by Ali Mercer
A familiar sound reached her from the basement: Bluebell had started crying.
‘I can’t,’ Leona said. ‘I have a baby.’
‘We’re aware of that,’ the policeman said. ‘There are some people here who’ll look after her while you talk to us. You don’t need to worry about her, she’ll be in good hands.’
And that was when she saw the other car parked behind the police car, and the people in it. Two women, not in uniforms. There was something about the way they were looking up at her, and at the house, that frightened her more than anything. As if she were a problem in need of careful handling, calling for the kind of judicious detachment and caution you would expect of a pair of professionals.
They let her go back into the house to get Bluebell ready and pack a bag for her. Downstairs in the basement Jake was still asleep, or pretending to be. In the room next door Bluebell was sitting up and gripping the bars of her cot. She quieted as soon as Leona lifted her out, and gave Leona her sweetest smile. Two teeth now, and a headful of hair, blonde and curly; she attracted admiring looks wherever she went.
‘Hey you,’ Leona said. ‘I’ve got you.’
She was suddenly very calm. Unnaturally calm. Maybe it was shock, or maybe it was because she was in the middle of the worst that could happen and there was no longer anything to be afraid of. Or maybe it was because she had to be that way. For Bluebell. Bluebell always became distressed as soon as Leona did, and whimpered the minute she and Jake started arguing.
But it was hard to understand anything, other than that she was in trouble and the social workers had some kind of emergency court order that meant they could take Bluebell into care for now, while Leona was talking to the police. And however nice and gentle they were being with her – they were trying not to frighten her, probably, so she wouldn’t panic and try to resist them or run away – underneath all of it was this: they could take Bluebell, whether Leona agreed or not.
And Emily was dead. Emily was her friend, and she had died after taking a pill that Leona had given her. That was the only other thing Leona knew for sure: Emily was dead, and it was her fault.
She put Bluebell back in the cot while she got some things together, and Bluebell sat and watched her and sucked on her comforter. Nappies, the rusks Bluebell liked, a mixture of outfits, a few favourite toys: the blue plastic keys that beeped when you pressed the button, the padded bug that Bluebell slept with. It wasn’t that much. It fit in the bag, no problem. Then she dressed Bluebell in the outfit she’d got her for Christmas, the top embroidered with tiny flowers and the little dungarees that matched, and the soft leather shoes that had been a gift from her mum.
Mum would have taken Bluebell, even after everything that had happened. But the backache that she’d complained of for so long had turned out to be kidney cancer, which had gone past being operable, and she was in a hospice. Leona’s stepfather was probably there with her right now. No point hoping for any help from him: he hated babies, and he hated Leona even more.
Jake finally stirred himself, and sat up in bed, lighting a cigarette. It was Jake who had come to find her in the club the night before, to tell her Emily had collapsed and the bouncers were dealing with it. It had taken a while to find out that Emily had been rushed away in an ambulance, with her boyfriend at her side.
How had Leona ever found Jake attractive? At this moment he looked like a spoilt, shifty schoolboy, someone obviously not to be trusted. She had been so happy to move in with him, to escape from her parents’ house. She had thought it was love. Love and freedom. Lately though, it had been increasingly obvious that he found her a bit of a drag. Her and Bluebell. Oh, he’d loved the idea of having them there… but the reality of a baby crying in the morning was something else.
She’d hoped that a big night out would remind him that they could still have a good time together. And here they are the morning after, barely able to look at each other.
‘You shouldn’t say anything until you’ve got a lawyer,’ he said, but she ignored him. She had Bluebell in her arms and the bag of Bluebell’s things dangling from one shoulder, and he didn’t even offer to help her carry it.
She took Bluebell upstairs and out into the cold, and somehow she managed to hand her over. Such a small movement, from Leona’s arms to the arms of the social worker who was waiting to take her.
Bluebell didn’t squall or fuss. She was still watching Leona quite calmly, as if she understood more than Leona did, as if she knew there was nothing else for it.
‘We’ll take good care of her,’ the social worker said.
‘You better had.’
It felt like falling off a cliff, or from the top of a multistorey building. Like dying.
Leona leaned forward to touch Bluebell’s soft cheek. Her hand was trembling. Bluebell’s small one reached out and wrapped itself around her forefinger as she had done so many times before, as she had done just after she had been born.
And then Bluebell let go and Leona turned away because she couldn’t bear it – she couldn’t look at Bluebell any more. She got into the waiting police car and the door slammed shut, and as they drove away she felt as if her life had stopped and there would never be any point to it again.
There’s a queue of traffic coming into Kettlebridge – the tail end of rush hour, commuters heading home – but it’s quiet heading out of town, the direction Leona has asked the taxi driver to take. Just past the bridge, he turns off the main road and bumps along the single-track road that leads to the lock house.
She could have got this wrong. It’s just a hunch. But she has to try… She has to do everything she can to bring Becca back.
Because Leona knows what it is to fear that you will never see your child again. To not care where you are, whether it’s a courtroom or a prison cell or the world outside, because nowhere could be as bad as you feel. For time to creep remorselessly on, carrying you away from a loss that you know you will never recover from… And yet you don’t want time to pass, you don’t want to recover, because that means forgetting, and you want to hold on to every little detail, each remembered smile, what your child’s hand felt like in yours, the smell of that skin.
