Hide and Seek

Hide and Seek

‘One – two – three – coming, ready or not!’

I knew where she was, of course. I always knew where she was. It would have been difficult for any three-year-old to hide properly in a garden like that, plus this particular specimen lacked imagination; she was still narcissist enough to believe, as much younger children do, that if she couldn’t see me then I wasn’t able to see her. I opened my eyes a crack and sure enough, there she was – half-crouched behind the closest tree-stump.

‘Isabella,’ I called. ‘Isabella! Where are you?’ I began to pretend to search. I peered into the space under a holly bush, the prickles snagging at my hair.  ‘No, she’s not there…or there…Isa-bella!’ I turned about, feigning bemusement. My theatrics were clumsy, but effective enough. There was a stifled giggle.

‘Isabella, where are you? Where could she be?’

It was a sultry day. An unpleasant, clammy sun throbbed down across the unshaded spaces between the trees in the long low garden. Headache weather. I turned and headed in the other direction, back towards the stump where she had attemped to hide. Slowly, craning my neck with the exaggerated inquisitiveness of a street mime, I moved around the tree.

‘Isabella! Is she lost?’

We had been playing this tedious game for what felt like hours.  The counting, the hiding, the calling, the feigned astonishment, repeated in sequence until I was hoarse. I had been desperate to leave the house, to escape from her constant requests to play nursery, to be sat down uncomfortably on the rough carpet and chastised like one of her dolls or, which was worse, to be repeatedly ‘taken to the toilet’ and made to pretend to squat against the wall before having my hands washed, being sat down with a piece of plastic fruit and then seconds later made to perform the entire ritual again. This could if not checked by some means continue without losing its appeal for much of the afternoon.

At first, I was curious about her games – for the insight I thought they might give me into the development of the human mind. Each afternoon I watched her conduct these pantomime renactments of her mornings spent at the expensive private nursery. It was interesting, the way her infantile brain attached itself so firmly to the performance of discipline and routine – she loved to recite the rules of the nursery and to tell off the dolls for imagined offences – rather than to the adult’s idea of the favoured activities of the sandpit, the finger-paints, the water tray.

All these things were dispensed with at Isabella’s nursery. Children were admitted, made to answer to the register, and lined up to be punished. She moved, a minature Gradgrind, through the ranks of her unruly pupils, shouting, washing hands, administering snacks, enforcing silence until a sinner was dismissed to the naughty corner. She never seemed to tire. Perched on the horsehair sofa with her little legs sticking out in front of her, brows knitted, she would pretend to read a story to her errant pupils. Very quickly, I grew to dread these games – the imperious tug on the wrist, the shrieks of outrage, the ceaseless repetition. As time went by I tried my best to avoid playing nursery - not merely from weariness but from some sense that it was a bad idea to permit her to be in a position of authority over me, even in games. I made excuses, stretching out the washing-up as long as possible, beginning the dinner preparations much earlier than was necessary. She would stand by my side and whine, asking when was I going to be finished with the job at ten-second intervals, until the endless explanations became more wearisome than acquiescence. Eventually, though, I convinced her that I must be busy with this or that, or such-and-such would go wrong or not happen, and she would leave me alone. This often took a long time. Today, I had not had strength for such a battle or the patience to endure the game, and so I had proclaimed a visit to the gardens.

‘Issy! Bella! Where could that girl be?’

The garden was not outside the house itself, which was an enormous grey Georgian building in a respectable part of town. The houses on the street where the family lived seemed to stand on tiptoe, drawing their neat skirts away from the pavement. There were railings with clematis, and brass heritage plaques, and polite notices relating to the chaining of one’s bicycle. The garden was only a few streets away from their house – five minutes’ walk to an adult – but I generally baulked at attempting it. First, there was the battle to coax her to go, which was never easy as the stock response to any scheme not of her own devising was a negative. Then came the finding of the shoes, strewn amid upended mountains of toys, her cardigan, coat, packet of organic oatcakes,  juices and a ball to play with, along with anything else that could be crammed into my bag that might in an emergency stave off a tantrum. Then there was a matter of getting there, up a steep hill and across several busy roads, which, she had lately decided, she was experienced enough to cross without assistance. This had led to several instances where I had to snatch her arm and pull her, screaming, across the street. It was these moments, more than anything else, that left me white-faced and tight with anger. The sheer arrogance of the child to suppose that she knew better than me – the superiority in her voice when she piped up that it was ‘safe to go, we’re going now,’ despite not being tall enough to see above the parked cars’ bonnets, her smugness when we reached the other side unscathed. ‘There weren’t any cars. You didn’t know. You got it wrong, didn’t you?’ I could have slapped her face for that, but she was never slapped. She was never punished for anything.

