A Good Enough Mother

by Bev Thomas

  ‘Well?’ he says and his voice is kind, gentle. There’s the briefest of pauses. ‘Please tell me it isn’t what it looks like?’

  John’s face is set in grim determination. His body still braced for imminent disaster. The last thing he needs is another scandal. He’s waiting for me to tell him it’s a mistake. That I’ve been the victim of a patient fabrication. A hoax. That this will be no more than a headache, an irritant. That we can get the Comms team to release a statement, and smooth things over quickly.

  I open my mouth. My face flushes with shame as I look back down at those marks. A squeeze of fury branded on her arm. Bitch. It’s an arm held up in defiance. I can see the time recorded on the picture and I imagine she went straight to the toilets on the ground floor and took them right then and there, in the bright strip lighting by the sinks. I shake my head. He breathes out heavily, defeated.

  ‘I – I don’t know what to say—’ I stammer, ‘something happened. There was a scene. She was very angry – she said some things. I tried to stop her from leaving. I reached for her. I don’t remember it very clearly,’ and I press my fingers to my temples. Her sour face. The words that stung my cheeks. ‘I did touch her arm. I do remember that. But I don’t remember squeezing it.’ I shake my head. ‘I just remember being very angry,’ and then I cover my face with my hands.

  A long breath out, ‘Jesus. Ruth.’ For a moment he sits very still. Then he slowly wipes a hand over his face like a flannel.

  It has not been an easy year in the Trust for John. Financial cuts across the hospital had seen widespread job losses and the resultant fury led to a line of hefty HR grievances. On top of this, a member of staff had been implicated in a suicide on the adolescent unit. There had been court cases, endless press releases, and just when things were improving, his wife had been taken ill. She had surgery for breast cancer and was now in recovery. All in all, it’s been a bleak and stressful year.

  There’s some discussion. Not much. John says Hayley’s been in touch with the police. That they’ll be contacting me for a statement. Criminal charges, I hear him say. He says he’ll do what he can. ‘Minimise the damage,’ he says. Then he tells me I’m suspended with immediate effect.

  ‘What about my patients?’ I say helplessly. In my head, I run through my timetable for next week. The team meeting. Supervision with Stephanie. My second session with the Balham team. All my patients who depend on me. All of them who I see once a week or once a fortnight. And what about Dan? I feel a sharp pain in my chest.

  ‘I have about twenty-two open cases,’ I say. ‘There’s this one patient—’

  John is pragmatic. I need to write a list of current patients to hand over. ‘Paula will be in touch with them all today. By phone and by letter.’ He says he’ll draft something for her to send out. ‘They’ll be offered an alternative therapist.’

  ‘Who?’ I say. ‘We’re all stretched – there’s no one—’

  ‘Ruth,’ he cuts in, ‘they will need to be offered an alternative. Work out from the list who is most at risk. Who needs to be prioritised,’ he barks. ‘We will be non-specific about timescales. Someone else will need to pick them up.’

  I watch him speak. I see him open and close his mouth.

  ‘Timescales?’ I ask weakly.

  ‘The investigation,’ he shrugs, ‘it’ll be three months – minimum.’

  I work my lips. I can no longer find any words. I nod. All at once I remember the patient investigation in the adult department last year. In the end, it was more like six months before the therapist was back at work.

  ‘We may need a locum,’ he says, ‘or someone to act up. Until this is sorted.’

  ‘A locum?’ I say. We never get locums agreed. You never agree to locum covers, is what I want to say. ‘Why a locum?’

  It’s then that he looks irritated. Like I’m a child that isn’t following clear instructions.

  ‘Ruth. You’re the director. You hold a position of seniority. Someone will need to act up and lead the team.’

  ‘Act up? – but it shouldn’t take long. It’ll blow over? Won’t it?’

  His expression changes. He looks at me. A hard intense look.

  ‘Blow over?’ he says, in exasperation. ‘Ruth, do you understand how serious this is? Hayley Rappley may bring criminal charges. I sincerely hope not. I am due to meet her father later this afternoon. But if she does – well—’ He holds his hands palm up. ‘She could. Sounds like she’d be entitled to,’ and there’s more than a hint of accusation in his voice.

