by Jon McGregor
The young lady was from social services. She told Irene the police had been in touch, and she was here to do a needs assessment, which Irene was entitled to, it would only take five or ten minutes, here was her identity card and her referral letter, thank you, could she come in, it really wouldn’t take long, thank you.
She was one of those as didn’t talk in sentences but just kept going, one thing after another. It made Irene feel out of breath just to listen to her. Irene had a reputation for talking herself, she knew that, but at least she gave other people a word in edgeways. This young lady had got her feet under the kitchen table before Irene had even gathered her name. She had to clear away the breakfast things and wipe the table clean before the young lady could set down her briefcase.
The whole thing was rather confusing. She’d been expecting a telephone call from either Victim Support or Crime Prevention. She hadn’t been clear which, but that was what she thought the policeman had said. Not social services. She’d never had the social round in her life. But it had been hard keeping everything straight. The policeman had done a lot of talking as well, and brought a lot of paperwork with him. But at least he’d given her a chance to speak.
Forshaw, his name had been. Nice young man. Awful thing was that he’d specifically asked her not to tidy up before he called round. He’d even sent someone along to take photographs.
He’d been there because of the man from the water company. Who hadn’t been from the water company at all. Stupid. Stupid. The whole thing was so embarrassing. She should have known better. But the man had been so polite, and there had been problems with the water pressure lately, just as he said. He told her it would only be a few minutes, and it was. He was in and out, didn’t make a mess, thanked her for her time. It was a few days before she realised what had happened.
It wasn’t so much what she’d lost as it was the sense of intrusion. This was what she’d told PC Forshaw. The thought of that man prowling around, while she kept out of his way, just as he’d asked. Picking things up and putting them down again. Slipping anything as took his fancy into that big black toolbag of his. Jewellery. A little cash. That fancy laptop of Andrew’s, from the school.
She’d given the policeman a description. He was a tall man, and very skinny. He’d had to duck through all the doorways. He had a narrow, bony face, and a crooked nose. That was all she could say. PC Forshaw had said it might well be enough, and he’d let her know if there were any developments. He told her that someone from Crime Prevention would be in touch, and at the very least they would fit a chain on the door.
Things had changed. People used to leave their doors wide open, and would never have dreamt of locking them. Now there were chains, and alarms, and who knew what else. No doubt this young lady was going to persuade her to have all manner of nonsense installed. Bars on the windows. Robot guard dogs. Goodness knew. Andrew would love that. Andrew was probably in the middle of inventing a robot guard dog, come to think of it. He was very clever on the computers. Irene had no idea what he was up to most of the time.
The young lady took some forms out of her briefcase, and spread them across the table, which wasn’t a great start. She talked about preliminary criteria and funding brackets, budgetary constraints and possible beneficial outcomes. She had a lot to say and she said it quickly.
Andrew was there, but he didn’t say anything. He was hovering in the doorway and he just watched, with that contented smile of his. Andrew said very little at the best of times. He had some educational needs.
The young lady wanted to do a tour of the house, firstly. She said she wanted to see what was what and go through her checklist: there were a number of additionals Irene and her son might be entitled to, but she had other appointments to get to, and she was in rather a hurry, so could they get started?
She was up with her clipboard before Irene had even replied. Asking questions about door-handles, grab-handles, chair-lifts, and who knew what else. She was brisk. As they went up the stairs, she asked how Irene managed with the shopping, with getting out and about, collecting her pension, getting to the bank. Any hobbies? Did her family live locally?
She seemed to have the wrong end of the stick. Irene wasn’t retired, and she didn’t have a pension to collect. She was a widow, certainly, and the very word made her feel terribly old. But she was working harder than ever. She’d had to, since Ted’s passing. She got some help, but the cash from her various cleaning jobs around the village was essential. And it was all cash. It got complicated otherwise. There were forms she’d have to fill in. She didn’t take to forms.
In the bathroom, the young lady asked questions Irene didn’t think were appropriate.
*
In the kitchen Irene started making a pot of tea. The young lady was flicking through the papers from her briefcase. She had a calculator out on the table. Andrew was back in the doorway, just watching her. He still had the contented look about him.
What day is it? he asked the young lady.
It’s Sunday, isn’t it? She smiled at him, and at Irene. She seemed bemused.
