The Other Mother

by J. A. Baker

  ‘I’ve lost my job, Erica. I’m unemployed, out of work, call it what you will. I’ve been fired.’

  I try to not gasp, to cover the shock I feel at his revelation. No mistress, no affair. He is not packing his bags and moving out. He is simply out of a job. That’s all it is. I widen my eyes and try to speak but all that comes out is another wet sob. And the strange thing is, I am not crying because I am ill, neither am I crying because my husband, the wealthy businessman who has always supported us financially, is now no longer an affluent, prosperous individual. I am crying because of the honesty we have suddenly discovered we still have. It is such a relief to let it all out, to watch as our secrets flutter out into the ether, wild and untethered. I close my eyes and breathe deeply; nearly all our secrets anyway. I still have one tucked away, stashed in the back of my mind, bolted into place by the padlocks of my past. Thoughts flicker in my mind. Should I free them? Unburden myself of all of this? I consider Freya, still at university, and what she would think of me should Arthur choose to tell her, and then my mother, still living in my childhood home, so close to where it all took place. Am I really prepared to saddle them with all of this? My plans for an act of unrefined retribution now suddenly seem pointless and silly, carried out in a moment of anger and sadness when Arthur and I hadn’t spoken for days, when I felt like the whole world was against me.

  I turn my gaze to Arthur who is waiting for me to respond. I know what sort of reaction he is expecting from me. We are used to being more than comfortably well off. We live in a large house in Holland Park. We have no mortgage and a brand-new BMW. A lifestyle most people can only dream of. He thinks I can’t live without it; that I am unable to function without money. At one time, he may have been correct. But things have changed between us tonight. We have modified our stance, changed our priorities. Money used to be our god. And yet did any of it make us any happier? Was it really our funds holding us together or was money one of the things that drove us apart? I am almost certain I already know the answer to this as I dry my eyes and wrap my arms around Arthur’s neck, wetting his collar with yet more tears that refuse to stop. It feels alien, touching him, seeking comfort from a man who, for the past few months, has been so distant from me.

  ‘When do you leave?’ I ask quietly, and watch as he throws his head back and lets out a huge belly laugh. The kind of laugh that is usually reserved for cartoon characters. A booming guffaw that fills the room, rattling the window frames and shaking the foundations of the entire house. I feel myself freeze. I have no idea what it is I’ve said that has caused such a furore and begin to wonder if there is another hammer blow coming; another deep, dark secret that I’ve not yet cottoned on to.

  ‘Oh, Erica, this is such a relief, being able to finally talk to you about it. Sorry, sweetheart, it’s not anything you’ve said or done. It’s me. It’s just me,’ he says as he wipes his eyes and shakes his head sadly.

  I grit my teeth, unsure how I should reply to this coded message. What next? What else can there be? I wait, hoping he isn’t wanting me to dig or prompt him. I’m too exhausted for such games.

  He pulls at his collar and lets out a deep sigh. ‘I lost my job over a month ago.’

  ‘A month?’ I half screech, ‘So where—’

  ‘Have I been going to every morning for the past four weeks or so?’ Arthur interrupts, eyebrows raised at me. ‘Silly, isn’t it? You see people do this in films, pull off this kind of stupid prank because they’re too embarrassed or too proud or too ashamed to admit to their family that they have lost their job. They get up every morning and go through the same ritual having breakfast, setting off at the same time, driving the same route, even though they are out of work and have nowhere to go to. Then they spend the day in coffee shops or wandering the streets until it’s time to go home again, at which point they step in the door and pretend that they’ve spent the last eight hours at the office.’

  I am speechless. Completely and utterly dumbfounded. This isn’t like him. The Arthur I know is a proud and dignified man. Quite a snob, actually. There was a time he would have laughed at anyone who did something like this, called them an idiot, a buffoon, told them to get off their arses and find another job. And now here he is, a middle-aged man, an intelligent man, wandering the streets of London while everyone believes he is at work holding down an important job in the city. I’m not sure which is worse, this sad state of affairs, or my rapidly deteriorating health. In less than six weeks our lives have taken a downward turn and now everything hangs in the balance , our home, our finances, my health.

