The Other Mother

by J. A. Baker

  ‘How do you know these are from Rosie?’ I manage to croak quietly. ‘Anybody could have typed these up and—'

  ‘They were traced back to her login,’ Cooper interjects quickly. ‘In fact they’re still there in her documents folder. It was all pretty easy to work out. After the incident with the books we knew exactly where to look …’

  I nod and lower my head despondently. I cannot meet his eyes, to stare at him and see the look of triumph in his face. He must be elated.

  ‘I’m afraid this is a very serious matter,’ Mrs Paxton continues, ‘and although I am sure it won’t happen, the parents of this other pupil are threatening to go to the local authority, and are even talking about informing the police, if we don’t sort this out as soon as possible and make sure Rosie is dealt with appropriately.’

  My scalp prickles and I am so hot I fear I might faint. The police? I breathe hard and grip on to the edge of the chair. The room slants at a peculiar angle. I hang on to the wooden legs as I make a concerted effort to remain upright. This is ridiculous. They are upset, these parents. And rightly so. I would be too. But bringing the police into all of this? An overstretched force who are already struggling to find enough manpower to sort out real crimes? The idea is ludicrous I know it is. But the thought still fills me with terror. I can’t let this happen. I cannot entertain the idea of an officer sitting here interviewing Rosie, or worse still, one turning up on my doorstep … it is too horrific to consider.

  ‘So, we have taken the step of excluding Rosie until further notice. Until we can meet with the other parents and come to a decision as to what our long-term strategy is going to be. I’m sure you understand that behaviour of this ilk simply cannot be tolerated. There is no place for it here at Knottswood Academy …’

  I stare at her, and then very slowly lift my face up to look at Mr Cooper, who suddenly appears to be embarrassed by the whole situation. I am trying to formulate a coherent response, to let these people know that I am a good parent, not some roughneck dunderhead who has recently stumbled into their lives with my disturbed daughter, when the knock disturbs me. We all turn and watch as she glides into the room, a sheath of papers balanced on her arm, her face composed into a look of complete calm as she nods at Mrs Paxton before depositing the papers on her desk and strolling back out again. Time stands still. I feel the blood drain from my face and the swaying room begins to rock about violently. The ticking of the clock on the wall crashes around my head. The air suddenly becomes too thin. I do my best to practise my breathing techniques, use every calming method I have ever been taught, to bring my terror under control but fear that none of them will serve me well this time. Not today, here, under these circumstances. Today has just turned against me, showing me yet again that life will always have the upper hand. No matter how hard I try to escape from it all, no matter how hard I work and how straight a path I walk, day after day after day, my past will always catch up with me.

  Standing up, my head thick and muggy, I offer my hand to shake to both members of staff and listen to my own voice as it projects across the room, a distorted version of its usual self, an echoing reminder of how close I am to passing out. ‘I apologise unreservedly for all the trouble my daughter has caused you. If you would like to go and fetch Rosie I’ll take her home, and I’ll talk to her about this incident.’

  I watch from another world, a dim and distant planet of fear and uncertainty, as Mr Cooper waltzes out of the room and comes back a few moments later with Rosie behind him, her eyes wracked with horror and trepidation. There is a sudden silence and before anybody has a chance to say anything or to try to stop me, I hold Rosie’s arm and lug her out of the room, our feet the only sound to be heard as we scurry along the corridor and disappear away from the sea of staring faces.

  Child A

  Being released was almost as chilling as being incarcerated. The big, wide world was a truly terrifying place filled with people who wanted to destroy her, to wreak their revenge for crimes perpetrated on children they hadn’t even met, to maim her or hurt her in some way so they could sleep easy in their beds at night.

