Finding Dreams by Lauren Westwood (7)

In the middle of the night, I wake up breathless, tangled in the sheets. Feeling panicky, I roll over and turn on the light. Dust motes rise up from the sudden movement, and the feathers of the dreamcatcher move ever so slightly.

I sit bolt upright, staring to the edge of the circle of light. In the dream, I was running down the corridor on the first floor that runs the length of the house. Moonlight was streaming in through the diamond panes of glass. I rushed into one of the rooms – Katie’s room? – and went to the window. Light from tiny lanterns twinkled as a boat floated past the house on a strong current. I was wearing a thin white nightgown and my hair was long, and done up in a thick plait. I pushed open the casement and peered out. I was looking for someone – on the boat? On the bank? My heart was pounding so hard I thought it might explode from my chest. Where was he? Why hadn’t he come?

And who the heck was he?

With a little laugh I lay back down. Obviously, I’d stayed up too late reading the book and, in the words of Louisa May Alcott, it had ‘addled my brain’. I remember something I read once on Freud and the psychoanalysts. According to them, dreams are some kind of wish fulfilment relating to sex or death (with Freud, everything is related to sex or death). I put my hand to my chest, feeling my still-elevated heartbeat. My dream definitely wasn’t about death…

I turn the light back out and pull the duvet up to my chin. But sleep won’t come. At first light, the ducks and geese wake up and start quacking and squabbling. I get out of bed, bundle up in two jumpers, fleece trousers and a pair of wool socks, and go downstairs to make some coffee. As I wait for it to brew, I hear light footsteps above me – Katie must have woken up early too. A toilet flushes and the footsteps pad back to bed. When the coffee is ready, I take a long sip, relieved (and guilty at feeling relieved) to have this time to myself early in the morning. Just me, and the ducks and geese out on the lake.

From somewhere behind me, there’s an electronic ping. I go over to the table and start shifting the books, papers, and other clutter, looking for my phone. I finally locate it under a colouring book (along with a plastic plate of half-desiccated baked beans that Jack must have stowed away last night – or the day before). It’s probably a push notice from eBay or an electronic reminder about an overdue bill. Hoping for…

My hand shakes as I press the icon to open the message, from: [email protected] My stomach feels like it’s at the top of a roller coaster ready to plummet straight downwards. I read the words on the screen.

‘Oh my God!’ I shout out loud, feeling like I’m a can of fizzy drink that someone’s just shaken up, ready to burst with excitement.

‘Mum?’

I turn to find Katie standing in the doorway. She’s wearing an old nightie that used to be long but now barely passes her knees, and clutching her old, battered teddy bear. Even though I tuck her in every night, I didn’t realise she was still sleeping with it. She holds Teddy tightly, her face screwed up like she’s terrified and trying to be brave. Jammie pokes her head out from behind Katie, as if she too is worried.

‘Oh Katie! Darling.’ I rush over to her and engulf in her in my arms.

She stays for a moment longer than usual before pushing me away. ‘What’s up, Mum? What’s happened?’

‘What’s–’ I look at her first in surprise, and then understanding dawns. ‘No, darling. Nothing bad has happened.’ I risk hugging her again. This time, she stays in my arms. When she finally does move her head, I feel my shirt soaked through. She’s crying. ‘Oh Katie, I’m sorry if you were scared. But I promise, things are looking up.’

‘I heard you telling Hannah and Grandma that we’re going to move house. Because of Dad. You said it was his fault.’

I tighten my arms around her. For so long Katie’s been shut away in her own grief and pain – maybe this too is a positive sign. I now know why she’s been angry at me for all these months. Her dad is dead, and she thinks (correctly) that I’ve been blaming him for the fact that we’re on the cusp of losing everything. I’ve known for a while now that I need to sit down with her and explain everything – the grown-up version, rather than just the sugar-coated kid version. With everything so bleak, I had no idea where to begin. Now, though, I’m determined to try.

‘Your dad loved you,’ I say. ‘And it’s OK if you miss him. But it’s also true that he did some bad things. Things that are making it difficult for us now, after he’s gone.’

‘I know that, Mum. But I just want to stay here. If we move house, I might… I don’t know… forget him.’

I sit down in a chair and pull her into my lap. Despite her nine-year-old bravado, I remember how little she really is. Her body is at that thin, gangly stage, but her mind is a lot further on.