  ‘I realise it isn’t the answer,’ I say softly, ‘but I’m going to open a bottle of wine and we are going to have a drink.’

  Arthur nods dully, his eyes heavy with worry. ‘One upside of this is that I can come with you to your hospital appointments. Now that I’ve got plenty of time on my hands …’

  I half laugh and stand up, my legs suddenly weak and unsteady, and head into the kitchen.

  Reaching into the top cupboard for some glasses, I think about the messages on my phone and make a decision there and then. It is now patently clear to me what I need to do. Life has thrown me a curveball and I have to run with it, adapt and do what I need to do to weather this storm that Arthur and I are currently battling our way through.

  I fill our glasses, and as steadily as I can, make my way back into the living room where Arthur is sitting waiting for me. He looks lost, like a small child, vulnerable and in need of help. I hand him his glass and place mine down on the marble coffee table that sits in the centre of the room.

  ‘I just need to send a message to Deb about cancelling my aerobics class,’ I lie and watch, ridden with guilt, as he nods and takes a gulp of wine, his Adam’s apple wobbling up and down as he drinks.

  Perched on the arm of the chair I read the messages that came through earlier: It’s all underway. Now for the next step.

  With trembling fingers, I key in my reply: Afraid things have changed here. Major family issues. I no longer want to go ahead.

  The reply comes back almost immediately: What? Why the sudden change of mind? I thought we had a deal …

  I shiver and turn the phone off, throwing it over the back of the sofa where it lands with a dull thud on the rug behind us.

  ‘All done,’ I say sheepishly before leaning back and savouring the sensation as the ice-cold wine slowly slithers down my gullet, coating my throat with a slightly vinegary tang. She will soon get sick of not receiving a reply. And she will also say nothing. I think of the consequences of her talking and blank it out. It is no longer my problem. I will simply deny everything. Every message we have sent to one another has been deleted, our tracks carefully smudged out, leaving no trace. I was stupid to think I could do this, to get away with such a ridiculous act. It all happened in a moment of madness, a time of weakness when Pamela had been preying on my mind after I had travelled back up north to visit my mother.

  Mum and I had been to my sister’s grave for the anniversary of her death and were on our way into town when I bumped into her. One horrible coincidence after another, that’s all it was. We exchanged numbers, feeling we had some common ground. Both middle-aged women with murdered siblings. We started to speak on the phone, exchanging pleasantries, chatting about our lives, our jobs, talking about the past, opening up about our guilt. And from that point on, the idea was born; a slow growing seedling, sprouting and flowering until it got to a point where there was no going back. We made plans. We had made a cast iron decision. Or at least that was how it felt. We spoke almost daily, feeding off one another’s grief and anger, giving each other more reasons to be furious, to feel perfectly justified with what we were about to do. We knew where she lived. What more did we need? And then fate played its part and an opportunity landed in our laps. It fell from the sky above like a gift from the gods. And all the while I managed to convince myself that it was the right thing to do. Freya was away at university in Sunderland, my marriage was crum
bling and then I found a lump. Finding that hard, pea-sized lump that day should have brought me to my senses. But it didn’t. If anything, it gave me greater impetus, filled me full of bitterness. After a morning of being poked and squashed and jabbed with large needles that felt as if they would rip my entire breast apart when inserted, I’d had enough. Life, I felt, had dealt me a cruel blow and somebody, somewhere would pay. Fuelled by pain and worry and acrimony I agreed to go ahead. Stupid move, very silly. I can see that now. It’s all in the past. I now need to focus on the future my future, if indeed I have one.

  Arthur squeezes my hand as I take a sip of wine and another tear finds its way out and rolls down my face.

