Precious Things (19 page)

A few days later, Maggie found herself walking through the wrought-iron gate of her house and felt an unexpected pang of lightness. Things had felt somehow easier and more enjoyable lately, since she'd called Kate and they'd had a cup of coffee, tentatively re-establishing their friendship, or so Maggie hoped. But she still hadn't been able to get hold of her mother, despite leaving a couple of messages.

Fumbling with her keys on the top step, she hoped she was in time to catch Pearl in the bath. It was one of her favourite times of the day, but it had been such a long time since she'd last made it home in time to see her splashing about. Pearl so loved the water, Maggie secretly thought she might have been a fish in a past life. The little girl would spend an hour or more happily playing with her tea set and plastic sea creatures, singing away to herself or holding one-sided conversations with members of her fishy court.

‘Not you, mister shark, 'cause you're a naughty boy!' Pearl would shout at a great white, flinging the blue plastic toy unceremoniously into a growing puddle of water on the floor.

A moment later: ‘Why hello, fishy! I do like what you're wearing.' The dead-eyed John Dory was unresponsive in her hands, but she gave him a kiss on the lips. It was Pearl's seal of approval.
My tricky, gorgeous daughter
, Maggie thought.

Calling out as she walked into the hallway and pitching her keys in the bowl on the hallstand, Maggie switched on a lamp and made her way through to the back of the house.

‘Hell-ooo? Tim? Stella? Chicken?' she called, using one of her pet names for Pearl. The lights were off on the landing – Pearl wasn't in the bath yet.
Hooray
, she thought,
I can put her in myself. I can't believe Tim hasn't gotten to it yet. I'm early, I'm early!
she thought with growing joy. It didn't even bother her when she heard the sound of a pounding beat start up above her head, confirming Stella was home . . .
The other two must be in the kitchen having supper
, Maggie thought, heading downstairs.

But when she entered the basement, Pearl and Tim weren't anywhere to be seen. The kitchen however was a mess. Flour and broken eggshells, and bits of grated cheese and ham littered the wooden table, as well as a good deal of the flagstone floor, with floury fingerprints covering the walls, drawers and fridge. It looked like the ingredients for crêpes had been wrapped around a bomb of utensils and exploded. In moments like this, Maggie found herself fantasising about living in a small apartment, by herself. The thought of clearing up gave her a headache.

A loud thump from upstairs briefly drowned out Stella's music.

Dumping her bag in the hall, Maggie made her way up to Pearl's bedroom and popped her head around the doorframe.

‘Oh, look, Pearl, Mummy's here,' said Tim, looking up from where he was lounging on Pearl's bed, obviously surprised to see her. Pearl's hair was wet.

‘Yes, I managed to escape,' Maggie tried to smile, stifling her moment of disappointment. ‘I missed my favourite people too much. Hello, you two.'

Tim held out his arms and Maggie joined them on the bed. Maggie burrowed her face in Pearl's neck and breathed in her little-girl smell of baby shampoo and Pears soap.

‘How are you, Chicken? Good day?' she asked, brushing the damp curls from Pearl's forehead and studying her daughter's face.

‘Good day, Mummy . . . I missed you!'

‘Me too, darling. But we're all home now. Hooray.'

‘Hooray,' Pearl echoed, squeezing her tighter.

‘We were just reading about Mister Tod and Tommy Brock, and the unfortunate state those Flopsy Bunnies appear to have gotten
themselves into,' smiled Tim, tossing the book onto the pile by the bed. ‘Pearl's being a bunny.'

Pearl crouched on her bed, giggling, her hands wiggling above her head, pretending they were ears. ‘Look, Mummy, I'm a bunny!'

Tim smiled and ruffled Pearl's hair. Maggie couldn't help it; her face fell. Beatrix Potter was
her
thing . . .
Mine and Pearl's
, she thought, before she realised how ridiculous she was being. Still, it irked her that Tim had taken her special book to read Pearl before bedtime. Couldn't he have found something else to read?

‘What happened to
The Magic Faraway Tree
?' Maggie asked, remembering the last story Tim was reading to Pearl.

‘Oh, we finished that weeks ago, didn't we, Poppet?' he said to Pearl.

