by Anne Bennett
Janet nodded and then said, ‘But Phillip, what can we do about this? We can’t just sit back and let children be put into these places to rot. If their parents knew …’
‘The paper is willing to do a feature on the care of mentally handicapped children in Britain today,’ Phillip said, ‘and contrast it with the work done at Oakhurst and Ferndale. I’ve contacted the leader at the one Chloe attended, and she’s very keen.’
‘They encourage visitors – Claire always said that. She always said it helped the children to see new faces,’ Janet said.
Phillip, watching her, was glad he’d not told her how upset and depressed he’d been by the home and its sour smell – a mixture of urine, cooked cabbage and bleach that stayed in his nostrils for hours. Nor did he mention the starkness of the place, the walls painted dirty cream at the top and brown at the bottom, with nothing to brighten the rooms at all.
But Janet had seen the bareness in the babies’ rooms and could guess what the rest of it was like. She recalled the odd visits she’d made to Oakhurst, where all the paintwork was bright, some walls were decorated with murals and others with the children’s work, and sparkling mobiles dangled from the ceiling. She felt angry that the children at Elmwood should be denied the opportunity of attending such a place.
‘Older babies were sitting on potty chairs,’ Ruth said. ‘Phillip wasn’t able to get pictures, but he told me about it.’
‘Yes,’ Phillip said. ‘They were being fed from one big dish and they sat in a line – about six of them strapped in seats so they couldn’t fall out.’
‘And you are highlighting all this?’ she asked.
‘You bet,’ Phillip said. ‘The editor’s first son was a spastic who only lived a few days, and though he now has three healthy children he told me that he always felt not enough was done for his son. He’s kept quiet about it all these years. His son wasn’t perfect and part of him wanted him to die, but now, years later, he is still consumed with guilt.’
Janet nodded. She knew about guilt; she had been filled with it herself all the time she was growing up. ‘I suppose he feels this helps to redress the balance,’ she said. ‘What’s this lady done with her son? I presume she’s not left him at Elmwood.’
‘No, indeed she hasn’t,’ Simon said, smiling at the memory of the determination in Greta’s face as she scooped the baby from his cot, taking no notice at all of the indignation and dire warnings of the astounded staff.
‘But neither of the units can take him till he’s three.’
‘Not officially,’ Phillip said. ‘But they have a register of mentally handicapped babies so the mothers can meet together, and two mornings a week a physiotherapist at Oakhurst shows them exercises they can do with their babies. Similar, I suppose, to what you used to do with Claire and Chloe.’
‘Yes,’ Janet said. ‘I can see how that could be helpful. I should imagine that the isolation is one of the worst things when you have a handicapped child. Claire was always glad to see us, wasn’t she, Ruth?’
‘Mm,’ Ruth agreed. She glanced across at Phillip and went on, ‘Phillip’s suggested we do a book based on our experiences with Chloe – maybe just called Chloe’s Story – and serialise it alongside the features on mental health. What do you think?’
Janet was taken aback and not very enthusiastic. ‘But it’s not our story to tell, is it?’ she said.
‘Part of it is,’ Ruth argued.
‘And it would show on a very personal level what could be achieved,’ Phillip put in.
‘But what about Claire?’ Janet said. ‘I mean, what if she did have a breakdown or something and she reads something like this? It could bring it all back and make her ill again.’
Ruth chose her words with care. ‘I see your point, Janet,’ she said, ‘but no one really knows where Claire is, so why don’t we go ahead with the book, and if Claire is traced she can read it and decide then whether she wants it published or not?’
‘And if we finish the book and still can’t find her?’ Janet asked.
‘Then,’ Ruth said, ‘we decide whether we publish the story of a lovely and very brave little child in order to honour her memory and give heart to other mothers of mongol children, or we don’t bother.’
Janet could see the sense in that and agreed to at least make a start on the first chapter. For a long time after Ruth and Phillip drove back to their Boldmere home she sat before the fire, too churned up to sleep, and when she eventually did go to bed, she was haunted by the sad, hopeless faces of the children in the photographs. She was almost glad when the alarm went off so she could legitimately get up and go to work.
