic said or done anything to indicate he’d just received the news that his father had died.
Imogen continued to talk, as if determined to fill the widening chasm of Livvy’s silence. ‘I’m sorry, it just didn’t occur to me that Dominic wouldn’t have told you. Maybe he was in shock?’
‘He must not have known.’
‘But that’s impossible. Unless he’s lost his phone, or had it stolen, perhaps?’
Livvy bristled at Imogen’s disingenuity. ‘I’m sorry for your loss. But I don’t see how that justifies you following me.’
A group of children on a school trip came running towards the goat pen, and Livvy steered the buggy out of their way, moved to the opposite side of the path. When she turned around, Imogen was standing beside her, too close, and Livvy instinctively took a step back.
‘The funeral’s next Friday. Will you talk to him? Persuade him to come?’
‘No, I won’t.’
Imogen eyed her, almost pityingly, and Livvy’s skin prickled with irritation.
‘It was one thing not to tell John and I that he’d got married, or that we have a grandchild. It was another thing not to come and see John in the hospital when he was dying. But to refuse to attend his own father’s funeral? Surely even you must see how wrong that is?’