‘Where is she? I can’t find her anywhere!’

Part of the fury I felt in these moments was the fear of her getting hurt. Of course it was. You must understand that I didn’t want that. I would panic if she reached towards a gas flame or grabbed unthinkingly at a knife, as any mother would. I told her she was not on any circumstances to climb up while I was cooking, that it wasn’t safe, but she would do it all the same, dragging her little chair over while my back was turned. You cannot watch them every second of every day. And I never in my life – never – raised a hand to her – I never hit or pushed or grabbed or made any rough move towards her, unless it was to get her out of danger. I barely even raised my voice towards her – perhaps a handful of times. Oh, outside I was the perfect image of affection. An onlooker would not have had any inkling of how I really felt. I talked to her, endlessly, indulged her, praised her, feigned an interest in her work, read her books, spent hours drawing pictures with her. It was me who taught her to count, to write her name, to tell the time. I did not love her, but I took care of her and was kind. I smiled and laughed and told her how clever she was, and I played games until I could stand it no longer.

‘Isabella! Where on earth can she have got to?’

She was a spoiled child, very spoiled indeed. Not materially, considering – she had no flash clothes, although goodness knows she had more neat, plain, expensively comfortable dresses than I or my other siblings ever did. No, not materially, perhaps, but she was indulged in every other way. She never heard a ‘no’ that meant no, a no that could withstand an angry stare or threatening lip or a pleading whine. She ruled the roost. If she was ever spectacularly naughty – throwing her lunch to the floor, kicking another child – her mother would throw out a lazy – ‘Don’t, darling,’ while ruffling her hair or kissing her cheek. Her mother would hear no criticism against her daughter. Isabella hated it when her mother and I talked together while she was in the room – she would scream for attention, and her mother would hold up a hand to silence me while she asked, full of sweetness, what it was the child wanted. She never wanted anything, of course, but it didn’t seem to matter. I thought of my own childhood, the turned back, the hands bundling me into my room and locking the door. More than anything, I think I came close to hating Isabella for this.

‘Isabella!’

The garden itself was a dull place, in my opinion – a sunken expanse of green lawns, orderly rhododendrons and a few cherry trees, designed to accord to the principles of propriety rather than beauty. It was certainly not worth the thousands of pounds paid each year to retain a key to it. The sun only touched the grass in the centre for a few hours around noon, and the spaces under the trees were worn and scuffed with as-yet-unswept twigs and dead blossom. It was a false garden. There was nothing truly vital about it – no profusion of wildflowers or sly nettles, cloak and dagger in the underbrush. Birds kept their distance from this mannered place at the tops of the stately trees, and the only animals in the garden were the dogs of the rich being briskly exercised in the empty hours that sat between luncheon and the evening’s engagements.

Nevertheless, before I saw it, I had imagined the garden as a godsend, a divine deliverance from those silent, expensively-furnished rooms with their high ceilings and mahogany tickings and the endless games of do-as-I-say. That was until I realised that her complete inability to entertain herself extended beyond the borders of the house. I had grown up in the country, and as a child any green space was territory ripe for conquest. Once released into a field, we would dash into every corner, testing the boundaries of the space, throwing ourselves into the deepest thickets and grabbing fistfuls of cow-parsley and campion on the way, creeping along walls, lifting stones for woodlice, scrambling trees for bounty. We were lords of the underbrush, kings of the castle. Isabella, sedate in the garden, merely stood and looked at my bag as if to ask what I was going to do for her now. She had no interest in the hidden caves under the grey-flaking cherry twigs, foaming with blossom, or the bluebells under the shadowy hedge, although I showed her these things, told her their proper names. She walked a few paces this way and that, span around, holding out her frock, and then began to whine to go home.

‘Look,’ I said patiently, ‘look how nice it is here – the sun is out, the birds are singing in the trees. It’s good to be out in the fresh air, isn’t it? You don’t want to stay in the house all day, do you?’

‘I want to go back and play in the house.’

I clenched my teeth. ‘We’ll get some fresh air here first, and then we’ll go back in a bit. OK?’ I sat down on the grass, faking an air of finality that I hoped would fool her. It was like this, always; a constant battle of wills between us. I had an extensive armoury of tricks and diversions at my disposal – flattering her intelligence usually worked. This time, however, there was nothing to be done. I offered her an oatcake which she chewed without relish, asking between each bite how long it would be until we could go.

