The Guilty Mother

by Diane Jeffrey

  He breaks off, staring vacantly at one of Melissa’s felt pictures on the wall. This time he remains silent for so long that I don’t think he’ll finish his sentence. But then he says, ‘Well, we used to see more of our grandson.’ His voice wavers slightly. ‘We tried to help Simon out. We picked Callum up from school, took him to his activities and clubs, that sort of thing. Ivy gave him a hand with his homework assignments. He had dinner with us and slept here when my son-in-law had to work late.’

  I note that he refers to Simon Goodman as his son-in-law despite the fact he and Melissa had divorced and she was remarried. I’m about to ask how old Callum is now, but then it comes back to me that he was thirteen years old at the trial. I do the mental arithmetic in my head. Eighteen. ‘What’s Callum doing these days?’ I ask instead.

  But before George can answer, the front door slams and we hear a woman’s voice. At first I think she’s with someone, but I soon realise she’s talking to George from the hallway. She’s plump and she waddles into the living room, unwrapping a ludicrously long scarf from around her neck.

  ‘So, I asked to see the manager!’ she continues, without looking our way. ‘So rude! I’m dying for a cup …’ She stops mid-rant when she catches sight of me. Mr Moore leaps to his feet and helps her off with her jacket, and I stand up and approach her, introducing myself and holding out my hand. She doesn’t take it. ‘A journalist? We don’t talk to reporters.’

  Up close, I can see she’s wearing abundant make-up that doesn’t completely conceal the wrinkles criss-crossing in furrows across her face. I know she was once attractive from the photographs I’ve just seen, but the only trace that remains of her beauty is her eyes. She has the same striking eyes as her daughter.

  ‘But he’s from The Redcliffe Gazette,’ George says. They must buy The Rag, I realise.

  ‘I heard about your daughter’s application for an appeal, Mrs Moore,’ I explain. ‘My editor has asked me to cover it and I just want to get my facts straight.’

  ‘Perhaps next time you can phone before showing up on our doorstep,’ Mrs Moore says. ‘George, I’ll make some tea while you show your visitor out.’ She kicks off her shoes, bends down to pick them up and about-turns to leave the room.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say to Mr Moore as we step outside.

  ‘Don’t mind Ivy,’ he says. ‘She hates the press. We had reporters and photographers practically camping outside our house for weeks. A proper media circus, it was. We couldn’t open the front door without them bombarding us with questions and shoving cameras in our faces.’

  ‘I’m sorry about that, Mr Moore,’ I say, a strange mixture of shame and culpability washing over me at the thought that the Moores were hounded by people in the same profession as me.

  ‘The media branded Melissa as guilty from the start,’ he continues. ‘How could they prove she was innocent when everyone’s minds were already made up?’

  I go to leave, but he grabs my arm. I turn to face him. He frowns, pinching his thick eyebrows together.

  ‘She didn’t do it, you know. My daughter could never have hurt anyone.’ His voice is loud, to override his emotion, I suppose, and for his sake I hope his wife can’t hear him.

  ‘Who was in the house when Melissa’s baby died?’ I ask. The words fly from my mouth before the question has fully formulated in my head, and I realise my mistake as soon as I see George’s face cloud over.

  ‘Which baby?’ he whispers at the same moment his wife shouts his name from within the house, putting an end to our conversation.

  Chapter 4

  Melissa

  April 2012

  I hadn’t wanted to host the dinner party in the first place, but Michael insisted it was high time we invited our friends round. It was only Rob and Jenny, he said. They were coming with their daughter, who was a few months younger than Callum. Michael’s daughter, Bella, would be there, too. She seemed to spend as much time as possible at her mum’s – she was taking her A levels that year and apparently it was quieter for her to study there – but, to Michael’s delight, she’d agreed to come to us for the weekend. With Clémentine, our au pair, that made eight of us, not counting the twins.

  Clémentine helped out with all the food preparation. She was a godsend, that girl, or so I thought at the time, and I’d been hoping she would extend her stay with us after her year was up. I realised just how much I’d come to rely on her in the short two months she’d been with us and I didn’t know what I’d do without her. She shopped and cooked and helped me look after the twins. Her patience was boundless and self-confidence oozed out of every pore of her flawless olive skin. No matter what I asked her to do, she did it graciously. She often took the initiative, too, anticipating what needed to be done before I could make a to-do list in my head.