‘Weeks and weeks ago!' Pearl echoed. Eyes gleaming, she bounced on the bed. ‘Look at me, Mummy, I'm a rabbit,' she shouted. Jumping off the bed, she hopped madly around the room, knocking over the pile of books on her bedside table before careening into a stack of blocks which scattered all over the floor.

‘Calm down, Pearl,' said Tim, rousing himself from his spot on the bed. He touched Maggie on the shoulder. ‘Night then,' he said. ‘I'll leave you to it.'

Thanks
, she thought, deflated as he stepped over the books and blocks and headed back downstairs.

Pearl bounded back to the bed and clambered up. Heaped eiderdowns and all her stuffed toys fell into a pile on the floor as she bounced up and down. Holding her pigtails out sideways, Pearl bobbed her head from side to side as she grinned at Maggie. ‘Look at me, Mummy, look at me.'

Maggie's head was pounding. She knew Pearl was only excited to see her but it felt somehow as if she was taunting her.

‘Pearl, stop jumping,' said Maggie, patting the bed. ‘Come here – I'll finish off the story.'

Pearl ignored her and started bouncing higher.

‘Pearl,' Maggie warned, as Pearl turned around in circles. ‘You're going to hurt yourself.'

Pearl's jumping only grew wilder and more frenzied. ‘Whee, look at me!'

‘Pearl, stop!' Maggie said, surprising herself with her harsh tone.

And with that, Pearl jumped off the bed, landing right on top of the pile of wooden blocks on the floor.

‘Owwwwwww!' came the howl, Pearl's face turning scarlet as she began to bawl.

‘I told you to stop it, didn't I?' said Maggie crossly, pulling Pearl up from the floor and rubbing at the small girl's bottom where she'd fallen. But Pearl pulled away and only cried louder. Something inside Maggie's head snapped.

‘Right, that's it,' she shouted. ‘No more books, no more playing, time for bed. I'm turning off the light.' She was so angry, her hands were shaking. She stood up to leave, but Pearl clutched her around her legs, pinning her to the spot. Tears were coursing down Pearl's cheeks.

‘No!' she wailed, bursting into a fresh peal of sobs. ‘I was just trying to make you happy, Mummy,' she sobbed into Maggie's thighs.

Maggie sat down abruptly, feeling like she'd been punched in the gut.

‘Oh, darling,' she said, gathering Pearl up in her arms, eyes pricking with tears. ‘Come here. It's okay. Stop crying.'

Half an hour later, after many cuddles and kisses and promises to come in later to check on her, Pearl was finally asleep. Maggie switched off the red toadstool lamp on Pearl's nightstand and tiptoed out of her room, feeling shattered. All she wanted was a glass of red wine and a chat with Tim. Maggie tried to remember the last time they'd actually spoken. They'd barely seen one another at all recently, tag-teaming so much with the girls and work.
Maybe we'll have dinner together in the dining room for a change
, Maggie thought, trying to tease out the tense knot in her neck and shoulders with a quick stretch.

But when she arrived downstairs, Tim was already on the sofa watching football.

‘Man U's winning . . . Close match – you don't mind, do you?' he asked, barely able to tear his eyes away from the screen for her answer.
Maggie did actually, but knew she would sound churlish for saying so.

She stifled a sigh. ‘No, you're fine. I'll just sort out the kitchen, get some dinner . . .'

‘Leave it, Mags, I'll clean up later,' said Tim. ‘Yes!' he shouted, as a player scored a goal and the crowd went wild.

In the kitchen, Maggie poured herself a glass of shiraz and switched the old Roberts radio to a jazz station. All was quiet from upstairs – Tim must have told Stella to turn off her music when he'd left Pearl's room – but Maggie could still hear the sounds of the television roaring over the lilting notes drifting out into the warm, messy room.

She cleared a space at the table and sat down for a moment, wine in hand. God, she still hadn't even sent out the invitations for Tim's fortieth . . . Closing her eyes, she realised all of a sudden how tired she was.
Maybe I'll just fall asleep here
, she thought. Remembering Pearl's comment about trying to make her happy, tears welled in her eyes. She took a mouthful of wine, hoping it would ease the lump in her throat.

When she looked up, she realised Tim was standing in the doorway, watching her. Head lowered to avoid the corner of the basement ceiling, he came downstairs.

