The Classroom

by A. L. Bird

  Harriet nods. She doesn’t smile, but she doesn’t cry either.

  ‘Great. Give me fifteen minutes, and we’ll have you eating ice cream round this very table!’

  Becky takes Julia’s arm. ‘Julia, this is nonsense!’

  ‘What?’ asks Julia. ‘I stopped her crying, didn’t I?’

  ‘It’s not always about that. Sometimes, as a parent, you’ve got to make your kids face difficult things.’

  ‘What, in your vast experience?’ Julia retorts. ‘You’ve been in her life for about ten minutes.’

  ‘Yeah? Which means you’ve been in it for about ten seconds. I gave birth to her, Julia. I have a right.’

  ‘Helen was right,’ Julia says. ‘You haven’t the judgement to look after a child.’

  ‘Oh for God’s sake, that was one time. I was a teenager, I’d just found out I was pregnant, I wasn’t quite … connected that day.’

  ‘It doesn’t take much connection to see there’s something wrong with a baby.’

  Becky sighs. ‘I didn’t get that “watch the baby” meant actually intervene if it turned red.’

  ‘What, if a baby turns red, then blue – you just ignore it?’ Julia challenges. ‘You knew she had problems with reflux, for God’s sake – that’s why Helen was staying with us.’

  ‘Look, I told Helen I was sorry, OK?’

  ‘Sorry means nothing in that situation. It was her baby. It’s a good job she’d learnt CPR, and the hospital was close, otherwise …’

  Maybe Julia had a point. Becky remembered how dulled her senses had been that day, a feeling that nothing really mattered because everything was lost. She’d sat in front of the cot watching Helen’s baby. She knew, if she was honest with herself, that the baby didn’t look right. But she felt so detached, so … savage almost. Not that she’d wanted the baby to die (and it didn’t, thank God). At least, she didn’t think she did. If she thought about it properly, afterwards. But in the moment, the moment where she should have been doing something, the baby was just an outward manifestation of her inner battle, her horrible discovery that she was growing one inside her. So she just left it, as it writhed in panic, not finding its breath, going blue.

  Maybe the psychiatrist who said she wouldn’t have been safe with her own baby was right. No. That can’t be true. She’d never harm Harriet. They’d all been in the wrong – Helen, Kirsten, the psychiatrist, the lot of them. She was seventeen, knocked up by a teacher, terrified, and about to be kicked out by her parents. And ultimately, Helen’s baby was fine.

  ‘Jesus, Julia, you said at the time Helen over-reacted, all those pregnancy hormones still flying around. Don’t start making a thing of it now!’

  They glare at each other.

  ‘How was your date?’ Becky asks, pointedly. You didn’t care enough to stick around last night, is what she means.

  ‘A let-down. So I need some ice cream anyway,’ Julia says. ‘And Harriet can join in too, can’t you, kiddo?’

  Harriet nods.

  Julia leaves the kitchen, and a few moments later, there’s the sound of a shower going.

  ‘Come on, Harriet, we’re leaving.’

  ‘But the ice cream!’ Harriet protests. ‘And the Cheerios!’

  ‘Eat a handful of Cheerios now, but then we’re going. Auntie Julia is being very naughty, and isn’t making anything better. We’re on an exciting adventure, you and me, and we’re going to have a lovely time.’

  Harriet sits on the kitchen floor and starts crying quietly.

  It’s not the sort of adventure picture you post on Facebook. Not the sort of picture Becky’s other sister shares, that Becky likes to stare at. Still, her own time for smug mother-daughter selfies will come. Surely.

  Becky turns her phone on and finds the local taxi app. ‘Right, ten minutes, then we’ll be off. Let’s get your things together!’

  Harriet shakes her head. ‘I don’t want to go,’ she says. ‘I like Auntie Julia.’

  Becky takes a deep breath. ‘The thing about Auntie Julia, sweetie, is she makes lots of promises, but when you need her most, she isn’t there.’

  Becky suddenly becomes aware of footsteps behind her.

  ‘Am I not?’ Julia says.

  Becky turns to face her. ‘You know you’re not.’

  ‘I’m here now, Bex. I’m trying to help.’

  ‘We have to go. I’ve got a taxi coming.’

  ‘This little one’s going to tell the taxi driver you’re not her mummy and cause a scene. You know that, right?’