They were hell to me, these afternoons. You have no idea what it’s like. You don’t have children, or if they do, they’re your children, and the hormonal soup you blink through when you see them distorts them from their true selves like a house of mirrors. Your children – yes, yours – are boring. They are irritating. They disobey and complain and refuse to eat their food, then whine for yours when you try to eat. They upend their toys all over the floor and refuse to pick them up. They break things. They snatch your book from your hands. From the moment they wake all you can do is think of ways to fill the time until they can be put to bed again. They ask the same questions, again and again and again, just to make you speak. They scream. They hate you to spend a single minute alone, banging on the bathroom door for you to come out in the twenty seconds that you are in there. They cannot stand to have you not look at them every second of every day. They are spoiled, spoiled, spoiled. I cannot think why anyone would choose to have them. The myth of children – as merry little sprites gambolling about with your eyes and their own adorable way of talking – is a lie. They are vampires that eat your life, and the moment that they have become bearable company – at around eleven or twelve years old – they no longer want you around.

She was still complaining, and now she was beginning to move away from me up the gravel path towards the gate, knowing I would have to follow. My stomach sinks. I have only one weapon left in my arsenal.

‘Isa-bella,’ I say, in my suggestive, I-have-a-surprise-for-you voice. ‘Shall we play hide and seek?’ She turned, and ran back towards me.

I can see her, crouched into a ball, her limp silky blonde hair almost brushing the ground beneath. I approach the stump.

‘Will I have to call the police?’

This was her cue. ‘No, no, I’m here!’ She smiles, her black eyes little sequins. ‘I was hiding! You didn’t know, did you? You didn’t see me!’ She is dancing with triumph; her neat bob swings from side to side.

‘No, I didn’t know,’ I said. ‘Clever Bella.’ I glance at my watch. If we were to leave then, and allowing fifteen minutes to get back to the house, I can start chopping the vegetables for dinner fifteen minutes after that. That is a fillable amount of time. It will be all right. ‘Shall we go home, now, then?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘Again.’

I resign myself to it. ‘Do you want to hide again, or do you want to count?’

‘I want to hide. You count, and then you call the police.’ She is calm and assured in her instructions.

I turn back to the tree, and began to count, slowly and loudly. Down from ten and up again. I squint through the fingers squeezed over my eyes to see she doesn’t run too far. A blonde speck is fumbling itself into the bushes by the railings. I close them again, and shout.

‘One – two – three – coming, ready or not!’

I turn, and begin to search for her. I say the same things I have been saying all afternoon. I pretend to look under benches, up trees, calling all the while. All the time, I move slowly towards the corner where I know she has gone.

‘Isabella! Where a-a-a-re you?’

The rhododendron bushes by these railing are thick, their dark green soapy leaves forming a wall almost to the grass beneath. A thick, waxy scent rises, of hothouses and pruning-baskets. I walk along the row, looking for feet.

‘Isabella! I can’t see you! Oh no! What will I do?’

I have almost reached the end of the line of rhododendrons, and have yet to find her hiding-place or the gap she must have squeezed through. She has crept underneath; I am surprised; she is generally a fastidious child.

‘Bella! Where’s that girl gone?’

I get down on my hands and knees and peer into the gloom beneath. The smell of crushed soap and loam is stronger, but there is no-one there. She has been clever – she has crept out and hidden somewhere behind me.

‘What will I do? Will I have to call the police?’

I turn around, and wait for the laughter, for the big reveal. I call again, but there is only silence. I move, quicker now, around behind the big trees to the left. They are in an open clearing. There is nobody behind them.

‘Isabella!’ 

My voice is sharper now, strained. I go back to the place where I was counting. I glance back at my bag, her ball, abandoned in the middle of the grass. Nothing.

‘Isabella! Where are you?’

The sun is hot above me; I am wrapped in green stillness, and the gentle piping of invisible birds. A breeze shivers through the garden, and I stop. Call again. Stop. All is quiet. I begin to run, calling, calling, through the orderly park, over the smooth lawns, past the ranks of rhododendrons, through the polite rows of cherry trees, back, back now, up the gravel path that winds, out of sight, up to the open gate.

In the last second before I know she is gone, I know true panic – not for her, but for myself. For what will happen next. I close my eyes. I see our mother, white, shaking, weeping. Screaming. How could you let this happen to your little sister?

How could you have let her happen to me, I think.

I see police cars drawing up, the crackle of radios, cameras, news bulletins, the press. Her picture, copied a hundred thousand times, roughened by pixel enlargement and cheap paper. My picture, too. They will blame me. They will think that I wasn’t doing my job properly. They might even say that I did it. I didn’t, though. I would never hurt her. I just didn’t want to play any more.