Free Her Living Image by Jane Rogers Page A

silence.
    “OK,” said Carolyn.
    Clare waited to see if she would say anything else. She felt clumsy and awkward; but irritated too. Carolyn was ignoring her like a sulky child. She’s so young, that’s the trouble,
Clare told herself. Basically, this is a teenage crisis. Well, I’m not her mother.
    Carolyn came down to tea next day. She grimaced a smile at each of them, and nodded hurriedly at any remark directed at her. She radiated tension and embarrassment, so that
after the meal Clare went immediately to watch TV in the sitting room, Sue took the children to bed and Bryony went out to a meeting. Carolyn cleared the table, washed up, dried up, took everything
out of the cutlery drawer and cleaned and tidied it, cleaned the cooker and swept the floor. She was about to start washing the floor at five to ten when Clare went back into the kitchen to get her
cigarettes.
    “What on earth are you doing?”
    “Just cleaning up.”
    “Well look – that’s splendid – there’s no need to go mad. Stop, for heaven’s sake. D’you fancy a quick drink?”
    Carolyn shook her head and continued to squeeze and soak the dried, shrivelled mop.
    “Caro, when I said about helping – I didn’t mean –” Carolyn ignored her. Clare shrugged and left the kitchen. She felt very angry. She had tried to help Carolyn,
and now the bloody girl was acting as if Clare was a bossy teacher. Damn her.
    Next day, a white-faced Carolyn with horrible silent determination dusted and vacuumed the landings, stairs and hallway, washed down the woodwork in the kitchen, and cleaned out the fridge and
food cupboards. Bryony and Sue were appalled.
    “Can’t you stop her?” Sue asked Clare when she got home. “She’ll have to go. It’s impossible to live in the house.”
    “D’you want me to tell her to go?” asked Bryony. “Why don’t we phone her Mum?”
    Reluctantly, after supper, Clare mounted the extra six stairs to Carolyn’s room. She knocked and there was no reply. So she opened the door cautiously. It was dark. She
made out the shape of Caro squatting in the armchair, rigidly still.
    “Caro?”
    The figure didn’t move.
    “You all right?”
    Carolyn appeared to be staring at something horrible in the corner.
    “What is it?” Clare stepped into the room, and some of Carolyn’s terror communicated itself to her. Quickly she stepped back and switched on the light. She couldn’t see
anything in the corner.
    Carolyn shifted abruptly on her seat, turning her head away.
    “What is it? What did you see?” Clare ran round the chair to face her.
    Carolyn lifted her head sightlessly, tears and snot streaming down her face.
    Much later that night, Clare lay in her bed staring at the ceiling. They should never have let Carolyn out of hospital like that. She was settled for the night; Clare had put
her to bed and given her a mug of warm milk and two sleeping tablets. But tomorrow? She wasn’t in a fit state to be on her own.
    Before she finally fell asleep, Clare decided to contact the mother. It wasn’t fair not to. They couldn’t handle a nervous breakdown.
    After she had swallowed the sleeping tablets, Carolyn slept for fourteen hours. Her sleep was black and absolute, as if she had been dropped into a bottomless pit. Waking meant
rising, as a diver surfaces from deep water, to a lightening of colours, navy blue, aqua blue, turquoise, pale blue, clear light – day light! with a shocked gasp at the change. It was the
first time she had escaped consciousness properly for days.
    She lay relaxed and dizzy on the bed, with the lingering sense of floating on top of the depths she had plumbed in her sleep. Her white room was full of light. Through the open window came a
breeze which separated and fluttered the curtains, which in turn made moving watery patterns of light and shadow on the white ceiling. She felt peaceful. She remembered . . . different feelings and
flavours. Memory was a great open channel she could float