The Doll in the Gingham Dress

PROLOGUE: 1934

And then he sees the doll in the gingham dress.

‘What about that one?’ he asks.

The assistant lifts it from the shelf and places it on the counter. Oh, no, he thinks. Perhaps it’s too big. Too big for her to hold, to carry. He tries to imagine small hands around it.

‘What sort of age would this be suitable for?’ he asks.

‘Well, what age is the little girl?’ the assistant says.

‘Moira?’ he says, and frowns. Because his daughter is all ages and none. Today she’s something, and next year she’ll be something else. This gift is supposed to be for her to have, to keep. Maybe forever. And as he thinks of that, the aching sensation returns. He doesn’t know if it’s sorrow, longing or guilt.

He grasps the doll with one hand and lifts it. Although it feels strong and solid, it’s not as heavy as he’d expected. Surely it’ll do. If not immediately, then soon. In due course.

He puts it back down on the counter and considers the face. The eyes are clear blue. The thin, high eyebrows are arrows pointing towards neatly curled blonde hair. The cheeks are full and warm and the reddened lips pucker as if the doll’s about to say something.

He gently touches the fabric of its dress, expecting to feel the roughness of boundaries where different coloured materials have been sewn together. But there is none. The cotton’s perfectly smooth and he wonders if the mesmerising checked pattern is somehow printed on. No, of course not. Just woven with fine cotton thread. And wait. It’s not even a check, not really. When he looks at it, when he really looks, he sees that it’s stripes – vertical stripes of bold mid-pink and of white. And then on the horizontal, there are white stripes and fainter pink ones, that intersect with the vertical, to create one, two, three, four different shades. Subtle. Clever. You see one thing, but you think you’re seeing something else.

‘Unusual,’ the assistant says, ‘to see such a small-check gingham. Anything larger would look a bit silly, don’t you think? But it works, doesn’t it.’

He nods noncommittally. What does he know about dolls’ clothes?

‘Will it break?’ he asks then. The solid head, now he touches it, seems likely to shatter. ‘What if she drops it?’

He’s thinking of a doll he saw as a lad, during the Great War. It was lying discarded on a verge, the china head gaping open like a broken teacup. Sharp white edges of emptiness abutted the surviving bright eye, pink cheek and full red lips, which, in pitiful denial, still formed the hint of a smile. Staring at that wrecked face, he suddenly understood the truth beneath the bandages of the soldiers outside the temporary hospital at the Mecca Dance Hall. And the indignation with which his body trembled that day has never left him. He burns still at how lives are so crassly and heartlessly destroyed by others, and he cannot let it be.

‘Break?’ she repeats. ‘No, not this one. It’s composite.’

He tastes the word and shakes his head.

‘Unbreakable,’ the assistant says. ‘Made from…’ she winces a smile. ‘Well, made of, you know, composite.’

‘Unbreakable,’ he echoes. It’s a good idea. And it looks decent, presentable. Yes, Moira will surely like it. He checks it over again. Two chubby pink arms erupt from short sleeves and resolve into plump hands with fingers slightly bent. Around the waist is a crimson sash, fastened in a neat bow. He pushes at the skirt and two round knees are revealed, topped by chubby thighs. Below the hemline, attached to barely defined ankles, are two splayed feet in shiny red shoes.

He doesn’t care about the price. He doesn’t even ask.

‘I’ll take it,’ he says.

Because it’s the expression. It always was the expression, from the minute he saw it. There’s a gentleness to it, a calm, that might comfort and cheer a child whose life was already going wrong, even before it began.