Free Little Face by Sophie Hannah Page B

another. They are
unashamedly elitist, fee-paying, single sex, strong on discipline. Vivienne is a big fan. She sent David to Stanley Sidgwick, and now Felix.
Florence's place at the ladies' college was reserved as soon as my
twenty-week scan revealed I was having a girl; her name went down
on the list as `Baby Fancourt'. Vivienne paid the three-hundredpound registration fee herself, and only mentioned it to me and
David afterwards. `There's no better school in the area, or, for that
matter, in the country, whatever the league tables say,' she insisted. I
probably nodded vaguely and looked bemused. All I wanted was to
deliver my unborn child safely into the world. I hadn't given schools
a thought.
    `Felix doesn't live with his mother?' asks Simon.
    I wasn't expecting him to ask this. I admire his thorough approach,
the way he asks questions around the obvious point of focus. I do the
same with my patients. Sometimes, by looking only where you're
directed to look, you miss everything that's important. 'Felix's mother
is dead.' I watch Simon carefully as I say this. He doesn't know, evidently. It is absurd to assume that every policeman will be familiar with
the details of every case. Or maybe he knows, but hasn't yet made the
connection. Laura's surname wasn't Fancourt. She didn't change it
when she married David. That was the first thing that annoyed Vivienne about her, the first of many.
    `So, apart from Vivienne Fancourt, who's seen Florence?'
    `Nobody. Oh, Cheryl Dixon-she's my midwife. She's been round
three times. And she was on duty at the hospital when Florence was born. Why didn't I think of that before?' I wonder aloud. `Cheryl'll
back me up, talk to Cheryl.'

    `Don't worry, I'll be talking to everyone, Mrs ... '
    'Alice,' I insist.
    `Alice,' he repeats awkwardly, trapped in a familiarity that he is
clearly uncomfortable with.
    `What about a search?' I ask. I still have not had a satisfactory
answer to this question. `Someone might have seen something. You
need to appeal for witnesses. I can give you precise times. I went out
at five to two ... '
    Simon shakes his head. `I can't get a search started just like that,' he
says. `That's not the way it works. I'd need to get approval from my
sergeant, but first I'll need to talk to everyone and anyone who could
corroborate your story. I'll need to talk to your neighbours, for example, see if anyone saw anything unusual. Because your husband. . . '
    `Isn't corroborating. I know. I've noticed,' I say bitterly. `There
aren't any neighbours.' Vivienne told me proudly, the first time David
brought me to The Elms, that the only people with whom she shares
a postcode are those she welcomes into her home. She smiled, to
make it clear that I was included in this category. I felt privileged and
protected. When my parents died and I realised there was no-one in the
world who truly loved me, I lost a lot of my self-esteem. I couldn't
shake off the conviction that my tragedy was a punishment of some
kind. To be so warmly accepted by a woman like Vivienne, who took
for granted her own value and importance and had absolute confidence in her every opinion, made me feel that I must be worth more
than I'd imagined.
    `I can't get a search started or do anything on your say-so alone,'
says Simon apologetically.
    I sink into a chair and rest my aching head on my arms. When I
close my eyes, I see strange shifting spots of light. Nausea rocks my
stomach. For the first time in my life, I understand the people who lose
the will to fight. It is so hard to try and try to make yourself heard when the whole world seems to have its fingers in its ears, when what
you have to say sounds so unlikely-impossible, almost.

    I'm not a fighter, not by nature. I've never thought of myself as
strong; at times I've been downright weak. But I am a mother now. I
have Florence to think of as well of myself. Instead of myself. Giving
up isn't an option.

     

8

    Friday,