The next evening Simon came round after work, as he did often. Before he’d been there very long he realised that Janet was agitated about something. Over dinner she told him Phillip’s story.
‘Come on,’ Simon soothed afterwards, as they sat in front of the television later with a glass of wine each and the silence had stretched out between them. ‘Relax, you’re all on edge. It isn’t your fault, you know.’
‘I know that and I’m all right, I’m fine,’ Janet said, and then suddenly burst out, ‘No, I’m not fine, I’m bloody angry and upset.’
‘D’you want to talk about it?’ Simon asked.
‘Yes,’ Janet said. ‘I’m glad you’re here. I wish you’d been here last night after Ruth and Phillip left. I felt so cold inside.’
‘But you told me not to come round,’ Simon said, puzzled. ‘You said they wanted to talk to you about something.’
‘I know I did,’ said Janet. ‘I just wished you had been here, that’s all. I could have done with some comfort. What I heard around the tea table was disturbing stuff.’ She turned to him and said: ‘You are staying tonight, aren’t you?’
‘Do you want me to?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then I’ll stay.’ Simon put his arm around her and said: ‘What you said about wishing I’d been here last night – there is a way I could be here for you all the time.’
‘I know.’
‘It would mean me moving in.’
‘I know.’
Simon’s heart skipped a beat. ‘You mean you agree? I can move in here with you?’
‘Yes,’ Janet said.
Simon’s mouth dropped open in an astonished gape. ‘You were dead set against it before. Why the change of mind now?’ he said.
Janet didn’t really know. All she knew was that she would have welcomed Simon’s arms around her the previous evening. She’d felt cold and abandoned after Phillip and Ruth had gone, and after all they were getting married in a few months. ‘I love you and want you here all the time,’ she said now. ‘Is that good enough?’
‘It’s the best reason in the bloody world,’ Simon said, his face one great beam of happiness. But although he was delighted, he knew that Janet was taking a risk asking him to move in, because her parents were sure to find out one way or the other and would have a fit. Janet didn’t seem bothered by it. In fact, all she wanted to talk about was the story about the home which had so upset her.
‘You should have seen the pictures Phillip showed me,’ she said. ‘The sterility and hopelessness of the children’s lives would break your heart. What made it worse for me was knowing what they can achieve. I mean, through meeting Claire and Chloe.’
‘Not every retarded child would necessarily be able to do what Chloe did,’ Simon said gently.
‘I’m not saying they would,’ Janet said, ‘but what was achieved with her means that you shouldn’t necessarily give up on children like that.’
She was quiet a minute and then went on, ‘They are doing a comparison – I mean, the paper is – of institutionalised care with the type of approach the units have, and how they can enrich the lives of retarded children. Phillip wants … wants Ruth and me to write a book about how we met Chloe and what we did with her as a baby and toddler, and call it Chloe’s Story. He says it would feature in the paper and we would easily find a publisher lat
er.’
‘And why don’t you want to?’ Simon asked, sensing Janet’s reluctance.
‘Well, it isn’t really our story to tell, is it?’ Janet said. ‘It’s Claire’s, and I’d like to sort of get her permission before we start writing things about her daughter.’ Simon could see that Janet had a point but knew she wasn’t finished yet, so he said nothing. ‘Ruth says,’ Janet went on, ‘that as no one knows where Claire is at the moment, we should go ahead and write the book, and then if we ever do find her, she can read and okay what we’ve written.’
She sighed and continued, ‘The point is, I know Ruth’s right in all she says. I mean, I’m not daft. I know it will add weight and a sort of personal touch to the stuff in the paper and perhaps help in the long term, and it will certainly give the mothers of other mongol children hope for the future.’
‘So you’ll do it?’
‘I suppose,’ Janet said. ‘I’ve sort of agreed, but … well, I still feel uneasy.’