  Clémentine had even impressed Michael, who had initially been reluctant to employ an au pair. But once my husband, a self-professed wine buff, found out that Clémentine’s parents were winegrowers in the Rhône Valley, it was a done deal. The two of them had taken to discussing and tasting wines in the evenings and Michael had started to take Clémentine with him to his oenology classes once a fortnight.

  As for Callum, he was besotted with her. His eyes practically popped out of his spotty face on stalks whenever she sashayed into the room, a cloud of Chanel’s Coco Mademoiselle invariably wafting in with her. I’d heard him stutter more than once as he tried out his schoolboy French on her and then witnessed him blushing when she answered in her native tongue and he didn’t understand. I think it amused Clémentine.

  I couldn’t fault her except for one thing. For some reason, she always seemed to tend to Ellie, leaving me to look after Amber. I’d tried to talk to Michael about this, but he argued that at only a few weeks of age, it probably didn’t matter one iota to the twins who looked after them as long as someone fed them, changed them and talked to them. I sometimes wondered if I wished Clémentine would take Amber more often because she was prone to colic and colds whereas her sister Ellie was considerably calmer. I kept that thought to myself, though, feeling guilty whenever it wormed its way into my mind.

  I tried to convince myself it would be lovely to see Jenny again, but in truth I wasn’t looking forward to having guests. Despite that, I’d put a lot of thought into making myself presentable for them coming. I’d had my hair layered and highlighted that afternoon, and as I still didn’t fit into my pre-pregnancy clothes, I bought a new outfit in Oasis, opting for dark colours in the hope of concealing my bulges.

  If I’d spent a little money getting ready for this evening – too much for Michael’s liking – I didn’t get to spend much time. Amber cried for what seemed like hours and by the time I finally got her down, I was running late. I did a quick job with my make-up and I was doing up my dress when the doorbell went. I appraised the result in the bedroom mirror. Not perfect, but not too bad. It would do.

  When Jenny arrived, though, self-doubt consumed me in one big gulp. ‘Sleek’ and ‘slim’ were the words that sprung to mind when I looked at her. In comparison, I could only come up with ‘fat’ and ‘frumpy’ to describe myself. The same age as me, Jenny didn’t appear to have aged at all since I’d known her whereas I would need to apply a whole bottle of foundation to stand any chance of masking my wrinkles. And although she was normally the same height as me, in her kitten heels Jenny towered two inches over me in my slippers.

  ‘Ooh, your hair looks fantastic,’ were the first words she said when I opened the door. Good old Jen. She always said the right thing.

  As she, Rob and their daughter, Sophia, stood on the doorstep, I noticed with a prick of envy that Rob had his arm around Jenny’s waist. It was months since there had been any genuine affection between Michael and me. I thought the twins would bring us closer again one day, but for the moment the unexpected upheaval in our lives had driven a wedge between us.

  Michael shepherded everyone into the living room and served pre-dinner drinks. I was already feeling d
etached from it all, as though I was on the outside looking in. I made an effort to laugh in the right places, but it didn’t sound like my laugh; I attempted to make small talk, but it was stilted, as if I were trying to string together sentences in a foreign language.

  At the table, at least three discussions were going on at the same time and I couldn’t follow a single one. The chatter grew louder and everyone’s words merged into a confused din in my head. Once or twice there was a slight hush and I realised someone had spoken to me and was waiting for my response. It all felt as if I’d walked onto a stage and had to play a part, but I was missing my cues and hadn’t learnt my lines.

  I’d decided against breastfeeding – it just seemed easier not to and I felt too old to do all the nightly feeds myself – so I could have a drink or two, which I’d been looking forward to. I knocked back the expensive wine without even tasting it, hoping it would loosen my tongue, or at least loosen me up. I was relieved when everyone had finished their starters and I could busy myself with clearing the plates and serving the main course.