  Contact with her parents had been minimal while serving her sentence. During that time, she had built up a relationship with Aunt Alice. And of course, there was her probation officer who did the best he could to assist her transition into the real world. But Alice was the one she latched on to. She was her saviour. Alice had moved back to England from America following a split from her partner of ten years, and was horrified to step back into the turmoil and pandemonium that was their family life. She distanced herself from her abusive and alcoholic sister, telling her in no uncertain terms what she thought of their life choices, and took her niece under her wing. With no children of her own, she saw it as her duty to take care of her niece, to give her as much love and guidance as she could. If Alice didn’t help this damaged child, then who would? The poor girl would be flung into a loveless world with no protection from those out there who wished her harm. And there were lots of them; people everywhere trying to track her down, making it their mission to see to it that she would suffer. Even giving the girl Alice’s surname didn’t stop them. People were intent on getting their own back. They found ways of seeking her out. The inception of the Internet compounded the problem, allowing the world and his wife access to public records without the inconvenience of having to shift out of their armchairs. But Alice did a good job of protecting her niece. She used her money wisely by sending her to a wide range of private classes to arm her with skills she could use in her future; creative writing classes, dance classes, painting sessions, even flower arranging, which the girl hated, claiming it was full of retirees who treated her like an errant grandchild. Turned out her niece was quite the artist, producing paintings that, according to the teacher, were reminiscent of Edward Hopper. From that point on, her direction in life was mapped out for her. Alice bought her the equipment she needed and they never looked back.

  But then Alice’s untimely death from a heart attack plunged the girl back into the unknown. Still only in her early twenties, she found herself alone and without direction in a world of bitterness and retribution. Only after her aunt’s death did she discover just how hated she was. The letters that Alice had kept hidden from her for so long, continued to arrive with nobody to dispose of them; notes telling her exactly what everyone thought of her, and how much they wanted her dead. And so, being the only beneficiary of Alice’s will, she found herself with the means to move, to hide from the masses who wished her harm. Like a shapeshifter, she travelled about, changing her appearance, chopping her hair, altering its colour, doing what she could to keep them at bay. And it worked. She relaxed her attitude, became less defensive, more approachable, left the house without fear. Got herself a life.

  Then she met him, the first and only person she felt she could trust since Alice. He was a PE teacher, full of life, a man who was always on the lookout for the next challenge. She had to make the decision soon after meeting him. Should she tell him about her past? Encumber him with such a heavy burden? Or should she break free from her guilt and heartache and look to their future together? The longer she took to decide, the harder it became to actually do the right thing and inform him of what had happened to her, and so, before she knew it, six months had passed and the person she was, was far behind her, a ghost of a former life she felt sure belonged to somebody else.

  Her pregnancy was a bolt out of the blue, something that took them both by surprise. It wasn’t planned but they soon adapted, their lives fast becoming a steady routine of work and preparation for their life with a baby, a child they could pour their love into. The letters and hate mail had stopped and she found herself in a state of complete relaxation, something she hadn’t felt in a long, long time. Not since Alice took her in and looked after her, kept her from harm.

  The child came along and everything was perfect. For the first time in her life she felt blissfully happy. They were a family. A real tight-knit
unit with love and laughter in abundance and a future to look forward to. The baby grew into a toddler. She had emerald eyes, a chubby face and she ran everywhere, her small, fat fists pumping the air forcefully, her smile lighting up every room in the house. Nothing could dent their happiness or take any of this away from her. And then it happened. She let her guard down, became friendly with one of the other mums at the nursery. At first it was good. They took the kids to the park, went for coffee, ventured into town with two toddlers in tow, searching the shops for clothes together, chatting about local schools and their aspirations for their child’s future. But then something changed, an imperceptible shift the way her friend watched her, the questions she started to ask, the sudden, endless stream of probing about her upbringing.