Simon sighed inwardly, knowing that in this mood Janet could talk all night. He didn’t want to waste time talking about a woman and child he’d never met and who neither he nor Janet could do anything about. He pulled Janet closer to him and kissed her gently. ‘Let’s talk about it some other time,’ he urged. ‘It’s late.’
‘Stop it,’ Janet complained, breaking free. ‘I can’t think straight when you go on like this.’
‘I don’t want you to think straight,’ Simon said. ‘At least not about this business with Phillip any more tonight.’ His arms went round Janet, his lips met hers, and she found she didn’t want to think about the business with Phillip any more either.
TWENTY-TWO
‘Is this how a civilised country treats the most vulnerable in our society?’ screamed the headlines on Phillip’s paper, and there, in grainy newsprint, were some of the pictures Phillip had shown to Janet and his account of the visit to Elmwood. He didn’t mention the home’s name, Ruth explained, as it would only worry parents, who could do little about the place by themselves.
There was something else Ruth could have told Janet, but she chose not to. That morning she’d received another letter from Ben. He said he’d checked the Carters out and it was the right family, but he’d tell her everything when he saw her because he was making plans to come to England immediately. He told her he’d passed her letter to Claire, who now seemed recovered from her illness, but didn’t explain what it was. She’d assured him she would write to her and Janet as soon as possible.
‘Tell Janet now,’ Phillip said, but Ruth shook her head.
‘I want to see Ben first and find out why she’s kept so quiet all these years,’ she said. ‘You don’t know how it affected Janet and I won’t risk building her hopes up for nothing.’
Janet knew that there was something on Ruth’s mind, but she thought she was worried about Phillip. His uncompromising headlines were raising a furore amongst the professionals, who were divided as to what constituted good mental health care.
Many people wrote to the paper in support of a more liberal approach. Mothers of mentally handicapped children wrote of the achievements of their children and the importance of early stimulation.
The following week, Phillip ran a story about the Oakhurst and Ferndale units that Claire and Richard had been involved with. Janet wished the photographs could have been in colour to show the units at their very best. The children were seen working at tables with material that was, Janet knew, specially made for the Montessori schools. Others were kneading clay, painting at easels, playing with sand or using musical instruments.
Much interest was aroused by the pictures and the accounts outlining the work of the units. Many wanted to know what Montessori was and how were they able to achieve so much with the mentally handicapped. Some doctors were sceptical and expressed doubts as to whether all the children were very disabled at all, while others were concerned that they were overtaxing their brains.
Meanwhile, Ruth and Janet had begun Chloe’s Story. Janet had written the first part, which was a short résumé of who Claire was and how she’d met her. Ruth described how she had been friendly with Janet at Whytecliff High School, but neither mentioned the bullying that went on. She said that Janet had taken her to meet her friend and ex-teacher Claire Wentworth, where she’d also met Chloe for the first time. She went on to outline many of the exercises they’d used to help stimulate the little girl.
It had taken longer than they’d thought possible to get it just right. Simon was trying to be unselfish and not begrudge the time Janet was putting in to this project. He helped as much as he could around the flat and Janet was glad that he was there most of the time.
She knew that Simon felt cramped, but they’d had little time for house-hunting. Although both acknowledged that they needed to look for something more suitable than the flat long term, Janet saw no rush to move and Simon worried about it. He’d taken to touring the estate agents on Saturdays, and was appalled at the prices properties were fetching. He was concerned they’d get nothing at all if they didn’t buy soon.
‘I don’t see the panic,’ Janet objected one Friday, about a month after Simon had moved in. ‘We’re all right in the flat for now.’
‘Prices are going through the roof,’ Simon said. ‘You don’t understand.’
‘They’ll come down again,’ Janet said soothingly. ‘It would be better to wait till they do.’
Simon sighed. He’d had an awful week at work and a row with his boss that day. He felt bone tired and out of sorts and was not looking forward to another fruitless trawl of the estate agents in the morning. It wasn’t as if Janet was even interested. ‘The flat’s too bloody tiny,’ he insisted irritably.
‘It’s not that bad,’ Janet objected. ‘I lived here with Lou and Shirley for years.’