‘I understand, Katie,’ I say. ‘And I know it’s really really hard for you. I’m sorry I haven’t been able to help you through it as much as I’d have liked.’ I stroke her hair. ‘And just so you know, I don’t want to move house either. Please believe that I’m doing everything I can to make sure we can stay here.’

‘I know, Mum,’ she says.

‘And there’s finally been some good news – just now. Some people are coming here. They’re looking at the house for a possible film location.’

‘Huh?’ She narrows her dark brown almond-shaped eyes. ‘Like using it for a cinema?’

‘No,’ I say, laughing. ‘They might want to film a movie here.’

‘Really?’ She pulls back, frowning. ‘Why?’

‘Because it’s a lovely old house, and the film has a lovely old house in it.’

‘Can I get a drink of water?’ She squirms off my lap and goes over to the cupboard, pulling up a chair to stand on. Normally, I just let her do it, but today, I jump up, get her a glass, and fill it with water. I’m bubbling with new-found energy. Although… it’s not like we’ve been chosen.

Yet!

I smile at my daughter, my lips and facial muscles feeling like they’ve been liberated from a corset. I open a tin of dog food for Jammie, and she ambles over to her bowl, her tail wagging.

‘Now, what would you like for breakfast?’ I say, turning back to Katie. ‘Weetabix, or… I could make eggs. Or even pancakes.’

‘Pancakes?’ My daughter looks at me like I’ve grown a second head. I never offer to make pancakes on a school day. Or, come to think of it, on any other day. Not for a very long time.

‘Yes, we’re celebrating.’ I grin.

When she smiles back – something I haven’t seen her do for a very long time – I’m fizzy with joy. ‘OK, Mum,’ she says. ‘I guess I’ll have pancakes with butter and jam.’

*

I feel like Superwoman as I whip up a bowl of pancake batter, bring up a jar of blueberry jam from the cellar, drink a cup of coffee, and as the first pancake sizzles in the hot pan, text Theo Weston:

Then, I send another text message – to the estate agent I met the other day.

A little voice niggles in my head that I’m being way too hasty, but I ignore it. Seeing the words whoosh off into the ether makes me feel like dancing a jig.

My buoyant mood even survives Katie not being able to find her homework or her gym trainers, and Jack having wet the bed and doing a poo in his pants as we’re about to go out the door, already late for school. ‘Don’t you give up, Jack,’ I say, my smile giving way to gritted teeth as I dump the ‘business’ in the toilet and try to decide whether to wash the trousers or put them in a plastic bag and chuck them in the bin.

As I herd them both out the door, I start panicking that Theo and his boss might turn up while I’m at the school. But that’s silly, I tell myself. Most likely, he’ll have to come all the way down from London. I very much doubt that he’ll turn up any time before noon. If he turns up at all. My stomach twists. Surely he will…?

By the time I’ve dropped off the kids at school and returned home, the worries are running rampant in my mind. The caravan parked outside the sagging carport, the toys and clutter inside the house, the overgrown state of the garden. To an outsider, it might look like I’m the kind of person who lies in bed all day eating crisps and watching TV. The truth is that it’s taken all my energy over the last ten months to do the little errands, care for the children, deal with the financial mess, search for jobs, and run my eBay empire – given how rubbish I’ve been feeling. I suppose some people in my place might have taken out their frustrations by cleaning behind the fridge, going round the skirting board with a toothbrush, or hoovering up in the attic. Whereas I’ve barely even noticed the state of the house since Dave’s death. Now though, I’m seeing everything with new eyes. Theo Weston will probably take one look inside and realise that he’ll have to wipe his feet on the way out.

‘Think outside the box, Lizzie,’ I mutter to myself.

As soon as I’m out of the car, I go up to the caravan and knock on the door. ‘Um hi!’ I say. ‘Wake up. I need help.’

There’s no response so I knock louder.

‘It’s kind of urgent.’

The door opens a crack. Connie’s sleepy face bulges out. ‘What time is it?’ She rubs her eyes, crossly.

‘Time to get up,’ I say. ‘I need you and Simon over at the main house.’ For once, my fear of my mother-in-law is eclipsed by my fear of what will happen if this opportunity slips away. ‘And if you happen to have a roll of bin bags, well, bring those too.’