  ∞∞∞∞

  He had already opened it and was sitting at the kitchen table when she got in after taking the little one to the library to see a children’s author. Her friend had declined her invitation. She should have seen the signs then, but was desperate for any sort of company after being alone for so long, and had subconsciously ignored all the alarm bells that were ringing in her head. A tingle of apprehension travelled up her spine as she saw the piece of paper in his hand, noticed the look on his face …

  He didn’t leave straight away but the damage was already done. The questions and accusations were endless, his anger exploding into the room day after day. Why hadn’t she told him? What had possessed her to do such a thing? What sort of a monster was she, for God’s sake? She talked to him, tried to soothe him, get him to see her side of the story and tell him the truth not the distorted version that the press bandied about, not the version that everyone was so sure was accurate and defined her as a person. She hoped she had talked him round, got him to see how bad things had been for her, how difficult her childhood had been and how circumstances had simply spiralled out of control. But then one morning, a few weeks after his discovery, she got up to find him gone. A note was propped up on the kitchen table, spelling out his sentiments, telling her exactly what he thought of her and her child, claiming the girl probably wasn’t even his anyway and if she was, he no longer wanted anything to do with either of them. The kid was tainted by association, he said. Her mother was a liar, a deceitful piece of shit, a murderer.

  And so, it was back to how it had always been , just her against the world. Back to keeping her defences up, back to constantly checking over her shoulder. No more visits to the park with her toddler, no more days out in town.

  The friend must have done her absolute best to let everyone know who she was, as more letters started to arrive, spelling out exactly what they thought of her and all the ways in which they hoped she would die.

  Moving around again became a way of life. Every little glance, every innocuous comment, every letter that dropped on her doormat left her frightened for their safety.

  She lost all contact with her parents and visualised them living in some seedy hostel, a pair of alcoholics with ravaged faces and blackened souls. They meant nothing to her. Nobody did any more. Only her daughter had the capacity to stay in her heart, to keep her going through all the bad times. And there were plenty of bad times. But that girl gave her a reason to get out of bed every morning and face the world with all its threats and dangers. Yet still, the fear drove her. Each and every time people passed her in the supermarket she would feel herself shrivel up, feel her world tilt on its axis under their watchful gazes.

  The moves continued. House after house. Town after town. Until she felt she could no longer do it, keep running away. Her job and the use of online shopping meant she could actually live her life without having to leave the house. She could stay in one place and watch her daughter grow up into a fine young woman. They could do this together. Be a team. This house would be their last. They were there for keeps.

  Erica

  Breast conserving surgery they call it, apparently. I feel like one of the fortunate ones. Mine hasn’t spread and is in its early stages. Not like the many other women I have spoken to in the hospital waiting rooms and the various online chat forums I have visited, many of whom are facing a much grimmer future than I am. I’m trying to stay positive, to keep my chin up as they say. Some days are easier than others. Arthur is still looking for work and we are doing our damnedest to remain positive and get our marriage back on track. It’s not been easy. I won’t pretend that, after our soul-baring discussion, everything fell easily into place and we became a loving couple once again. Life isn’t like that, is it? Life is full of bumps and pitfalls and cliff edges that you have to hang on to with your fingernails, despite feeling as if you are about to plunge into a gaping abyss. But we are doing our best and that is all we can do.

  A weekend away from it all helped. Two days spent wandering round museums and shops in York. Two days trying to rebuild a marriage that, up until two weeks ago, seemed beyond redemption. We tried. We are still trying. And it isn’t easy but it’s certainly a damn sight better than it has been for some time.

  The messages from up north have continued; questioning, desperate, threatening. I have done my level best to ignore them, keeping contact to a minimum. Every now and again I reply, outlining my reasons for stepping out of the whole silly palaver. A lot of people have a massive mid-life crisis: buy a ridiculously expensive sports car, run off with a younger partner, sell their home and sail around the world. Agreeing to go through with that ludicrous plan was mine. For so many years I hated that woman; loathed her with every fibre of my being. Pamela was my little sister, our gorgeous six-year-old girl who went to play in the park one fine, spring day and never came home. It was the deception that got us, my parents and me. For so many months we had believed it was an accident, a tragic, unavoidable set of circumstances; a small girl playing on a slide, a slip of the foot, a fall from above. We cried and grieved and campaigned for greater safety in local play areas, did what we could to try to alleviate the gnawing emptiness that clawed at our lives on a daily basis. And then it happened, the same teenager, babysitting a small boy. Another mysterious death …

