Free A Little Death by Laura Wilson Page B

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    I was ill for a long time after that and I don’t remember much about it, except the dream I kept having about Freddie. The doctor gave me sleeping medicines, which I think were stronger in those days, so that one would sleep longer and have more dreams. I never get the chance to dream nowadays because the wretched sleeping pills don’t give me more than a couple of hours most nights. But since I’ve taken them all my life, they’ve probably stopped having any effect. I take handfuls of the things, but they never work properly. I said to Edmund, ‘Give me a whack with the fire tongs, that’ll put me to sleep!’ He went downstairs and told Ada to make me a cup of cocoa instead.
    But I don’t mind the not sleeping anymore, not really. I don’t need much of anything now—not much sleep, not much food—only cocktails. A cocktail for breakfast, lunch, tea, and dinner, that’s what I need. But at that time… well, I wanted to be asleep. It was because I thought I must be wicked. When I was awake, I was wicked.
    I remember Father arriving very clearly. From the nursery window, I could just see one corner of the carriageand the top of his hat. I thought, now he will come up and visit me, but he didn’t. Every day I asked God to make him come and visit me, but he never did. I tried to make explanations to myself about why he didn’t come—they were excuses, really, I was trying to make excuses for him. Because it may be different now, but in those days fathers didn’t come into nurseries, not in families like ours. I think there were one or two occasions when my mother was alive, but we were usually taken downstairs to see him. Years later, Edmund told me that Father’s visits to the nursery reminded him of Queen Victoria inspecting a tribal delegation from a very remote and insignificant colony. Anyway, I told myself all sorts of nonsense—Father hardly ever came to the nursery so he wouldn’t know the way, that sort of thing. I suppose this carried on for two or three weeks and then he suddenly appeared.
    I was asleep when he came into the room, so I don’t remember that part of it. But he stood at the end of the bed and looked down at me. His shoulders were folded up the way angels’ and birds’ are before they spread their wings, and he had his hands folded over the brass bed rail. His head was bowed as if he was saying a prayer. It made me think of the poem about the angels who stand around the child’s bed, one to watch and one to pray and one to bear my soul away. I couldn’t see his face properly because the room was quite dark, but for some reason I did have this sort of wild, stupid hope that he’d come to give me a blessing. You know, ‘Father, give me thy blessing…’ I suppose these sorts of ludicrous misunderstandings must be part of everybody’s childhood.
    Father stood there for a long time without speaking. Then he walked around the bed and stood beside me. His expression was the most… well, to put it bluntlyhe looked disgusted, as if he was seeing some excrement or some vile thing and not me at all. He said, ‘You know why I have come to see you.’
    ‘No, I don’t know.’ Immediately I knew it was something I had done, but I couldn’t think of anything.
    ‘You know what you have done.’ His hands were shaking. My mind was whirling round like a speeded-up clock, trying to think of what it might be. I didn’t know if he wanted me to answer him or not. I don’t think he knew himself.
    I said, ‘Is it about Nurse?’
    ‘Don’t try to trick me by blaming other people. You can’t expect the servants to be responsible. You are responsible.’ I felt as if my mouth had been locked. ‘You allowed this to happen. You deserted your brother.’ His anger encircled my chest like an iron band and I couldn’t breathe. It was Freddie, something to do with Freddie.
    Then he said, ‘I am not going to say any more. There is nothing I can do, but I will not come back. I will not see