‘Do you have her records there?’ I asked.
‘We do indeed. I tracked her file down at lunchtime—there’s not much in it, but you might find it useful. There’s a copy of the adoption form the Fishers had to fill in, a copy of Rebecca’s adoption certificate—oh, and a child psychologist’s report on Rebecca. It’s dated 1964, the year she went into care.’ Out of nowhere, I was cotton-mouthed with longing, and it was an effort to concentrate on his next words. ‘Looks like quite a lot of documentation’s gone AWOL over the years—there’s a lot more that should be there, but I suppose there’s no use crying over spilt milk. If you like, I could send you copies through the post, or, if you’ve got a fax machine…’
Thank God, we did—the elderly and erratic model Carl had bought years ago, which was now installed in the spare room. I’d never imagined I’d be so grateful for it, that I’d be so hungry for instant information. ‘Faxing it should be fine,’ I said, and told him the number. ‘You’ve been fantastically helpful. Thank you very much.’
‘Hope it helps with your book,’ he said. ‘I’ll send the pages through now.’
He was as good as his word. When I hurried up to the spare room, a squeaking, whining, grumbling sound told me a fax was coming through. I stood and waited for the pages to emerge—five in total—before taking them over to the desk, lighting a cigarette and starting to read.
Deliberately, I saved the densely typewritten sheet till last, and looked at the forms. The adoption certificate told me Rebecca Fisher had been born Rebecca Jane Sanderson, parents Richard and Marigold Sanderson, deceased. Adoptive parents Rita and Dennis Fisher, date of adoption 18 January 1965. The attached adoption form continued in much the same vein, a three-page list of facts and dates, names and addresses. It had obviously been filled out by one of the Fishers, in small, erratic handwriting that would have been hard to read in the original. As it was, I looked at the poor-quality fax of a poor-quality photocopy, and several words and sentences were indecipherable. Still, the printed questions told me I wasn’t missing much. Name of GP. Name(s) of child(ren) (if any). Criminal convictions (if any. Please give details.) That box was blank, but clearly announced that this was a form to be completed at the very beginning of the adoption process, something you got sent in response to an initial enquiry. More sophisticated screening procedures would unquestionably kick in later. It maddened me to think of those later, detailed, personal documents lost for ever; to think that, once, they’d been as tangibly real as the papers I had in front of me now.
The Fishers, I thought, had filled this in as soon as they’d seriously considered adopting a child. Something in the idea made me turn back to the front page, check the date of its completion. At first I was convinced that the handwriting and the print quality blurred the numbers, but on closer inspection I saw that there was nothing else they could have been. The document was dated 4 October 1962.
If that’s right, I thought, they waited over two years before actually adopting. Why was that? I reached for the final page I’d been sent, grinding out my cigarette absently, lighting another at once.
PSYCHOLOGIST’S REPORT
Date: 30 April 1964
Name of patient: Rebecca Jane Sanderson
Name of social worker: Bob Mills
Psychologist attending: Edward Leighton
Rebecca shows evidence of deep psychological disturbance, manifesting itself most obviously in an unwillingness to speak, and a complete withdrawal from emotional contact.
Unquestionably, this is the result of both parents’ premature death in a car accident this January; having contacted staff at Rebecca’s previous playgroup, I found that her behaviour prior to this has been ‘normal’ in every respect. From extensive liaison with Rebecca’s social worker, I note that she is an only child, and that her parents, while exceptionally close, lacked the wider support network which would have enabled Rebecca to remain in a familiar environment following their death (e.g. the home of an aunt or uncle).
It would be easy to interpret Rebecca’s current withdrawal as an entirely understandable reaction to the bereavement process, and to make the assumption that, given time, her behaviour will normalise. However, I believe that this would be a severe and potentially dangerous mistake. From my observations, there are a number of factors that imply severe psychological damage, and that, if left untreated, may well escalate in later life.