  Everything was forced – my contribution to the conversation, my smile, which stretched into a rictus across my face. I felt like a fraud. I was faking it, feigning an interest when I had no idea what was going on around me. After a while, I couldn’t keep up the pretence. When the baby monitor crackled, I leapt to my feet, seizing the opportunity to get away for a few minutes.

  But Clémentine got there first. ‘It’s Ellie,’ she said. ‘I’ll go and get her.’

  ‘She’s terrific, isn’t she?’ Jenny said.

  I was so grateful to Jenny for finding Clémentine to help with the twins and Irena to clean the house that I sat down again, nodded at Jenny and left Clémentine to it. I checked the baby monitor every few minutes, willing Amber to wake up, too. I turned up the volume, although it was unnecessary. Whenever Amber screamed with hunger, you could hear her even without the baby phone.

  After the meal, Bella packed the dishwasher while Callum sloped off to his room, Sophia in tow, to play on his console. Blaming the wine, I popped to the toilet before flopping down on the sofa in the living room next to Jenny.

  Clémentine was already sitting in an armchair holding Ellie. Her eyes fixed on the baby, she didn’t notice me studying her. She was wearing a low-cut white top and a short black skirt. Earlier I’d thought, rather unkindly, that she was a frilly apron short of a French maid’s outfit, but now I found myself jealous of the way her clothes showed off her cleavage and shapely legs to perfection.

  Bella came into the living room to join us, perching on the arm of Clémentine’s chair. I observed my stepdaughter reaching across Clémentine to stroke her half-sister’s fair head. Bella was only a year or two younger than Clémentine and they got on well at the time.

  Rob and Michael had been talking animatedly about something – I had no idea what – and there was one of those abrupt silences you sometimes get at parties when everyone stops speaking for a moment. It was broken by the noise of Ellie guzzling from her bottle.

  ‘I think we need our own bottle!’ Michael said, opening a bottle of Armagnac. He arched his eyebrows at me when I asked for a glass, but he poured me some without comment. It must have been a very small measure because when I picked up my glass a minute or so later, there was no brandy left in it.

  Turning to Jenny, I whispered so Michael wouldn’t hear, ‘Have you got any fags?’

  ‘Of course,’ she said and stood up, grabbing her handbag from the floor by her feet and slinging it over her shoulder.

  Jenny always carried a packet of cigarettes on her for emergencies and evenings out. I sometimes accompanied her outside and smoked passively while she puffed away, but it had been a while since I’d felt like a smoke myself. Holding the baby monitor in one hand and the cigarette in the other, I relaxed a little for the first time that evening.

  When we came back in, stinking like ashtrays, Rob winked at us while Michael scowled at me.

  ‘I think I’ll go and check on Amber,’ I said. ‘It’s not like her to sleep through a feed.’

  ‘No, she ’asn’t cried for a while,’ Clémentine said, her French accent more pronounced than usual. ‘She’s usually so ’ungry.’ She turned to look at Michael with her dark brown eyes, and he chuckled.

  Bella offered to go for me and Jenny offered to come with me, but I declined both of them and made my way across the room and up the stairs.

  I walked along the landing on slightly wobbly legs, wondering if I was in a fit state to carry my baby and taking deep breaths to try and sober up. The door to the nursery was open and I froze on the threshold, my head suddenly clear, as if someone had just thrown a bucket of icy water over me.

  I knew before I walked into the room that something was very wrong. I never told the police that, of course, or anyone else for that matter. But as I stood in the doorway, the room somehow seemed unnaturally still. I strained my ears, but I could hear none of the gentle grunting sounds Amber usually made when she slept.

  I can’t recall walking towards the cot. I can’t remember looking down at my baby, if she was face down, or if her face was purplish or pallid. I obliterated those seconds from my memory and left it to my imagination to fill in the blanks.

  I remember collapsing to the floor. I remember someone screaming. I didn’t realise it was me until everyone else rushed into the room. Kneeling down next to me, Bella, Jenny and Callum all held me. The colour had drained from Callum’s face and I thought he might need support more than I did. Bella made him sit down. She was pale, too.