‘What about when we want to start a family?’
‘Well, I don’t intend to do that straight away,’ Janet said, and then caught sight of Simon’s strained, exhausted face. Realising that he was too tired to talk reasonably that night, she said, ‘Let’s not discuss it now, Simon. We’re both too tired. Let’s make an early night of it and talk in the morning.’
Simon knew he was being brushed off and he suddenly felt murderously angry with her. ‘Let’s get this straight,’ he said sarcastically. ‘You want us both to be nearly drawing the old age pension before we have a child, do you?’
Seeing Simon’s furious face, Janet quelled her desire to laugh and said, ‘I just don’t want to have a baby straight away. I want to wait a while.’
‘How much of a bloody while?’ Simon demanded. He was bitterly disappointed. He’d been certain that Janet would not want to wait too long before starting a family; he’d assumed she wanted children as much as he did.
‘Oh, Simon,’ Janet said. ‘Can’t wait to tie me to the kitchen sink, eh?’
She spoke lightly, hoping to make Simon smile. But he didn’t smile. He was fed up with Janet dictating and deciding everything in the relationship and was determined to sort this issue out. ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘it doesn’t have to be like that and you know it. You can go on working afterwards if you want to. I’m not averse to that. I’ll lend a hand with housework and things, you know I would.’
‘Yes, of course, but …’ Janet laid a hand on Simon’s arm and pleaded, ‘Let’s just get used to being married first. After all,’ she added, ‘what’s the rush?’
‘Oh, no bloody rush,’ Simon said, brushing Janet’s hand away. ‘I just like to know where I stand, that’s all.’
‘What are we quarrelling over?’ Janet burst out, exasperated.
Janet didn’t know what Simon was so cross about, and he didn’t really understand it either, but he suddenly felt stifled in the flat. ‘I’m going out,’ he said. ‘I can’t get my head round this attitude of yours.’
‘Oh, go then,’ Janet retorted, suddenly irritated. ‘I can do without you moaning on all the time. You’re not the only one who’s had a hard
week.’
The slam of the door was the only answer, and Janet flung the cushion at it in a sudden temper. ‘Bugger you, Simon Webster!’ she cried.
She had a desire to sweep the tea things from the table, sure that the resounding crash would help her present mood, but instead she washed them with such intensity it was a wonder they weren’t all broken anyway. Then she took her bad temper out in an orgy of cleaning, the likes of which the flat had seldom seen. She’d finished, and was sitting drinking a cup of coffee and going over the row again in her head, when the doorbell rang.
She knew it couldn’t be Simon for he had a key, and she hoped it wasn’t someone selling something, or Jehovah’s Witnesses. But when she saw who it was leaning against the doorpost, the shock was so great, she actually staggered, for there on the landing, smiling the smile she knew so well, that still had the power to cause her heart to thud against her ribs and the roof of her mouth to feel dry, was Ben Hayman.
‘You,’ she said, and her voice came out in a croak.
Ben seemed completely in charge of the situation. He took a step forward and said, ‘Hello, Janet.’
Janet hadn’t even known that Ben was in England. She wondered why Ruth hadn’t mentioned it. Maybe she hadn’t thought it would be important to her. And it wasn’t either, Janet decided. The man meant nothing to her any more. ‘What do you want?’ Janet’s voice croaked in her throat.
‘Can I come in?’
‘No,’ Janet said, half closing the door. ‘What do you want?’ she said again. ‘And how did you find me?’ Ben smiled again, and Janet could hardly believe the lurch her heart gave. He hadn’t changed much, she realised as she looked at him. Though his features had hardened slightly and his hair was shorter, he was still an incredibly handsome man.
The smile annoyed her, and so did the way her body was reacting. ‘How did you find me?’ she snapped again.
‘Ruth.’
‘Ruth wouldn’t tell you,’ Janet said firmly. She knew her friend wouldn’t betray her like that.
‘She didn’t tell me, no,’ Ben admitted, ‘but your address was in her phone book.’