In addition to Rebecca’s total lack of integration with the other children in her care home, she continues to reject the assistance of adult staff, whom she appears to be both afraid of and antagonistic towards. Her rejection, while passive, is nonetheless clearly apparent (e.g. turning her back on care assistants in the home, refusal to eat unless left alone to do so) and implies a suppressed anger that I find profoundly disturbing. While appearing to shun any form of human contact, she has developed a morbid attachment to a stuffed toy, which (I am told) originally came from the home’s communal play area. Rebecca entirely refuses to relinquish or even to share this toy, and carries it with her everywhere she goes, insisting on retaining it even during my sessions with her. Tellingly, her only display of violent/actively antisocial behaviour has occurred in an incident relating to this toy, in which (a care assistant informs me) she struck another child who was attempting to take it forcibly from her.
Rebecca also has frequent episodes of bedwetting, but this is relatively normal at her age and, to the best of her social worker’s knowledge, could have been going on while her parents were alive.
In summary, I would strongly advise that this child continues to receive regular and comprehensive psychological treatment. It is easy to dismiss the behavioural abnormalities of a recently bereaved five-year-old. However, I believe that Rebecca’s problems may result in serious mental illness, and, as such, must be treated with the utmost care.
DR EDWARD LEIGHTON 1964
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
WHEN I’D FINISHED the report, I read back through it immediately—bewildered, jarred. While I hadn’t consciously been aware of it, I’d assumed from the outset that her adoption had been the result of worried neighbours and social workers intervening—the dark corners of childhood most people only encountered through newspaper articles and NSPCC campaigns, parental violence, neglect, abuse, chaos. It had never occurred to me that she’d been orphaned through a tragic accident, that she’d been happy before that day; a squeal of brakes and crumple of metal marking the brutal transition from family home to care home, from parents to strangers. I imagined the anonymity of the place she’d been sent to with a kind of mental shudder, something in the thought reminding me of…
The little room on the third floor of St Edward’s hall of residence, Reading. How empty it had looked when I’d first stepped in: whitewashed walls, institutional fittings. The view from the window showing me nothing but other windows across a concrete courtyard, vague shadows hinting at identical rooms beyond them. The drifting, cold horror of standing alone in that place, realising I was five hours’ drive away from the only life I’d ever known, that this was home now.
Of course, it wouldn’t have been the same for Rebecca when she’d arrived at the care home—I’d been eighteen, she’d been five. I wondered whether the ignorance of childhood would make that feeling of isolation better or worse. On the one hand, you didn’t know so much, so you couldn’t foresee the horror of it gradually intensifying; on the other, the world looked indescribably huge and alien at that age, and the sudden loss of everything you knew would inspire a bewilderment so intense that most adults couldn’t imagine it. A mother’s idiosyncratic kindness giving way to the one-size-fits-all care of paid professionals, seeing even that shared out among other children when you were used to being the only one. I could imagine only too well how dark things could take root in that confusion—an obsessive desire for something you could call your own, to belong somewhere, anywhere.
Standing in the spare room, I looked down at the report again, noticing the arc
haic look of the typescript—a message sent straight from a time when typewriters had been leading-edge technology, when electric typewriters had been the futuristic preserve of the superrich. I wondered what had happened in the aftermath of its writing, whether further steps had been taken to ease out the roots of lifelong trauma. I couldn’t see how anyone could ignore a report like this one, with its stark, uncompromising warnings and underlined imperatives. At the same time, though, it was blindingly obvious that Rebecca’s psychology hadn’t been bandaged and fussed over and cured; that it had gone limping out into the world very shortly afterwards, obsessed with concealing the injury rather than healing it.
Perhaps I was reading too much into the report, I told myself. I was doing exactly what I shouldn’t do, filling in vast blank spaces with nothing but my own ideas. Still, one fact leapt out quite clearly on its own. Rebecca had been adopted at the age of five, and I was well aware that wasn’t normal. Babies had always been at a premium with childless couples, older children at the bottom of the heap. Above the name of the psychologist who’d told me all he possibly could, I saw, with new interest, that of Rebecca’s social worker—he’d have all the answers, would know exactly what had happened next.