‘I thought you were watching the game,' she said.

‘Nah, thought I'd come help you instead,' he said, wandering over to the sink.

Maggie felt a wave of gratitude course through her, and a pang of guilt for so enjoying her recent meeting with Michael, over drinks, which hadn't been strictly necessary . . . Especially when she still hadn't had a chance to book in a dinner date with Tim. Until this moment she hadn't realised her insides were churning – Maggie felt all wound up, like a tightly coiled spring. Tim had been right the other morning when he'd told her she needed to relax more. But there never seemed to be any time – or an opportunity – to do that these days.

Pouring a slug of shiraz into another glass, she moved over to the sink and set it down upon the window ledge in front of Tim. Circling her arms around his waist, she rested her head on his broad back and remained like that for a moment.

‘Pearl's being bullied at daycare,' Tim said suddenly.

‘What?' Maggie's head jerked up. ‘Since when?'

‘For a while, I think. It's that kid, Jared . . . He keeps telling her she's a baby. Pearl's scared of him.'

‘Scared?' Maggie felt her chest tighten. She couldn't remember how exactly, but the phrase rang a bell – Pearl had mentioned something, but she couldn't quite remember . . .

‘You know how she cries with us, Maggie. All the time. It's her reaction to everything. And this Jared kid knows he gets a rise from her.'

‘Have you spoken to the manager of the centre yet?' Maggie asked. ‘What's her name again?'

‘Noni. I did, but she was a bit vague and not very helpful . . . Said it happens quite often. Kids fall in and out of favour with each other. Pearl used to like Jared, remember?'

‘Yes, but what now? She's just meant to take it?' Maggie asked, feeling impotent.

Tim shrugged. ‘They'll keep an eye on the situation.'

‘Great,' Maggie said, worry crashing in on her. ‘So the little bully just gets away with it?'

Tim frowned. ‘If they catch him at it again, I'm sure they'll say something. Come on, it's not the end of the world.'

Maggie took a large, clumsy gulp of her wine, slopping it onto the pale bench as she put the glass down. It leached into the spilled flour mess on the counter, turning it pink.

‘How has all of this started already?' she asked bleakly. ‘Poor Pearl . . . I didn't think we had to worry about stuff like this until she started school.' An image of her own mother mocking her tears flitted across Maggie's vision but disappeared with her unwillingness to acknowledge it.

‘There's something else, too,' said Tim, turning to face her, but staring at his hands instead of into her eyes. ‘Noni says she asks after you all the time . . . They didn't say so exactly, but I think she might benefit from spending more time with us.' Tim looked up, catching her eye. ‘Noni also said children develop a firm sense of themselves
at this age but Pearl's been particularly struggling. Have you noticed how she's always trying to get our attention, and throws tantrums if we don't respond?'

‘Yes, but I thought that was normal for her age,' said Maggie, feeling clammy all of a sudden. She touched her forehead, and her hand came away damp. She moved over to the table and sank down against it, feeling unsteady.

‘She should be growing
more
independent by now – not more clingy,' Tim continued. ‘She seems unsure about her place in the world, Maggie, or where she fits in.'

‘What are you saying?' she asked, starting to feel faintly alarmed.

‘I think, if we can, one of us should go part-time. So we can spend more time with her. But I can't pull back on this project now – we're too far in. They're long days . . . I'm working from seven-thirty in the morning and don't get home until six-thirty every night, five days a week. And of course you're working every second weekend now—'

Maggie's head spun with the implications. She'd just been thinking how she needed to let Tim know she'd be out all next week and the following weekend hosting yet another estate auction. Now he was suggesting she work part-time?

‘So what – it's up to me, then?' she asked, feeling the anger rise up inside her.

‘I didn't say that,' replied Tim carefully.

‘But that's what you mean, right?' she said, knowing they should talk about this later, when she was feeling less exhausted, but was suddenly unable to contain herself. ‘I'm the one who's paid less, so I should just pack in my career – forget about running an auction house on my own one day, while you get on with yours?'

‘Jesus, Maggie, is that what I said? And is that what you want to do, “run an auction house”? Really, since when? I thought you loved being a valuer. But how we're working is crazy. You even had to cancel our holiday, for Christ's sake! You know how much we were looking forward to it.'