  Lissy

  Typical, isn’t it? Just when you start to think your tiny existence isn’t so bad after all, something comes along and gives you a kick in the guts just to put you in your place; to remind you of who you actually are and where you stand in the pecking order of life.

  Rosie went back to school. Our meeting with Anthea Paxton, the headteacher, was quite positive, and Rosie was starting to settle down, to mingle and make a few friends. The matter of the letter and the missing money seemed to be a thing of the past. I burnt the letter and repaid the money back to the school despite myself; I figured it was best put behind us. The sooner the entire matter was forgotten about, the sooner we could get on with our lives and settle into our new home. My painting was also coming along a treat. I sold two canvases and had a request for another, an entirely new experience for me. Life was ticking along nicely. Until this morning, that is, when I received what can only be described as a double whammy.

  I was flitting about doing not much at all really, when the phone rang. Reticent as always, I picked it up and felt my stomach sink to my boots when I was greeted by the voice of Mr Cooper, in his arrogant, smug tone telling me I was to go and collect Rosie immediately. A meeting had already been arranged with him prior to picking her up, to discuss the matter of her exclusion for bullying. I almost choked on the air I was breathing as I listened to him telling me about how she had been on her final warning and they now needed to take further action since the incidents had escalated.

  Dropping the phone and pulling on my coat, I was in a complete meltdown, a tangle of limbs as I snatched up my keys and opened the front door, sweat blinding me and my heart trying to claw its way out of my chest. I almost stepped on something as I half threw myself over the threshold and out into the fresh mid-morning air. After the dead pigeon a few weeks back, I initially thought it had been another accident a freakish coincidence, but as I stared down at the pile of flea infested fur and rotting flesh on my doorstep, I began to realise it was more than that. Much, much more than happenstance or a completely unrelated run of bad luck. This was somebody targeting us. Somebody who felt it was their God-given right to unleash their hatred upon us by planting a dead animal directly outside my door, ready to greet me as soon as I step outside. Picking the fox up with the very tips of my fingers I quickly dragged it and shoved it to one side; its soft, floppy body curling into an amber fleshy heap on my front lawn. I knew that it would attract all manner of vermin, but I was in a rush. I would have to sort it out properly when I got back. At that point in time, Rosie was my priority. I needed to get down to the school as quickly as I could to sort out this latest issue.

  And so here I sit, my hands pressed tightly together in my lap, waiting for that odious creep of a man to show his face, to tell me in great detail what the problem is this time around. He enjoys it. Of that I am certain. It seems to give him a warped sense of superiority, having us sitting in front of him, seeing our shell-shocked faces as he reels off a list of Rosie’s purported misdemeanours.

  I feel the eyes of the office staff on me as I shift about in my seat, the vinyl sticking to my legs in the growing heat of the reception area. I try to rotate my body round to meet their gaze, to let them know that I refuse to be browbeaten by this man, by their system, their allegations against my child, but my view is blocked by an array of paper notices that are littered over the glass partition. I sigh with disappointment and turn my head back to see him standing there, surveying me with his fixed stare. I let out a small shiver. He reminds me of a corpse, his eyes black and unseeing.

  ‘If you would like to come this way, please,’ he says in that clipped, perfunctory timbre he adopts whenever we meet. ‘Mrs Paxton and I can fill you in on all the details and then we will send for Rosie and she can give us her side of the story.’

  I feel my stomach shrivel and fight to stop tears filling my eyes. This is all too much. Rosie bullying other pupils? It’s ridiculous. Completely and utterly absurd. I find myself unable to think straight as I follow Cooper into the office and listen to him slam the door behind me before he tells me to take a seat.

  Anthea Paxton has a warm and compassionate face and kind eyes, and I pray she will be gentle with me, tell me it’s all been a huge mistake and that they are terribly sorry for dragging me down here. But she doesn’t. She sits, her back straight, her hands placed on the desk and proceeds to inform me, with military-like precision, about the atrocities my daughter has committed. Unlike Mr Cooper, she doesn’t appear to take any pleasure in it, however, she is a woman who holds a position of authority and I can tell by her behaviour that she intends to conduct this interview in a formal manner, to see it through to its conclusion. She will leave no stone unturned.