  Clémentine lifted Amber out of the cot and thrust her into Michael’s arms. I wanted to call out and tell Clémentine to be gentle with my baby, but I said nothing. I knew it was useless. So I just watched as Clémentine put her mouth over Amber’s mouth and nose, and then pushed down on her little sternum with two fingers. Rob rang the ambulance from his mobile, although I heard someone – I think it was Michael – say that there was no point. Amber had been dead for too long.

  Chapter 5

  Jonathan

  April 2018

  ‘She wouldn’t tell me her name,’ Kelly says. I’m standing behind her, leaning on the back of her chair as I read the article over her shoulder. ‘I found her at Pero’s Bridge on Harbourside begging for small change.’ I’ve just read this sentence word for word on Kelly’s laptop screen.

  I start to quote aloud, mainly to prevent Kelly from commenting while I’m trying to read. ‘“I was abused at home by my father. When I flunked my exams, I started taking drugs. I even stole money from my mother to pay for them. Long story short, my mother eventually threw me out. Can’t blame her, really. I was a mess. I thought I’d get away from it all by leaving home, but I’ve been sexually assaulted several times since I’ve been on the streets, too.”’

  ‘That’s terribly sad,’ I say, looking at the photo Kelly has taken of a woman in her early twenties. She’s wearing clothes that have seen better days, and her black hair is either tangled or in dreadlocks – I can’t tell which.

  ‘She’s around the same age as me,’ Kelly says.

  Kelly has also interviewed a busker called Rose. ‘She was playing the violin in an underpass in The Bearpit,’ Kelly informs me, although, again, I’ve just read that bit for myself. ‘She’s very good. I recorded her. Do you want to hear it?’

  ‘Er, maybe later. I’ll just finish—’

  ‘She’s got a bed in a hostel at the moment rather than sleeping rough.’ In the photo, Kelly has captured Rose, bow poised above her instrument, concentration displayed on her face alongside numerous nose and ear piercings. Her drab clothes – khaki trousers, black vest, black fingerless gloves and grey beanie – contrast sharply with the colourful graffiti on the walls behind her.

  ‘So, what do you think?’ Kelly asks, when I look up from the screen.

  ‘It’s excellent,’ I say, sitting down in my chair and rolling it towards Kelly’s workstation so that I can still see her computer scr
een. ‘I like the fact you’ve done a piece on three women – the one we saw at Cabot Circus and these two. Their different stories and circumstances make it an interesting read.’ Kelly seems encouraged by these remarks. ‘It needs a few nips and tucks, though. But I can help if you like. First up, that headline has to go.’

  Kelly looks crestfallen. ‘It took me ages to come up with that,’ she says.

  ‘Well, it’s just my point of view, but you have a fascinating feature here, and “Gimme Shelter” is a clever … um, pun, but well …’

  ‘What do you suggest?’

  ‘How about: WOMEN SLEEPING ON THE STREETS, colon, Bristol’s Female Beggars and Buskers?’ I move my hand from left to right to indicate the headline, my fingers and thumb showing capitals; then I repeat the gesture, conveying a smaller font for the subheading. Noticing Kelly suppress a smile, I slide my hands under my thighs.

  ‘Alliteration.’

  ‘It sounds more upmarket, more newsworthy. Secondly, it’s great that you have these women’s accounts, but perhaps you could use your voice as a journalist a little more instead of reporting all of it verbatim.’

  As I continue to make suggestions, Kelly makes changes to her article.

  ‘You should ask Claire to run the story online as well as in print,’ I say when we’ve finished. ‘That way, you can add the video of Rose playing the violin.’ Kelly’s face lights up at that idea.

  An hour or so after the news meeting that afternoon, Claire summons me into her office.

  ‘How are you getting on with the Melissa Slade case?’ she begins.

  ‘Um … I’ve interviewed the parents,’ I say. I feel myself reddening as an image of an irate Ivy Moore flashes before my eyes. Her words echo in my head. We don’t talk to reporters. ‘I need to work my way through the other family members to get a clearer picture.’

  ‘You should get in touch with her first husband, Simon Goodman,’ Claire says tucking a non-existent strand of hair behind the ear that doesn’t have the pencil. ‘I’m sure he’ll be able to throw some light on the details of the appeal.’