  Julia has a point.

  ‘Have a cup of tea. Then I’ll give you a lift somewhere, OK? It’s too obvious for you to stay here.’

  ‘You mean you’ll support me?’

  Julia looks at her and shakes her head. ‘I don’t agree with what you’re doing. But you’ll work it out for yourself soon enough.’

  Becky had forgotten how annoyingly patronising she found her sister. Yet she wishes this had been Julia’s response when Becky needed it most – when she was about to give birth to Harriet. When her parents had kicked her out (their strict religious teachings clearly not having covered God-like compassion and mercy) and she was living in sheltered accommodation, then a flat Ian rented. If Julia had been there for her then, she might never have listened to that doctor in the first place.

  ‘We’ll stay for one cup of tea, then you can drop us as a B&B or something, OK?’

  In response, Julia puts the kettle on. Harriet sits at the kitchen table, listlessly picking at Cheerios.

  So far, this is not the great bonding experience with her daughter that Becky had planned. But she knows she’s right. Harriet is so much better off with her than with Kirsten. Of course she is.

  Chapter 45

  KIRSTEN

  Still nothing from Ian. Kirsten paces up and down the living room, round the boxes. Occasionally she sits down to inspect her phone, then stands up again. This is absurd. She should have gone with him. What made her think she could trust him with something like this, given the number of times he’s betrayed her in the past? The times he said that he was going round to talk to Becky, whose side had he been on? Whose case was he pleading? She should have gone with Mrs McGee, made her knock on the door of all the teachers at the school. Not just be left sitting here, waiting.

  She calls Ian again, but it goes to voicemail, so she texts him:

  Any news?

  She knows she shouldn’t be calling him, texting him, in case this ever becomes a police investigation. Ian and his knife. Why did he have to over-complicate things? Why did he have to care so much about his reputation?

  And yet, Kirsten is grateful that he knows the world would be better without Becky. They’d have their child. And they’d have silence. Not just about their jobs. That’s a niggle for Kirsten. But about the fact that someone else may have more right to Harriet than them. Or than Kirsten. Ian probably still has the same rights, given he’s the biological father. What kind of a message is that? Be a shit dad, but because your drunken/drugged sperm happened to make her, you get a right to stay in her life.

  Nothing from him. And a further ten minutes, still nothing.

  Then, her phone comes to life. A text from Ian.

  Just getting petrol. Be at target in 15 mins.

  Is he mad? Unless the car’s running on fumes, why would you stop at a petrol station so close to the scene of a crime you might be about to commit? And why would you not be driving like crazy to get there before your mad lover does something to your child?

  Fifteen minutes come and go. Then twenty minutes, then half an hour. Kirsten longs to call Ian. But she knows she can’t, not just now – he might be in the middle of … something. Kirsten covers her eyes as she has visions of a house full of blood, of Harriet witnessing a murder, of Becky getting the knife and stabbing all of them, Harriet included. ‘Oh God, Oh God, Harriet, I’m sorry!’ Kirsten whispers to herself, wiping tears from her eyes.

  The phone rings. Kirsten nearly drops it. I
t’s Ian calling. She swipes at the phone, but her wet fingers won’t engage the answer button. ‘Oh, shit, come on, come on!’ she shouts, desperately wiping the face of the phone on the sofa, her hands on her top, then trying again.

  ‘Hello!’ she says as soon as she can, in case Ian is about to give up.

  ‘I’m at the sister’s house,’ he says. ‘Outside.’

  Well go in, then! Kirsten wants to scream.

  ‘There’s no one there,’ he says.

  ‘Actually no one there, or they aren’t answering the door?’ Kirsten asks. Would someone answer the door if they were harbouring a kidnapped child?

  ‘I’ve walked right round the house, and it looks like they’ve been there and gone. I peered in the living room window – there’s a crack in the curtains – and there’s breakfast stuff there. There’s breakfast stuff round the back as well, lots of it – enough for three people. I tried to climb up a wall to see into the upstairs, but I couldn’t. So it’s possible they’re hiding up there, I guess. But all the lights are off.’

  Kirsten shivers and hugs herself, imagining Ian prowling round outside with a knife.

  ‘Kirsten?’ he asks.