For days, weeks, months, years to go by, as you try to piece a life back together that will always have something missing from it.
No, she won’t see Rachel go through all that. Not if she can help it.
At the end of the road she pays the taxi driver and asks him if he might be willing to wait. They are in a turning circle surrounded by trees and banks of hawthorn, beyond which the roof of the lock house is just visible. He looks around, shakes his head, and tells her to call again when she wants collecting.
After he has gone it is very quiet: all she can hear is the steady rush of falling water. She goes through the gate to the bank of the lock and as she approaches the weir the sound of water grows steadily louder and the air seems fresher, as if it has been shaken clean. It is like walking towards the sea.
There is a lone narrowboat moored a little way downstream, but the ice cream kiosk in front of the lock house is closed and there is nobody around. She walks across the lock gates to the small island between the lock and the weir. The view is obscured by trees, by the display showing a map of the course of the Thames from its source to the sea, and by an outbuilding with a sign warning passers-by to be wary of the bees’ nest by its side.
It could be a fool’s errand: it is very likely that she will find no one here. And then what?
She emerges at one end of the walkway that spans the weir, and sees a lone figure a little way ahead, looking down at the roiling water.
It’s a girl. A young girl in jeans and a hooded top. It could be Becca, but she has her hood up so it isn’t possible to tell for certain.
Leona sets off towards her. To her right, the river is high and smooth and glassy, pooling at the edge of the weir. To her left, on the low side, it crashes and churns and foams as if it is boiling.
She doesn’t call
out. The girl might not hear her anyway. She appears to be completely absorbed in the view. But as Leona draws closer the girl turns and Leona sees that it is Becca, and she has been crying.
Forty-Nine
Becca
Leona comes towards her as if she’s walking across a tightrope. She looks terrified, like everybody’s watching her and this is her big chance to prove herself. Eventually she makes it and turns and leans on the walkway barrier so they’re both gazing out at the same view of the river downstream, calm and broad as it runs between the meadows towards Kettlebridge.
‘I guess you get the prize,’ Becca says. ‘Congratulations. Are they all out looking, or is it just you?’
‘Your dad has just rung the police,’ Leona tells her.
‘He rang the police? I only went out for a walk. Is that against the law now?’
‘No, but it’s a good idea to let people know where you are. He’s worried about you. Is it OK with you if I call him?’
Becca shrugs. ‘If you want.’
Leona gets her phone out. She says, ‘People have been trying to ring you. Did you know?’
‘I didn’t want to talk to anybody. The last few conversations I had didn’t go so well.’
Her phone is in her back pocket, switched off. She’d done that as soon as she set out. It had felt good. Really good. Like having the power to turn yourself invisible. Maybe it had been bad, too, but it hadn’t felt like it. You couldn’t always be on hand the second other people decided they wanted you.
Leona starts talking to Dad, telling him where they are, and the next minute she hands over the phone and says, ‘He wants to talk to you.’
And then Becca is speaking to her dad. Which is kind of weird, given that she’d just been thinking about running away and never ever seeing him again. He wants to know if she’s OK. She says she is. What’s OK anyway? She’s not dead and she hasn’t started playing with knives. Yet. Although she has definitely been tempted. He tells her to hold on, he’s coming to get her, and he’s really sorry to have upset her like that, they’d really messed up. Dad never apologises about anything, so that’s pretty weird – he’s dead stubborn, never backs down if he can help it, and hates admitting when he’s in the wrong. He doesn’t sound angry either, just relieved. Then he says to give the phone back to Leona.
Leona doesn’t say much to him, just listens. Becca stares at the water. Drowning’s meant to be nice because your life flashes before you, but what if your life’s been awful and grim, or just really boring? Although bits of hers have been all right. Coming here with Mum and Dad when she was little. Paddling in her wellies in the stream in front of the cottage. Playing games with Dad while Mum was at work or coming home on the train. It’s just lately that everything has fallen apart. But maybe that’s what happens when you grow up.
Leona ends the call and puts her phone away. She says, ‘Your mum’s been looking for you, too, you know. She went to the Chadstones’ house.’
‘Really? Guess she must have wanted another fight.’
‘I think she wanted to talk to your friend Amelia.’
‘Yeah… she’s not so much of a friend. I mean, we hung out for a while. But really we just know each other because of our parents. We’re kind of into different things.’
‘Really? What like?’
‘Well, she’s into smoking and shoplifting and boys.’
Becca sneaks a look at Leona to see if she’s shocked by this. She doesn’t appear to be.
Leona says, ‘So what are you into?’
‘I used to like being at home. But I guess that’s ruined now, isn’t it?’
‘It doesn’t have to be. None of what’s happened has to be a catastrophe. I know it’s all come as a shock, and in retrospect, we could have handled it better, and I’m sorry about that. But if we really want to, we can fix this. All of us.’
‘You’re going to fix my parents’ marriage, are you?’
‘I’m afraid I think that’s probably broken past repairing,’ Leona says gently.