This time, it was easier to reach the department I wanted—I was relieved not to recognise the female voice that answered. ‘Excuse me,’ I said, ‘I wonder if you can help me. I’m trying to track down a social worker who used to be based in your department. I’ve got a few questions to ask about a case he was involved in some time ago.’
‘Can I ask who’s calling?’
‘My name’s Anna Howell. I’m calling from Reading Borough Council.’
The lie leapt out on its own—incredibly, she seemed happy with it. I could feel her experience filling in spaces with a new multi-agency approach, a partnership initiative she should have heard of, but hadn’t. ‘We might be able to help. What was the social worker’s name?’
‘Bob Mills.’
‘You mean Robert Mills?’
I spoke cautiously. ‘If he was part of your team in the 1960s, then yes.’
‘Well, you don’t exactly need us to track him down these days. He’s Head of Services at the Children’s Protection Society.’ She laughed. ‘Don’t you read your CommCare?’
I recognised the title from my Reading Council days; Social Services’ answer to the FT. Even back then, I’d avoided it whenever possible. ‘Not as often as I should, I’m afraid.’
‘He got the job in March. I have to warn you, you’ll probably have a hard time getting an interview.’
‘I can imagine,’ I said. ‘Thanks anyway. I’ll try and reach him there.’
Off the phone, I felt urgency collapse and wither around discouragement. Of all the things Rebecca’s old social worker could be doing these days, he had to be the CEO of one of Britain’s leading children’s charities. The public sector was slightly more democratic than big business, but only slightly; in a charity as in an investment bank, top-level managers were protected by an impenetrable brick wall of subordinates, smooth secretarial voices with a distinct undertow of sod off. One would say to me, if you’d like to put your request in writing, Mr Mills will do his best to answer it when he has the time…
I’d try phoning tomorrow, I told myself. I couldn’t face that kind of disappointment now, when finding out what had happened felt so important. Maybe, when the psychologist’s report had cooled a little in my mind, I’d be able to handle inevitable evasions with the right tone of professionalism.
For now, my day’s work was over, and the sunshine past the windows made the room feel oddly divorced from the outside world, heavy with an atmosphere I couldn’t put a name to.
‘I saw Liz next door earlier on. She’s invited us to a bring-and-bake sale on Saturday evening,’ I said to Carl that night over dinner. ‘I hope you don’t mind, but I said we’d go.’
‘Some welcome for Petra.’ At first he spoke sceptically, then, seeing my guilty expression, laughed. ‘I’m only joking, Annie—no problem, that’s fine. Anyway, we won’t have to stay long, will we?’
‘Next to no time—I just said we’d drop by. I don’t think it’s going to be very exciting. Liz said her friends Helen and Muriel are going to be there. You haven’t met them yet, have you?’
‘No. Have I got a treat in store?’
‘Well, Muriel seems nice enough. But Helen…there’s something cold about her. I didn’t take to her at all, to be honest.’ Even now, the thought of her was slightly oppressive—I thought back to our meeting in Wareham Library, her unsettling and perpetual air of silence. Suddenly, I wanted to get the conversation as far away from her as possible, to banish her image from my mind. ‘Come to that, I can’t really bond with Liz,’ I went on quickly. ‘She’s really nice and everything, I know it’s great to have such a good neighbour, but I always feel a bit on edge with her, as if I might be doing something wrong. She’s such a pillar of the community, like someone from a different species.’
‘Give her a chance,’ he said reasonably. ‘You said you used to feel much the same way about Petra.’
‘I didn’t.’ The words came out as a knee-jerk reaction, before a memory returned; three or four years ago in Reading, reminiscing about old times, darker memories of my own slowly drifting into the conversation. ‘I suppose I did,’ I said unwillingly. ‘But that was different. I don’t know how, exactly, it just was. There’s so much more to Petra than I thought, when we first met. It’s not like that with Liz—what you see is what you get. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to talk to her properly, not about anything that matters.’