Of course it’s Sunday, Andrew, Irene said; you know that. What sort of a question is that now? Don’t mind him, she told the young lady. He’ll ask funny questions sometimes.
Oh, no problem at all, the young lady said; it’s good to be sure. I forget what month it is sometimes, you know what I mean? She laughed, quickly, and took her phone out. She’d finalised the list of what they would be able to offer, she said. She just needed to call some details through to her manager.
Irene wanted to know why she couldn’t just take the paperwork back to her office, and the young lady gave her a confusing explanation about pre-approval. She started talking on the phone.
Andrew suddenly excused himself and went into the back garden. He could be abrupt sometimes. He knew his own mind. There was no point asking for explanation.
The young lady was arguing with her manager. That’s disgraceful, Irene heard her say. There must be something we can do; these people are entitled to our help. She put a hand over the phone and apologised to Irene.
There was a problem, she explained. Something about an overspend, something about needing to reallocate funds. She talked to her manager again.
Irene heard the side gate crash open, and saw Andrew going past the window.
The young lady was nodding a lot. She told Irene that some limited funds would be available if they could get the application in by the end of the day. She would just need a few more details, she said. And a deposit.
A deposit? Irene asked.
The young lady said something about means-tested contributions. She said they would make a final assessment later and the preliminary contribution might end up being almost minimal, but she did need to get something in that day due to the quarterly allocations deadline.
Irene said she didn’t know about all that.
The young lady put her phone down on the table, and gave Irene a look.
Can I be honest? she said. In the professional assessment of myself, you are not currently providing your son with the support he requires. I’m not a legal expert, she said, but in the event of anything happening with your son, this interview could be taken into account. There could be ramifications.
Ramifications?
If you could cooperate with the process, she said, that would be appreciated.
Irene told her she was cooperating, but it was a lot to take in.
And of course I am sorry to rush you, the young lady said. But we should make the most of this window of opportunity. You’ll be able to discuss it with your family at a later date and the deposit is of course returnable, but I do need to get it into the system today.
Well, Irene told her. If it was nothing final.
The young lady gave her a form to sign, did some more sums on her calculator, and said the deposit would be thirteen hundred pounds. She wouldn’t take a cheque, and nor could she arrange a bank transfer. Cash was essential, she said.
Irene only hesitated for a moment, but the young lady suddenly packed her papers away and told Irene she’d rather not waste any more time; she had other clients to see, other clients who would appreciate her efforts.
Please, Irene said. I do appreciate your efforts.
She knew something was wrong, but she still found herself opening the larder and reaching for the secret place where she kept her cash. She counted it out while the young lady watched, and was embarrassed to find only nine hundred pounds.
She asked if that would suffice.
The young lady said it would be enough to get the process started. She looked very keen to be out of the door all of a sudden.
Irene counted the money once more, to be on the safe side. She handed it over, and asked for a receipt.
And then Andrew came in through the front door, with Tony from the pub. Tony had questions. The young lady tried squeezing past him, out the door.
Tony wasn’t built for squeezing past. He asked some more questions.
*
It went to show, Irene thought, later. People assumed that Andrew wasn’t all there, that he had no idea of the world around him. But the boy was bright enough. He just had a different manner of putting himself about. Sat there with his blank face but there’s a world going on inside. Knows what’s what.
He had that young lady worked out almost as soon as she walked through the door, and he knew what to do to fix it. Smart boy. Irene didn’t know where he got it. He had a nose for trouble. And for keeping out of trouble. At the school, they said Irene idealised this about him. They told her not to build it up too much. Told her to accept his limits. But they didn’t see him like she did.
And so when Andrew told her that the missing girl was fine, Irene believed him. He told her he knew a few things and he knew she’d come to no harm. Irene couldn’t get him to say any more. He wouldn’t talk to the police. He wouldn’t talk to journalists. He would barely talk to her. But he’d said enough for Irene. It had put her mind at ease. The girl would have come to no harm, wherever she was.
13: Ginny
She was sitting right there,
under the tree.
The apple tree.
Eating an apple.
In the summer. Last summer. Before
the girl went missing.
Ginny thought she was imagining it at first.
The girl would have had to climb the wall
at the back of the garden. From the meadow.
It was the girl
the missing girl
Becky Shaw.
Ginny’s sure of that now.
She wasn’t missing, then.
She was sitting under the tree, the
apple tree.
Eating an apple.
Scrumping, they called it once. Children don’t do it
now.