And it’s true, and Becca knows it is. She starts crying; she can’t help it. She cries hard, and Leona gives her some tissues and then puts a hand on her shoulder and she doesn’t move away.
However much you feel like you could cry forever, you never can. By and by Becca stops and then she says, ‘I thought it was Mum’s fault. She really hurt Dad, you know. She pushed him and he fell on some glass and cut his hand open. He’s still got the scar.’
‘Yes. I know about that. He told me,’ Leona said. ‘He said you walked in just after it happened. It must have been a really big shock for you.’
‘It was.’
‘It might help you to talk to someone about it, you know. Like a counsellor. It can be good to have someone listen to you who isn’t involved. Who isn’t on anybody’s side.’
‘I suppose,’ Becca says. She hadn’t really thought of counselling that way before; it had always just seemed like something her parents wanted her to do so they could feel better about everything. ‘Are you in love with Dad?’
‘I am,’ Leona says.
‘I don’t get it. He was sleeping with Mrs Chadstone. I don’t think he deserved to be hurt like that, but he was pretty awful to Mum. She worked so hard all the time, she was worn out and he didn’t even care. He cheated on her, and he made out she’d gone crazy when she was really just sad and angry. How can you be in love with someone who behaves like that?’
‘People do worse things,’ Leona says.
And then they both stare at the rushing water.
‘I did something bad, once,’ Leona says. ‘I went to prison for it.’
Becca recoils. She gets the feeling Leona is about to tell her what she did, and she’s not sure she wants to know. Leona is fiddling with that little pink stone she wears on a chain round her neck. She’s taking her time, but she’s obviously nervous.
‘I got some drugs for a friend, and it turned out they were contaminated and she died,’ Leona says. ‘I was sentenced to a year in prison for drug supply and Bluebell, my little girl, was fostered. When I came out I was a mess and completely heartbroken, but she was obviously settled and happy, so I decided it would be the right thing to let her foster mother adopt her.’
Drugs! Prison! A lost baby! It all seems a bit unreal – it’s the kind of thing the school got people in to warn them about. But it really happened.
It isn’t cold, but Becca shivers. She looks at Leona properly for the first time and sees, not the weird tea-towel lady who’s suddenly got pregnant by her dad, but a person… someone with her own pain and hopes and fears. Someone who maybe actually is really in love with her dad, because otherwise why would she be here, trying to talk to Becca?
‘Is that why you have the bluebell tattoo?’ Becca asks.
‘It is. Though I don’t recommend that you ever get a tattoo, obviously. I’m an example of what not to do.’
‘Yeah, well.’ Becca shrugs, trying to look nonchalant, though actually she’s still shocked. ‘No offence, but I’ve never met anyone who’s been in prison before.’
‘Your mother doesn’t know about all that yet. I’m going to have to tell her, and I don’t know how she’s going to react when I do,’ Leona says. ‘It’s not easy to tell people about things that you’re ashamed of. So, I do understand why your dad told so many lies. He was desperate for you not to find out what he’d been doing. He knew you’d think less of him, and you’re very important to him, you know. He once told me you were the only thing in his life that he was really proud of. He really does love you. And your mother does, too. They might not have done a very good job of keeping you out of what’s gone wrong between them, but that doesn’t mean they don’t care. And to be honest, you’ve given us all a scare tonight. I think we’re all going to have to do a bit of soul-searching, and work harder to get it right. I know you must be angry with your dad, but try not to be too hard on him. What happened earlier today was really my fault. I was the one who was pushing t
o tell you about the baby.’
‘Yeah, but if he cares so much about me and what I think, why’d he do what he did?’
Leona sighs. ‘Adults aren’t always that different to people your age, Becca. I know they ought to be older and wiser. But think of the teenagers you know and then imagine them as grown-ups, with kids of their own and jobs. That’s what it’s like: they’re people you know… just older. Which gives them a whole lot more scope to make mistakes.’
And Becca tries to think about it. Herself, Amelia and her brother, Ollie Pickering, Millie Parker-Jones…
‘That’s a terrifying prospect,’ she says.
Leona smiles as if Becca has just cracked a joke, though she meant it completely seriously. ‘So… do you feel like you’re ready to come home now?’
‘I guess. I have to, don’t I? I’m thirteen years old. I can’t go anywhere. Not unless I want to end up sleeping on the streets or something. Don’t take this the wrong way, but if you’re moving in with Dad and you’re going to have a baby… babies cry a lot, right? And I’m going to have exams and stuff.’
‘Well, the baby’s not due just yet. You’ve got a while to think about it,’ Leona says, looking worried again.
‘When I’m older I’m going to live in a cave miles away from anywhere, and never talk to anyone,’ Becca tells her.
‘I think your dad sometimes feels like that, too.’
Then someone calls out: ‘BECCA!’
It’s Mum, standing at the far end of the walkway, with Henry Chadstone beside her. Henry? What’s he doing here? Becca pushes past Leona and Mum hurries towards her, and then they’re hugging on the walkway and Mum is warm and her cheeks are wet and her hair smells like home, and for some reason it isn’t awkward at all.
Fifty
Rachel
The day of the loss