  He stops, scratches at the side of his face. Something he does, I’ve noticed, when he’s worried.

  ‘What happened, Ruth? How on earth did this happen?’ He has respect for me. For my status and professionalism. For my years of service in the Trust. He wants to understand. He searches my face for an explanation.

  This is the time to tell him about Tom. To tell him my son is missing. That I don’t know where he is. That I haven’t seen him for over a year and a half. This is the time to offer him something. Some small crumb. Something he can use and understand. But I know this would be no kind of excuse. There is no excuse.

  I shake my head.

  ‘I’m so sorry. Really. I’m sorry.’

  I tell him I’ll sort the admin stuff out now. That I’ll go to my office.

  ‘Yes. Good,’ he says briskly. ‘I’ve given Paula the heads-up. She’ll be expecting you.’

  I’m taken aback by the urgency. The swiftness. I stand up to go.

  ‘—and I’ll need your ID,’ he says.

  It’s only then, in that moment, that I come close to crying. As I feel my eyes mist over, I put my head down and make a prolonged search for the badge in my bag, then place it on the table. How quickly things can change, I think. A small step across an invisible line.

  *

  Paula looks tense. ‘You’ve seen John?’ she asks, her face pale.

  I nod. It’s her sudden hug that releases my tears. She pats at the chair next to her.

  ‘Let’s get this done,’ she says gently. ‘Let me help.’

  ‘My patients for Monday – can you try and get hold of them? Let them know in advance. And Dan Griffin,’ I say, ‘can you please call him?’

  As I step out into the car park, I feel bruised and dazed. But somewhere, there’s relief. Some recognition that the last forty-eight hours have spun hopelessly out of control and now I’m being rescued. That I’m limping away from a car crash that could have been so much worse. Squeezing a patient’s arm? Letting a patient stay at my house? What next? So, there’s a small voice that’s telling me I’m lucky. That this enforced exile will be helpful. That I’ve been saved from myself. In less than twenty-four hours, it’s a thought that will seem grotesque, given the reality that is to come.

  Twenty-three

  When it happens, I am one of the last to know. It’s a Friday afternoon, a week since my suspension. So, I am at home, and still reeling from the sudden shift to my working week. I’m struggling to adjust to empty afternoons that were once too full, too crammed with helping and listening and being useful. Time now yawns ahead of me, as I search about for things to fill my days. I feel stunted. Lost. At sea.

  Sometime during that week, a card arrives from Stephanie. It’s a coastal picture of a windswept beach with sand dunes and multi-coloured beach huts. I imagine her sitting at her desk to write her message, wrestling with her feelings at being let down midway through her placement and her desire to do the right thing. ‘Thinking of you’ is what she settles on in her neat and careful handwriting.

  In the days that follow, I will wonder exactly where I was when it happened. Perhaps I was at the sink? Washing up a cup? Sorting through old work files? Or perhaps I was weeding the flower beds and planting yellow primulas in the pots on the patio. Were those soft velvety petals smooth under my fingers at that very moment? It will take some time for me to realise the significance of the timing. And of course, much will be made of this in court, the f
act that it took place at the exact time of our booked appointment at the unit. It’s later I find out that, in spite of Paula having left him a message, he turned up for his session, in what was described as a ‘highly agitated state’. And then he was told I wasn’t there. Perhaps he came remembering our last session, the image of the chest of drawers. I will be here to help you. Perhaps he came with hope. An opportunity to create order out of chaos. Perhaps not. Who knows?

  I can only imagine the sequence of events that afternoon. It would have been Paula who took the call. They would have asked for me. Given the high-profile and criminal aspects of many of our cases, calls from the police were not unusual. At first Paula would have explained that I was not at work. She would have relayed the brief response that had been agreed by John: ‘She’s out of the office for the next few weeks. Let me take a message and get someone else to call you.’ Foreseeable future is of course the term that was agreed, the phrase that John recommended my colleagues use. Perhaps they’re not ready for this yet. They, too, were easing themselves into the news, gingerly and slowly, like a swimmer sinking into a too-cold pool. It’s funny how none of any of this matters now. Now there is no secrecy. No place to hide.