More likely to see them smoking
and whatever else
down at the park, by the
cricket pavilion.
Breaking windows.
This seemed – quaint.
She looked like –
this girl
she looked like –
but it may just have been a trick
of the light.
One of Ginny’s moments.
She had those.
After Jacek’s death. He’d died six years ago.
It may as well have been last week.
She’d see someone who looked like him, out and about,
at the market,
in the distance,
in a passing car.
And for a moment it would be
it would really be him.
It was something she’d heard about, before.
Before.
But she’d not known
she’d not been told
how uncanny it would be.
It was always someone who looked exactly like Jacek,
for that short moment
and then they were just
gone.
It could take days to shake the feeling off,
sometimes.
And this girl in the garden, under the apple tree, she looked
she looked like Laura.
Exactly like Laura.
Laura was Ginny and Jacek’s daughter. She was grown now. She’d be –
thirty-three.
And this girl was Laura
at that age
to a T.
Different clothes, of course.
But the shape of her, the way she carried herself.
It was
Laura.
Ginny remembered Laura carrying herself
like that.
The look had come into her overnight.
They’d seen the woman in the girl.
It had been sudden.
They’d seen her realising what kind of woman she would be, and
playing with the part. Dressing up
in different poses.
They’d seen her wishing herself
out of reach.
She’d wanted away.
That had been obvious.
Ginny could remember wanting away
from her own mother
just the same.
And the cheek.
The cheek she’d started giving them, giving Jacek and Ginny.
It was hard to know where it came from.
It nearly
broke Jacek
to hear it.
It was hard
to live through. People talk about the terrible teens
it’s an awful cliché but
there’s truth in it, but
they didn’t know how bad it would be.
It was hard
to live through. They didn’t know what they were doing
wrong.
They didn’t know what had got into her, sometimes.
Drink, they suspected, or
worse.
The police talked about drugs, later.
And boys, no doubt. Older boys.
Laura couldn’t imagine the dangers she was
getting herself into, and
they could. They could.
That was part of the problem. She just
she wouldn’t believe
they were worried about her.
She’d wanted excitement, adventure. She’d wanted
nothing to do with them.
After
after everything they’d done for her, everything
they’d given her.
They resented that. Honestly. They were angry with her
for that
sometimes.
But they didn’t
they didn’t drive her away.
They didn’t.
*
It wasn’t Laura
in the garden
under the apple tree. Of course it wasn’t.
It was some other girl. It was Becky Shaw,
although she didn’t know that then.
She was looking at Ginny with,
she wouldn’t say insolence,
although some people would call it that.
It was confidence.
There was a challenge.
A way of setting the shoulders.
As if to say, what?
What’s your problem, Mrs?
That was the face she had on her.
What’s your problem?
It wasn’t rude, as such. It was more,
she couldn’t imagine what problem Ginny might have,
seeing her sitting in the garden like that,
under the apple tree, eating an apple.
She wanted to get a rise, and Ginny didn’t give her one.
Ginny thought that might take the wind out of her sails.
She said good afternoon, and she got on with the jobs
she’d come into the garden to do.
There was blackfly all over the runner beans.
She could feel the girl watching,
the apple halfway to her mouth.
She could almost hear the air coming out of her,
she was that deflated.
It became a waiting game, after that.
Both of them waiting for the other to speak.
Well. The girl had no idea.
Ginny knew about that game.
She’d had a lot of practice.
Not that she wasn’t furious.
But she didn’t want to give this girl the satisfaction of seeing how she felt.
She could see
that was what the girl wanted.
It was all very reminiscent.
She picked off the new crop of runner beans.
She wiped down the leaves and stems with a soapy cloth.
The blackfly were all over.
The girl gave in, eventually, and spoke first.
She asked if Ginny would report her.
It seemed an odd thing to ask.
She told the girl she imagined the police had better things to concern themselves with than the theft of a single apple. And she didn’t know the girl’s parents, so she could hardly talk to them either.
The girl shrugged, and looked at Ginny.
Daring her to do something, really.
Ginny was tired of the attitude.
If she’d been twenty years younger she might have
taken steps towards her,
and raised a hand.
Not to actually clip her one, but just
to let her see, let her see that Ginny meant business.
But she was too
slow
for nonsense like that now.
Young lady, she told her. I think you should leave.
The girl loved that, of course.