  ‘Good morning, Ms McLeod,’ she says softly, and already I feel under scrutiny. Cooper has obviously informed her of my insistence on being addressed as Ms and not Mrs. The thought of him discussing me when I’m not there makes my skin crawl. ‘I’m sorry we have to meet like this. I wish it were under better circumstances but unfortunately this is a serious matter. At Knottswood Academy, we take any incidents of bullying very seriously and do our utmost to sort them out immediately.’

  I nod vigorously, my hair flying out of the ponytail I put it in earlier. I reach up and smooth it back down. I want to speak, to tell her that, once again, they have made a huge mistake, but the words won’t come. My head buzzes as she lifts a pile of books out from under the table and lays them out for me to look at. There are half a dozen exercise books spread out on the table and as soon as she opens them I feel my abdomen go into spasm. The words jump out at me, a scribble of disjointed phrases in black, marker pen. The words fucking cow and will kill you, you bastard imprint themselves on my brain. I can see them all, there on the page. And I recognise the handwriting. There is no denying it. The room spins as I lean forward and scan the books. One after another after another after another. Rosie’s thick scrawl covering each and every page. Die you skinny bitch … will stab you … scratch your fucking eyes out … wait for you after school and murder you … On and on it goes. A torrent of vitriol and poison filling the pages. I try to speak, but it’s impossible. A wave of heat clutches me, my skin burning as I peel my cardigan off and sit motionless, my legs like blocks of wood, my mind racing as I try to make sense of it all. I have no words. All logic leaves me. I sit, a frozen figure, too distressed and confused to do or say anything. I need to think, to snap out of it and do something, but am unable to move or speak.

  ‘As you can see,’ Mrs Paxton says quietly, her voice breaking the dreadful silence that has settled in the room, ‘this isn’t something we can ignore.’

  I nod my head numbly and listen as she continues, ‘These books belong to a student in Rosie’s class. What makes the entire incident even more distressing is the fact that this young person is one of our more vulnerable pupils who has additional needs. She is now refusing to come to school and is, by all accounts, absolutely terrified after discovering these comments in her book yesterday afternoon. We received a call from her parents this morning and they are absolutely furious, and understandably so.’

  Despite my vow to remain calm and be untouched by any of this, to make sure I am cool and detached enough to defend my daughter against their accusations, I feel tears begin to build and a
m unable, or unwilling, to stop them as they begin to roll their way down my face; a deluge of despair. I make no attempt to wipe them away. What is the point? I can see those words and feel their insidious intent from here. I recognised Rosie’s handwriting immediately. I have no idea how to get out of this situation, how to defend her when all of this is completely indefensible. I feel totally and utterly lost, and for one horrible moment I am transported back to my childhood, to a time when there was nobody to help me or to protect me against the blows that life put my way. Taking me by surprise, Cooper touches my arm softly and hands me a tissue, his face the picture of concern. With misty eyes, I blow my nose and wipe my face, everything in the room now blurred and out of focus.

  Seconds turn into minutes until at last I find my voice and blurt out a stream of apologies both for my mini-breakdown and for the defacement of the books. Those dreadful, unforgivable words that have punctured the heart of another child, destroyed her faith in human nature and made her frightened and anxious. Given her a memory she would sooner forget. And God knows I know all about those. I have a glut of them stored away, ready to jump out at me when I least expect it. Just when I think I have them beaten they make an appearance, vivid and painful, armed and ready to taunt me. So clear and lucid, as if it were only yesterday.

  ‘And this isn’t the only thing, Ms McLeod,’ she says, her head bowed as she produces a handful of typed letters and hands them over for me to read.

  They are more of the same. Notes filled with hatred and swear words that I have never ever heard Rosie say. You are a fucking slut … get a life you whore … everybody hates you … wish you were dead…