  When the urgency of the police request became apparent, Paula, in her efficiency, would have offered up one of the more senior therapists: Maggie or Jamie, both of whom deputise for me when I am away. In turn, I imagine each of them, in their offices, going about the business of work, sending emails, seeing patients, reviewing case notes. A regular Friday afternoon. Down the corridor, the PTSD group will have started. Stephanie will be seeing Samira. It will be a normal afternoon, unpunctured by the news that is to come.

  At some point, very soon after, John would have been called. Perhaps it’s after this initial call, or perhaps it’s a little later, when the police come to seize my files. I have a pang of sympathy for John. For what is coming. Poor John. A week earlier, his biggest worry was managing the fallout from a fifteen-year-old’s Instagram account.

  There is a flurry of activity. All this news and tragedy bleeding its way through the office. The overfull bath is reaching the top. A curl of silvery water creases over. One finger, then another. Until a giant hand of water slowly rolls over. It hits the floor, then gently creeps across, soaking into the fabric of other people’s lives. And all the while I am at home. Washing up a cup or feeling soft petals under my fingers. In my exile. In a bubble of ignorance.

  The first I know about any of it is when my mobile rings at 6.35 p.m. I reach for it, I see it’s John, and as I tap to answer the call, the doorbell rings. I’m walking into the hallway. There’s a small shaft of sun coming through the patterned glass in the door; it creates a swirl of light on the wooden floor. I step across it, as I press the phone to my ear.

  ‘Ruth,’ he says, his voice low, ‘something’s happened—’

  I’m opening the door now. A middle-aged man and a woman in her thirties are on the step, police IDs in hand.

  ‘Ruth Hartland?’ says the woman. ‘May we come in?’

  For a brief moment, I think these two events are unconnected. That John and the detectives at my door are two random events that have collided on my Friday afternoon. When I see the police, I instantly think of Tom. I feel a plummeting sensation, an intense and desperate urge to get off the phone. In that moment, his call seems secondary, a distraction from the important issue in hand.

  ‘I have to go,’ I say to John, a lurch in my belly.

  There are some other words he says, but his voice is more distant. It’s receding, as I let my hand drop away from my ear. ‘I’m on my way round,’ he says. I think I hear him say something about a lawyer. The papers. If there’s any association at all, I think he’s ringing about Hayley. Perhaps she’s decided to press charges. It’s a vague and fleeting thought, and I park it away somewhere else. This is not a priority, is what I’m thinking as I sweep it away. Making room for the other important news of my son. Perhaps John does give me more details. Perhaps he sketches out some events. Perhaps he doesn’t. I simply don’t remember. All I do know is that I am bracing myself for news. I am preoccupied with my own panic. My terror about Tom. Whatever John has said falls away when I usher the detectives inside.

  We move into the lounge. I sit down, perched on the edge of my chair. Then I am baffled when the female detective gets out a transparent folder. It contains a small picture that she doesn’t remove, but places down on the coffee table in front of us. I stare at her blankly. I don’t look down.

  ‘Is this about Tom?’ I ask. ‘Has something happened to Tom? Please?’ I say urgently. ‘I need to know—’

  ‘Tom?’

  ‘My son.’

  The policewoman glances up at me. Her face is blank. There’s a small almost imperceptible shake of her head. At this point, their knowledge is patchy. They are still piecing things together. At this stage, her demeanour is kind, but of course, this will change.

  ‘Can I please ask you to take a look at this photograph? Do you recognise it?’

  I peer at the snap taken on the beach. The little gingham hat. The hands that are patting at the sand. The joyful smile on his baby face.

  ‘It’s Nicholas,’ I say, ‘my grandson.’ I’m confused. ‘Where did you get this? It’s my photograph.’

  I flip it over. On the back is the address. Julie’s home address written in my excited handwriting.