  ‘I’m still here,’ she says. Although she’s not sure she really is. This all seems very detached from anything like reality.

  ‘What do you want me to do?’ Ian asks.

  Why does she always have to be the grown-up, making the right decisions? Ian seemed happy enough to make decisions in the past that would screw them over. Why not stick to it now? But he’s not stupid, either, Ian – Kirsten knows he wants to be able to say that, whatever he did, she was part of it. Right up to the hilt.

  What should he do, then? Should he wait? Break in? Should they call the police, now? There’s no knowing that Becky actually went there at all.

  ‘I’ll wait, shall I, see if they come back – or come out if they’re still there? Kirsten, what do you think?’

  Kirsten takes a breath. ‘Yes. Wait for them. Wait for them and get Harriet back. But please, please don’t hurt her.’

  Her voice cracks.

  ‘Why would I hurt our child?’ Ian says, and hangs up.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Kirsten whispers to herself. ‘I don’t know, but I’m afraid.’

  Chapter 46

  BECKY

  At the B&B, Becky puts on the TV. She bustles about, making tea, calls down to see if they have any Ribena for Harriet that she can heat up. She looks like the heat and the sweetness would do her good. Then she checks her phone, even though it’s not on mute.

  Harriet sits on the bed. That is all she has done since they got there. Sit on the bed, and stare into space. Occasionally a tear trickles down her face. Becky tries to engage her in conversation.

  ‘Isn’t this fun, Harriet?’

  ‘I’m so lucky to be here with you, Harriet!’

  ‘Hey, shall I see if I can find Peppa Pig on the TV, Harriet?’

  All Becky’s attempts have been met with no response. Becky thinks back to little Maya at the breakfast club. How even an interpreter wasn’t enough to breach the sound barrier. How Maya was too traumatised, still, to speak. Had Becky done that now to her own child? Torn her away from her mother, taken her on an inexplicable journey, only to end up without her home comforts or what she thought of as her family?

  Of course, an escape from somewhere like Syria, and the torment that little Maya must have endured, wasn’t comparable with a trip from Islington to Bristol. And nor was a stay with Julia, being offered ice cream and Cheerios, on a par with the staging posts and the squalor that Maya would have faced. But this listlessness, the refusal (inability?) to speak, a sort of shutting down – to Becky’s guilty conscience, they seemed the same.

  But she shouldn’t feel guilty, should she? She was this girl’s mother. They were meant to be together.

  Becky tries again. She kneels down in front of Harriet, and gently strokes her hand. Harriet doesn’t react at all – doesn’t flinch, doesn’t return the gesture, doesn’t pull her hand away. Becky kisses Harriet’s hair. Same story. Finally, she sits on the bed next to Harriet, so that their arms are touching. Becky would love for Harriet to rest her head on Becky’s shoulder. To wriggle into her, to go for a hug. But no, still the impassive staring straight ahead. No doubt, if she had Dorothy’s ruby slippers she’d be clicking her heels together to go home. She doesn’t, so there’s no movement at all.

  Becky’s phone bleeps. Sighing, she pulls herself off the bed and retrieves the mobile. It’s from Ted. She opens it up.

  Hey, we’re all worried about you. Me especially. Where are you? Call me. x

  So. The school is on her trail. And was apparently manipulating Ted into sending messages. They were probably all sitting there waiting for her to respond, as if that would give some great clue. She’d actually love to respond. She’d love to phone him, tell him everything, from Ian onwards. She’d love to cry down the phone about how horribly disappointing and overwhelming this was – that much as she loved being in a room with her beautiful Harriet, she hated it too because she despaired at what she was meant to do next, and could see only grudging tolerance down the line, at best, from her daughter.

  Sod Kirsten. And sod Ian. How could it have come to this? It was their fault. Why couldn’t they just have got over themselves, behaved like sensible people years ago – not have driven her to this?

  Becky’s phone rings. If it’s Ted, she can’t answer it. But no – it’s Julia.

  ‘Hello?’ she answers.

  ‘Are you guys all right?’ she asks. She sounds breathless, urgent.

  ‘Why, what’s happened?’ Becky asks.

  ‘Someone followed me from the car. I think it was Ian. He was asking about you.’

  ‘What? Where are you now?’ Becky asks.

  ‘Back home. I just managed to get in the door. But he might still be out there, Bex.’

