below, so the lines of the pottery are etched
in shadow. I chose them because they charmed me, with their hints of a seductive world of carnival and disguise. But when
Daisy was little, and mothers and children were always coming for coffee, I had to take them down; children seem to be often
afraid of heads apart from bodies — it’s probably something primal — and there were toddlers who’d burst into tears if they
saw them. The black one is a little macabre, sinister in an obvious way — it’s a fairy-tale crone, Baba Yaga perhaps, the
glossy surface recreating the sagging folds of old flesh — but tonight I see it’s the white one that is more frightening:
It’s simpler, almost featureless, a face that is an absence.
I sip my wine and go back over the conversation with Dr. Carey. I don’t understand why she wouldn’t take Daisy’s illness seriously.
I must have done something wrong. Should I have cried? Should I have sounded more desperate? Maybe I was too assertive — or
not assertive enough? Perhaps there’s a code I don’t know about, some good-mother way of behaving. I once heard a famous female
barrister speaking on the radio: If she was defending a woman accused of murder, she said, she’s urge her to wear a cardigan
to court, ideally angora and fluffy, so no one would think her capable of committing a terrible crime. Maybe there’s a dress
code for taking your child to the doctor that’s unknown to me: a frock from Monsoon perhaps, with a pattern like a flowerbed,
or a tracksuit and pink lipstick.
There’s a clatter from the hall: Richard, closing the door behind him, putting his briefcase down. Relief washes through me;
I’m always so glad when he’s home. He comes in, and I see he’s tired: He’s somehow less vivid than when he left in the morning,
as though the dust of the day has settled on him and blurred him. He’s brought me flowers, blue delphiniums, wrapped in white
paper, with a bow of rustling ribbon. He’s good at choosing things — orchids, silver bracelets: His gifts are always exact.
“Thanks. They’re so lovely.” They’re an icy pale blue, like a clear winter sky, the flowers frail, like tissue. I hold them
to my face: They have the faintest smoky smell.
He kisses my cheek.
“There’s pollen on you,” he says. He rubs at my nose with a finger.
“Was the meeting OK?”
He shrugs. “So-so,” he says.
I’m not sure this is true; he looks strained, older.
“D’you want to eat?”
He shakes his head.
“I’ll get you a drink,” I tell him.
“Thanks. Scotch would be good. Just tonight.”
I smile. “It was that bad?”
He shakes his head. “It was fine. Really.”
He has a still face: He’s always hard to read. I don’t pursue it, don’t know the right questions. There are parts of his life
that are opaque to me.
I get him a large glass of scotch, with ice, the way he likes it. He doesn’t sit. He’s restless — as though the uneasy energy
that’s built up through the day won’t leave him. He leans against the mantelpiece, sipping his drink.
In the silence between us, I hear Sinead upstairs, the clumping of her slippers and water from the shower running away. I’m
worried she will wake Daisy: I’ve become alert again to all the noises of the house — like when you have a baby and skulk
round like a conspirator, and every creak on every stair is marked on a map in your mind.
“We went to the doctor,” I tell him.
“Good,” he says. “How was it?”
“We saw someone new. A woman. She was rather young, I thought.”
“And was it OK?”
“Sort of. Well, Daisy liked her.”
“Excellent,” he says. “There. I told you it would be all right.”
“I’m not sure. I wasn’t happy, really.”
“What is it?” he says, solicitous.” What’s wrong?”
“I told her that Daisy wasn’t eating, and she said I needed nutritional advice. It felt so patronizing. Like she couldn’t
in shadow. I chose them because they charmed me, with their hints of a seductive world of carnival and disguise. But when
Daisy was little, and mothers and children were always coming for coffee, I had to take them down; children seem to be often
afraid of heads apart from bodies — it’s probably something primal — and there were toddlers who’d burst into tears if they
saw them. The black one is a little macabre, sinister in an obvious way — it’s a fairy-tale crone, Baba Yaga perhaps, the
glossy surface recreating the sagging folds of old flesh — but tonight I see it’s the white one that is more frightening:
It’s simpler, almost featureless, a face that is an absence.
I sip my wine and go back over the conversation with Dr. Carey. I don’t understand why she wouldn’t take Daisy’s illness seriously.
I must have done something wrong. Should I have cried? Should I have sounded more desperate? Maybe I was too assertive — or
not assertive enough? Perhaps there’s a code I don’t know about, some good-mother way of behaving. I once heard a famous female
barrister speaking on the radio: If she was defending a woman accused of murder, she said, she’s urge her to wear a cardigan
to court, ideally angora and fluffy, so no one would think her capable of committing a terrible crime. Maybe there’s a dress
code for taking your child to the doctor that’s unknown to me: a frock from Monsoon perhaps, with a pattern like a flowerbed,
or a tracksuit and pink lipstick.
There’s a clatter from the hall: Richard, closing the door behind him, putting his briefcase down. Relief washes through me;
I’m always so glad when he’s home. He comes in, and I see he’s tired: He’s somehow less vivid than when he left in the morning,
as though the dust of the day has settled on him and blurred him. He’s brought me flowers, blue delphiniums, wrapped in white
paper, with a bow of rustling ribbon. He’s good at choosing things — orchids, silver bracelets: His gifts are always exact.
“Thanks. They’re so lovely.” They’re an icy pale blue, like a clear winter sky, the flowers frail, like tissue. I hold them
to my face: They have the faintest smoky smell.
He kisses my cheek.
“There’s pollen on you,” he says. He rubs at my nose with a finger.
“Was the meeting OK?”
He shrugs. “So-so,” he says.
I’m not sure this is true; he looks strained, older.
“D’you want to eat?”
He shakes his head.
“I’ll get you a drink,” I tell him.
“Thanks. Scotch would be good. Just tonight.”
I smile. “It was that bad?”
He shakes his head. “It was fine. Really.”
He has a still face: He’s always hard to read. I don’t pursue it, don’t know the right questions. There are parts of his life
that are opaque to me.
I get him a large glass of scotch, with ice, the way he likes it. He doesn’t sit. He’s restless — as though the uneasy energy
that’s built up through the day won’t leave him. He leans against the mantelpiece, sipping his drink.
In the silence between us, I hear Sinead upstairs, the clumping of her slippers and water from the shower running away. I’m
worried she will wake Daisy: I’ve become alert again to all the noises of the house — like when you have a baby and skulk
round like a conspirator, and every creak on every stair is marked on a map in your mind.
“We went to the doctor,” I tell him.
“Good,” he says. “How was it?”
“We saw someone new. A woman. She was rather young, I thought.”
“And was it OK?”
“Sort of. Well, Daisy liked her.”
“Excellent,” he says. “There. I told you it would be all right.”
“I’m not sure. I wasn’t happy, really.”
“What is it?” he says, solicitous.” What’s wrong?”
“I told her that Daisy wasn’t eating, and she said I needed nutritional advice. It felt so patronizing. Like she couldn’t
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