  She nods and moves it gently to the side.

  ‘It was in my wallet – in my bag. Where did you get it?’

  ‘And what about this one?’ she asks, and all of a sudden, there is another photo on the coffee table. This one is grainy and out of focus. The camera has zoomed in on the faces. I pick up the plastic envelope and peer at it. It’s me. With Nicholas in my arms. Lifting him up above my head, like a bird in the sky. His face is creased into a chuckle and the picture has been taken as I am pulling him back towards me – our faces touching.

  I don’t understand. ‘It’s me,’ I say, ‘it’s a picture of me and Nicholas.’

  She writes in her notebook and there’s something about their strange still silence that makes the moment shift. A darkening of mood. A creeping sense of dread.

  ‘Can you tell me where it was taken?’ she asks.

  I can see the red brick of the café. I take in his red and blue striped top. My own white shirt.

  ‘At his birthday party,’ I say, ‘last Friday.’

  ‘And Julie and Nicholas McKenzie? – can you state your relationship to these two individuals?’

  ‘Julie was a friend – a sort of ex-girlfriend of my son. Nicholas is my grandson.’ My words are impatient, brisk, like I’m trying to clear through the fog to get to the other side. It’s as though, at this stage, I still somehow see all this as irrelevant, the warm-up to the main act that will feature Tom.

  Their faces are unreadable. There’s an eerie silence. It’s the moment before, and I will remember its purity. I will remember the woman’s hair pulled back into a shiny brown clasp. The small wisp of hair on her forehead. The small loose strand of cotton on her grey jacket. I will remember the slowing down. The small details. A sense of lumbering heaviness that takes shape before the moment when I learn what has happened.

  ‘Where did you get this?’ I ask, but of course, before she tells me, I already know. I know who has taken the picture. I don’t know it in my head. It’s not yet formed into a word, but I know it in my body. It’s a sudden thrust of fear. Like a full intake of breath. The sensation and realisation of fear is a rush of ice-cold air. Inhaled sharply, with a shocking chill to my lungs.

  ‘Dan Griffin,’ she says. ‘Can you confirm he was your patient?’ and she then produces a mug-shot type picture that she places on the table between us. I peer at it. It’s Dan wearing his black hoodie. His hair is unkempt. A blank expression. When I look at it later, it’s not blank at all. It’s something else more terrible. It’s a look I haven’t seen on him before. It’s relaxed. If I had to identify th
e expression on his face, it would be serenity.

  Dan Griffin and Julie McKenzie. This first time I hear these two names in the same sentence, it’s incongruous, jarring, like two discordant notes of music. Dan Griffin and Julie McKenzie. Mismatched names linked together in the same sentence, though in the months to come, given the press reporting of the trial, it will feel commonplace. Something we will all come to expect and associate together. Bacon and eggs. Fish and chips. It will feel normal to line them up together in one single sentence.

  ‘A young man presented himself at a local police station, and we have arrested him in connection with the murder of a twenty-three-year-old woman whom we believe to be Julie McKenzie. The man in custody, you will know him by the name of Dan Griffin, but his birth name is Stephen Connolly.’

  I have the sensation of falling. Plummeting a long way down.

  ‘Do you have any idea how the photo from your wallet came to be in the possession of the accused? Was there any occasion when he might have had access to your handbag?’

  I try to speak. No words come out.

  ‘I don’t – what are you saying?’

  ‘Stephen – or Dan – broke into the property of Julie McKenzie and Frank Martin at approximately 4.45 this afternoon. He was there when Julie and Nicholas returned to the flat.’

  ‘Nicholas?’ and my voice comes out like a whisper.

  I feel dizzy and sick. There is a sharp pain in my temple, and for some moments, I see her lips move, but I am unable to hear what she is saying. I hold on tightly to the side of the chair.

  ‘We’ll need a witness statement,’ she says. ‘You’ll need to come to the station.’

  I close my eyes.

  ‘Dr Hartland?’ she asks gently. ‘Are you all right? Can we get you some water? Can we perhaps call someone?’