  ‘You didn’t tell him where we are?’

  ‘No, of course not. I said I hadn’t seen you for years.’

  ‘Did he buy it?’

  ‘I don’t know. He threatened me with the police, said that I was an accessory to kidnapping, that he’d find you. All that stuff. But it wasn’t what he said, Bex. It was him; he gave me the creeps.’

  ‘Why?’ Ian could be a lot of things, but creepy wasn’t how Becky would describe him. Charming, if he needed to be. Or just very ordinary, very reserved, when he didn’t want to make a scene.

  ‘Oh … just something about him. He was jumpy, nervy. Carrying something in a bag, I couldn’t see what it was, but he was clutching it tight. You know when someone’s not quite right? If I’d been on a bus with him, I’d have moved to sit closer to the driver. Or just have got off. That kind of thing.’

  Becky shook her head. God knows what Kirsten had been saying to him – he was probably terrified the police were going to catch up with him, and all his sordid little lies would come to the surface. Or maybe he was genuinely worried about Harriet. Hah.

  ‘Don’t worry too much, Julia, OK? He’s probably gone elsewhere now.’

  There’s a pause.

  ‘I’m not sure, Bex. He’d have come into the house with me if I hadn’t managed to shut the door on him.’

  ‘He can’t trace me and Harriet, though,’ Becky tells her.

  ‘Someone’s going to find you two, you know – and if you’re discovered, rather than handing yourselves in, you’re not going to have any control over the consequences.’

  Suddenly Becky realises where this is coming from. She’d forgotten how judgemental Julia could be.

  ‘You’ve made this whole lot up, haven’t you, Julia?’ Becky storms.

  ‘What?’ Julia sounds shocked. Of course she does, she was always better at drama than Becky even after (especially after) the ill-fated drama course.

  ‘“Oh, I think it was Ian, oh they’re going to find you, oh you need to hand yourself in”,’ Becky mimics. ‘This is all because you don’t think I’m doing the
right thing. It’s just a ploy to get me to take Harriet back to Kirsten! To make me call the police and confess!’

  Becky sees Harriet look up at the mention of her ‘mother’s’ name. Becky turns away from Harriet towards the room’s small window, and starts banging her hand rhythmically against it. ‘I’m doing the right thing, Julia!’ she says. But she’s not sure she believes it. Julia won’t, and Harriet certainly doesn’t.

  ‘Yeah, you’re right, I don’t agree with you,’ sounds Julia, her voice forceful down the phone. ‘But I’m not making up some psycho stalking round outside my house, OK? You’re paranoid! And you know what you’re doing is wrong – don’t project this back on me!’

  ‘I’m not falling for this, Julia! I’m not calling the police!’

  ‘Listen to yourself – you sound anxious, mad! Why would I make this up? I just wanted to check you were doing OK. Sounds like you’re fine – it’s just me who’s stuck!’

  ‘We’re not fine!’ shouts Becky. ‘Harriet won’t bloody say anything, I’ve no idea how to get from here to where I want to be, my employers are trying to trap me into saying where I am, and I can afford to stay here three nights tops. We are not fine!’

  There’s a silence on the other end of the line.

  ‘Julia?’ Becky prompts.

  ‘Sorry, I was just checking out the window. I think he’s still there.’

  ‘Bullshit, Julia! If this is you trying to get me to go back to London, then it’s not working!’

  ‘I need to go,’ Julia says.

  Becky hangs up and throws the phone onto the bed, narrowly missing Harriet. ‘Bitch!’ she says.

  This time, Harriet flinches.

  ‘Not you, sweetheart! I didn’t mean you.’ Becky runs across the room, and tries to gather Harriet to her, but Harriet won’t be gathered.

  ‘What a mess, hey? What can we do? How do we sort this out?’

  Becky sits back to look at Harriet. She gets nothing in return.

  Chapter 47

  KIRSTEN

  She should call the police. It’s been over forty-eight hours now. Never mind her and Ian’s secrets. This is about Harriet. Harriet, whose absence means Kirsten hasn’t eaten, hasn’t slept, hasn’t washed. Just stared out of the window, at her phone, at the internet. At Harriet’s bedroom, at her photographs, at her Frozen toothbrush in the bathroom. Crying while she does it.