‘Well, you can never tell. She might have hidden depths of her own when you get to know her better.’ He smiled, happy to let the issue go. ‘Anyway, it’ll be good to see Petra again. Started getting the spare room ready yet?’
‘Not yet, we’ve got ages. I’ll sort it out on Friday. It’s never going to look like anything special, but I’ll get some flowers and that sort of thing. I don’t suppose it really matters, she’s only going to be there for one night.’
‘It’s going to be a pretty short weekend,’ he agreed. ‘I thought I’d go into Bournemouth when you pick her up on Saturday morning. I need to take the car in for a service anyway, and I know you two will want to catch up in peace for a while.’
I was glad of that—I knew he was thinking in terms of easy gossip and what various people were up to back in Reading, but I had infinitely more important issues to share with her: Mr Wheeler and Socks, things that couldn’t possibly be discussed at length while Carl was in the bathroom here or at the bar in a pub. ‘Well,’ I said flippantly, ‘if you insist. Try not to be too long.’
A pause fell as we ate, and I became aware of him looking at me occasionally, almost furtively, split-second-long glances that seemed to check for something hidden. I could see that he didn’t really want to speak and that, finally, he had to.
‘So, how’s the research going? You’ve been all quiet about it for the past couple of days.’
‘There’s nothing much to tell,’ I said ruefully. ‘I’m finding things out. Looking more things up on the internet. I have to admit, it’s not quite as exciting as I thought it was going to be, at first.’
My mind reeled before the sheer enormity of the lie, but was instantly soothed by his expression, as if he’d checked back on a fear to make sure it had definitely gone away, and saw quite clearly that it had done. Soon, I thought, he’d be confident enough of its absence to stop checking and, not long after that, my research was bound to come to a natural end.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘I’m glad it’s not getting you down too badly. A while back, I was worried you were getting a bit obsessed with it all.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
I GOT THE NUMBER of the Children’s Protection Society headquarters from directory enquiries the following morning. Two rings, and I was through to a main reception desk.
‘Excuse me. May I speak to Robert Mills, plea
se?’
‘I’ll put you through to his office.’
The no-questions-asked tone told me I was about to meet the brick wall. Sure enough, after a minute or so of tinny music, another female voice answered, less friendly, more clipped, ostentatiously busy. ‘You’re through to Robert Mills’ office. How can I help you?’
There was, I realised, nothing for it but honesty. Only the truth could possibly get me through the door here, transferred into the inner sanctum. ‘My name’s Anna Jeffreys. I’m a writer researching a novel based on the Rebecca Fisher murder case of 1969. I’ve heard Mr Mills was her social worker at the time she was adopted, and I wondered if he might be able to spare a few minutes to talk to me.’
A pause before she spoke again, her tone slightly dubious. ‘If you’d like to hold for a moment.’
Tinkly music again, this time a near-unrecognisable rendition of ‘Up Where We Belong’. I was very tempted to just hang up—I didn’t have a hope in hell of getting through to the man—but then a new, male voice spoke. ‘Robert Mills.’
‘Oh, hello,’ I said, amazed. ‘I wonder if you could help me. I’m not sure if your secretary told you who I am, but—’
‘Don’t worry, she did. You’ve caught me at a good moment, as it happens—I’m free to talk. I must warn you, though, I’m due in a meeting ten minutes from now.’
His voice was quiet, matter-of-fact and rather uninflected, with a slight Northern edge. It was a middle-management public sector voice all the way, making me think of creased Next suits, battered family Volvos, and jugs of bad coffee in boardrooms like staffrooms. I supposed he was the sort of senior manager who prided himself on being approachable. The way he was talking to me now said as much.
For a second or two, I was too surprised to think of a question, then one leapt into my brain on its own. ‘How long did you work with Rebecca Fisher?’
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