Not My Daughter

As he closed the door behind him, I knew I’d never see him again, and I haven’t. Just as I haven’t seen Matt or Milly or Alice. Alice.

The girl has walked on with her parents; her hand is clasped by her mother’s and they are swinging arms and smiling, just another happy family scene, one of dozens I see every day. They don’t hurt me as much as they used to.

For several months after losing Alice, I was a mess. I lay in bed and stared into space as my savings trickled away, my own version of postpartum depression, and it hurt so much. Part of me was waiting for Milly to call, to apologise, but she never did. And I didn’t call her; I felt I couldn’t, with the way things had ended. I didn’t even want to, because I was so angry.

I clung to the feeling that I had been wronged, again and again, but at some point, I forced myself to see what part I’d had to play in it all, and I knew I wasn’t entirely innocent. I had taken advantage of the situation, of Milly, almost without realising it. Looking back, I’ve asked myself many times if I would have gone through it – the lawyer, the custody case – and I don’t think I would have. At least, that’s what I tell myself now.

Eventually, at the start of spring, I roused myself to action. I still felt as if I were sleepwalking, but I managed to book myself on a PR and development course, and I started sending my CV out again. I decided I would no longer work in HR; I wanted to do something meaningful with my life. Something that mattered, at least to me.

I still looked for Alice everywhere, just as I did now. In the park, the supermarket, the street. Passing cars, even when I’m in other cities, wondering if they’ve moved or are on holiday. I feel certain that at some point I’ll catch a glimpse of her. That’s all I want, just one glimpse.

About six months after it all fell apart, I walked by their house. Just once, feeling guilty and stalkerish for doing it, but I couldn’t resist. It was summer, early evening, the world full of syrupy sunlight and birdsong. I stood on the pavement opposite their house, half-hidden by a tree, and waited for nearly an hour for that precious glimpse. It never came. The curtains were drawn, everything tucked up for the night. I saw a silhouette against the curtain; it looked like Matt, but that was all.

I finally left, sickened by myself and what I’d become. I told myself I wasn’t going to obsess anymore, and I booked myself in for some counselling, which helped. Then, in the autumn, I landed a job in marketing and development with Speak Now, a local charity that advocates for victims of sexual harassment and assault. I finally felt as if I were moving on.

Of course, there have been blips and backslides over the years – evenings spent with a glass of wine, scouring social media for something of Milly and Matt, and of course Alice, but they deleted their accounts, erased their online presence. There have been Saturdays when I don’t feel like getting up, when I wonder if I’ll always be alone. There have been reckless blind dates that ended up with me regretting more than I wanted to, and one ill-advised relationship with a man I met in the ready-meal aisle of Waitrose that lumbered on for several uninspiring months.

Four years on, I am still looking for Alice, but this time, after a few seconds, I straighten and walk on.

Saturdays used to be quiet days for me, but a few years ago I decided I needed to get out more, and after being on a waiting list for several months, I managed to bag a quarter plot of an allotment near my flat. I’d never gardened before, and it felt like another world, on the other side of the green palisading, everything so neatly divided into strips marked by raised vegetable beds and chicken coops and cosy sheds storing chairs and kettles, as well as seeds and tools.

My plot was tiny, and I treated each precious inch of fertile soil with care, planting several rows of vegetables, as well as flowers for their simple beauty, and a dwarf apple tree which has yet to produce a single piece of fruit. Still, I love it all – somehow it soothes me, fingers in crumbling soil, nails rimed with dirt, knees aching. To plant something and watch it grow… I think I’ve needed that in my life.

On this damp grey morning in early April, the allotment is empty; the keen gardeners have already tilled their plots and are waiting to plant, while the less keen haven’t bothered yet and clearly don’t plan to until the weather improves.

I don’t mind being alone, though, because it’s a peaceful oasis in the midst of the city, and I need to clear away winter’s debris from my little bit of land.

About an hour in, I hear the clang of the gate and I see a man come through, wheeling a bike, a rucksack slung over one shoulder. I’ve seen him before, and I even have a nickname for him, although I’ve never talked to him. I call him Mr Green, because he has one of the best plots in the whole allotment, a narrow strip of regimental order, with a pristine shed at the back. Once, I peeked in when he was working, the door left open, and saw the labelled tins of seeds, the neatly arrayed tools, and was amazed at how orderly everything was. How did he have the time? Did he have a job?

Now he gives me a brief smile before heading for his shed, and I turn back to the wet dead leaves I’m clearing away. We

’re the only two there and we work in silent solidarity for another hour before the clouds gather and the first raindrops spatter down like bullets. I straighten, cursing myself for not having brought my car. I don’t fancy a walk back in this downpour.

‘Hey.’

I turn, surprised Mr Green is calling me. He’s never said a word to me before.

‘Care for a cuppa while we wait out this downpour?’ He nods towards the shed.

I hesitate, taken aback by the offer, and then shrug my assent with a smile. ‘Sure, thanks.’ I lope over, and we both step into the shed, which is just as neat, if not neater, than I remember. It’s cosy too, with a folding chair and a wooden packing crate turned on its side to act as a table.

‘I’m Will, by the way,’ he says as he puts a kettle on a little propane stove perched on a workbench. ‘Will Ford.’

‘Anna Thompson.’

We smile at each other, a bit inanely, and then he reaches for a battered tin of tea. ‘You haven’t been here that long, have you?’

‘About a year, but I didn’t come over the winter.’ My smile turns self-conscious. ‘I’m not that committed.’

‘Nor am I.’

‘No?’ I nod towards the neat shelves. ‘You look like someone who has invested quite a bit in this.’

‘Ah, but looks can be deceiving.’ The kettle starts to whistle and he pours hot water into two tin mugs. ‘This allotment belonged to my uncle. I took it over when he fell ill. I’m just keeping it going until he can get back to it.’

‘That’s kind of you.’

He shrugs. ‘He did a lot for me.’ There seems to be a world of memory in that statement, and I don’t feel I can press, so I just nod and accept the mug of tea he gives me.