  For so long I wanted to get even for Pamela’s death. The sentence didn’t seem long enough. Our suffering would never end. Me, my parents, even my daughter and my husband suffered because of her. She almost wrecked my marriage, but only because I let her. I let her actions get under my skin for so many years. I simmered with anger, fury burning away at the very centre of me, scorching and ruining anything and everyone who I came into contact with. Her actions were very nearly the undoing of me. Until recently that is. I have no idea why it took me so long to get over it. Perhaps it was the lies, the fact that she almost got away with it. Or perhaps it is just me. Maybe I have a darkness tucked away deep within me that will only settle when I feel justice has been done. I hope not. I hope that was the old me, the bitter and twisted version of me who needed a sharp wake-up call to tell her to start living, to begin appreciating life instead of focusing on death. The new me now has important matters that need my full attention. That woman and her phone calls are no longer a part of my life. I have a marriage to save, a disease to fight.

  I shuffle along my seat to make room for a man who looks every inch the country gent. He is wearing a green, checked tweed jacket and is carrying a highly polished walking stick with a brass top. He has yellow, canvas trousers on and has a copy of The Times tucked under his arm. Opposite me is a young woman wearing earphones and chewing on a matchstick which rolls about between her teeth. I catch her eye and am met with a scowl and a flick of her lavender coloured hair as she narrows her eyes at me and juts her chin forward. Feeling my face flush, I turn away and stare out of the window at the rush of landscape whooshing past us; a smear of greens, browns and blues as we cut through the countryside at 100 mph. It felt far easier to make the journey by train. Driving out of London is an ordeal and, not knowing how my body will respond to the operation and treatment, I didn’t want to risk not being able to visit my mum for a while so am travelling north
to see her. I plan on seeing Freya too. I spoke to her on the phone and told her about my diagnosis. We cried together. She wailed and sobbed, said she wanted to come home. I told her to stay put and that I would visit her. So here I am, on my way back up north, back to see my mother in my childhood home in Durham and my daughter in Sunderland.

  I feel the vibration of my phone and am tempted to ignore it but worry it may be Arthur. We have made a point, recently, of communicating with each other about everything, doing our best to be transparent with every aspect of our lives. Guilt stabs at me. Not completely transparent.

  I lift my phone out of my pocket and stare at it. A hot flush creeps up my face. I quickly glance around to see if anybody is watching me. Country gent is engrossed in his crossword and matchstick-chewing girl has her eyes closed and is humming along to her music. I stare down at the message once more and swallow hard. This woman knows no shame. Despite my many refusals and protestations of late, she is determined to go ahead with her silly plan, to plumb to the very depths of hideousness. And from what I gather from this latest text, she is going to take me with her.

  Beverley

  It took me three days to get rid of her. Three long days of staring at her lank, unwashed hair, which hung in front of her eyes despite my best attempts to get her to take a bath; three days of her dreadful stink clogging up my olfactory system. Three days of her whining about how shit her life is and how much better it would have been if our father was still alive. She never even met him. Our mother was seven months pregnant with Theresa when Dad jumped from that bridge. All these years and she still hankers after a father she never even knew. If it hadn’t have been him, it would have been something else. Or someone else. His suicide, Greg’s death, they are all the excuses she needs to justify her actions, to explain the path she has chosen to take, resulting in the sad and miserable existence that is now her life. And all of it comes back to me. Every single time. She has even managed to convince our mother that it’s all my fault. To be fair, that wasn’t the most difficult of tasks. Mum already held me responsible anyway. All she needed was that extra little push to shove the blame for everything that happened my way, make sure it sits firmly at my feet. A huge glaring reminder of all my inadequacies for the whole world to see, the sins of my past emblazoned on my soul for all eternity.