The Doll House: A gripping debut psychological thriller with a killer twist!. Phoebe Morgan
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that I cut out painstakingly from scraps of white material I found in my mother’s sewing box. And the dolls. Oh, the dolls. Dad brought them home for us, one by one, beautiful, smartly dressed figures that we positioned in the house: a long-skirted mother cooking in the kitchen, a baby in the miniature cradle, a father sitting in the little pink armchair stuffed with real feathers. Every time he went away for work he’d come back with another one. He got some of them from abroad, bringing them carefully wrapped in scarlet tissue paper to protect the china, regaling us with tales of the countries he’d been to as we pulled open the presents. His work took him further than any of us had ever been.
I haven’t thought of the doll house properly for years, had always assumed Mum had put it in her attic with the rest of our childhood things. A lump fills my throat.
I bring the chimney pot up to eye level, twist it around so that I can see it from all sides. It is as tall as the length of my hand and as wide as my palm. As I stand in our doorway, I feel a pair of eyes on me and raise my gaze. A young woman is watching me, a dark-haired toddler in her arms, an empty pushchair at her side. I blush, pull my dressing gown more tightly around me, suddenly aware of my bare feet, the untamed hairs on my legs.
‘Sorry!’ she says. ‘I just wondered if you were OK? You looked a bit upset.’
‘Oh!’ I say. ‘Yes, yes, I’m fine, thank you. Just had something in the mail.’ I smile at her, trying not to notice the way her child is clinging to her chest, its little hands clutching at her hair. She strokes its head absent-mindedly. She hardly looks old enough to have a baby; I hope she knows how lucky she is. God, of course she does. What’s the matter with me?
‘I’m Gilly,’ she tells me, ‘I’ve just moved in.’ She gestures behind her to where the door to her flat hangs open and I see boxes, the edge of a packing crate.
‘Welcome to the building,’ I say, and she laughs. Something about the sound of it is familiar, as though I have heard it somewhere before. The way she gasps slightly, as though she hasn’t quite enough breath to properly let go. She’s smiling at me.
‘Thank you, it’s been a bit of a rocky ride so far but we’re hoping to settle in here.’
‘Is it just you and the baby?’ I ask her.
She nods, looks down. ‘Just me and the kiddy. Do you have any little horrors?’
I flinch, clutch the chimney pot tighter to my chest.
‘No,’ I say. ‘No I don’t. It was nice to meet you, Gilly.’ She looks a bit taken aback but I try not to mind. I step back inside our flat and close the door. I can’t be friends with another mother, I just can’t. It’s too painful. The gasping sound of her laugh niggles at me. I’m sure I’ve heard someone laugh like that before but I can’t think where – the thought slips away from me like the string of a kite that I can’t quite grab hold of.
Inside, I prop the chimney pot on the table. I know it can’t really be from the doll house, but it does look almost identical to what I remember, and even though the rational side of my brain knows it must be something else, it feels almost like it is a sign, a little spark of hope, a reminder of why I put myself through this every time. I want to cling to it, to cling to something. It’s as if this being here is a message from Dad, telling me not to give up hope. I have wanted a family since I was a little girl. It will happen. I have to believe.
*
Later on, I leave to meet Dominic at the fertility clinic. As I dressed, I put the chimney pot into my pocket, gave it a lucky pat before I left the house. I can feel it bumping slightly against my hip bone; I like it, it feels like a little talisman, a good luck charm. If I do have a daughter I could dig out the doll house, give it to her as a present. One day. I feel bad for being abrupt with Gilly this morning. I know she can’t help having kids, I know I can’t behave like that. Maybe I’ll knock on her door later, apologise.
Outside it is freezing. Minus two, the radio said. Strings of Christmas lights are still dotted around, twinkling stubbornly, even though it’s past the deadline of the sixth. I can see my breath, misty particles floating in the air, glowing under the street lamps. It is already dark even though it has only just gone five-thirty. Despite the weather, I feel a little glow inside me, a swell of hope from the chimney pot cocooned in my coat.
I’m walking along the pavement by the park, past the playground, the empty swings hanging loosely in the darkness. Resting for the evening. A car speeds past, its headlights illuminate the tall, spiked tops of the park railings and I give a little gasp; someone is there, right beside me, I see a face hidden in the railings amongst the dark. My breath catches in my throat. Oh, God. I can’t breathe.
Then the headlights swing by, the golden light throwing itself over me and I exhale; it’s just the shadowy figure of a dog-walker, hurrying along towards the park exit and the gaping steps of the Underground. It’s nothing, it’s nobody. It never is.
I put my head down and keep walking, focusing on my feet clad in their little black boots. My heart rate returns to normal, I can feel my body calming down. I’m used to the feelings now – the immediate rush of anxiety followed by the weak-kneed relief. The cycle of it all.
It is a relief to see the double doors of the clinic glowing ahead of me. Dominic is waiting inside, looking at his watch, wearing the sky-blue scarf I bought him last Christmas. He looks so handsome. As I stare at him through the glass, I remember the times we used to meet after work, back when we first met; I’d sneak out early to see him, desperate to be in his arms. It was so exciting; it was like a drug. Somewhere along the way we lost that excitement, between the endless rounds of IVF and the money flowing out of our bank account like water through a sieve.
I walk a little faster, eager to get to him, to feel his arms around me. I slip my left glove off as I go, run my fingers over the tiny chimney. As I enter, a couple push past me, hurrying through the door, and I catch a glimpse of young, bright eyes, hopeful red lips chapped with cold. An elderly woman follows them out, walking quickly with a slight hobble, grey hair falling across her face. She looks like a grandmother, a grandmother in waiting.
In the entrance room of the clinic we hug hello, I feel the relief of Dominic around me. We might not have the excitement, but we’ve still got each other.
‘You OK?’ he asks. ‘Good day?’
I smile at him reassuringly and almost tell him about finding the chimney, but something stops me. I know he’ll think I’m being silly. He thinks I cling on to the past a bit too much, to memories of Dad. So instead I say nothing, I feel for the chimney pot in the pocket of my coat and tell Dominic that my day has been fine.
‘Miss Hawes?’ The nurse appears and gestures to me. Dominic puts an arm around me as we enter a little side room. We sit down together on the green chairs, our thighs touching.
‘IVF treatment can be a difficult process, Miss Hawes.’ The nurse is smiling kindly at me. ‘Corinne? Sometimes it helps to chat to others who are going through the process. We do have a support group that meets once a month? Would you and Dominic be interested?’
The nurse is looking at me expectantly, her face open, eyes wide. She means well, I know, so I smile back at her, even though tonight I will have more hormones pushed into me, will wince as Dominic injects me with bromocriptine, clomifene, fertinex. We can both recite the drugs as though they are our times tables.
‘I think we’re OK, actually. But thank you,’ I tell the nurse, and then we start going through it again, planning the insemination. I force myself to keep cheerful, keep hoping, and I squeeze my hands around the little chimney pot in my pocket and imagine my dad smiling at me, telling me this is just another challenge. It makes me feel better, and I close my eyes and I wish and I wish and I wish.
Then
The windows of the car are misting up. Mummy has turned off her headlights so that our car sits in the darkness, hidden on the tree-lined street. Now that I’m almost eight, she talks to me more. She says if we’re lucky though, the next time it’s very cold winter time we might be able to get