The Silent Cry

by Cathy Glass

  ‘How long did it take then?’ I asked.

  ‘Not sure. I think I was back to normal when Kim was a year old.’

  ‘A year!’ I said, astonished and dismayed. ‘That’s far too long to be feeling like this. And why should it matter if it’s on your medical records? Lots of people suffer from depression at some time in their lives. I remember reading that it was as much as twenty per cent of the population. Shall I make the appointment for you if you don’t feel up to doing it yourself? I could phone now from here and you could decide when you wanted to go.’ I thought this might help, as everything seemed such an effort for Laura right now, which of course was a sign of depression.

  ‘No, it’s OK,’ she said. ‘I can tell my doctor at my six-week check-up. I think it’s the week after next. I’ll tell her then.’

  ‘Will you definitely tell her?’ I asked.

  She nodded.

  I couldn’t really say any more. Laura was an adult and as such I had to respect that she could make her own decisions, although I was no less worried. ‘Have you been out of the house at all?’ I asked.

  ‘Not since I was taken ill in the playground. That shook my confidence.’ Her eyes welled again.

  ‘Oh, love,’ I said, touching her arm.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m not always this low,’ she said. ‘I’m having a bad day. Some days I’m almost normal, whatever that is.’ She gave a small, stilted laugh and wiped her eyes. ‘But how rude of me. I haven’t offered you a drink. Let’s go into the kitchen and make a drink now. I told Geraldine I wanted to do it this time.’ She immediately stood.

  I took Paula by the hand and we went with Laura into the kitchen. Her house had a similar layout to mine, with the living room and kitchen at the rear, overlooking the garden. ‘You’ve got a lovely garden,’ I said. ‘Is it your work?’

  ‘It used to be. But I haven’t touched it this year. Andy’s been keeping it tidy. What would you like to drink? Tea or coffee?’

  ‘I don’t mind. Whatever you’re making.’

  She tensed. ‘Could you tell me, please, to make it easy? I don’t know what I want.’

  ‘Coffee, please,’ I said.

  ‘Good. I’ll have the same,’ she said, relieved. ‘Now, first the mugs.’ She turned to the sink, took a mug from the draining board and began drying it on a tea towel. Slowly, carefully, as if it took all her concentration. She set it down and began drying the next.

  ‘Shall I fill the kettle?’ I asked, trying to be helpful

  ‘Oh, yes, good idea. You do that, while I find the coffee.’ Clearly making coffee was no longer second nature to her, as it is for most of us.

  I filled the kettle and plugged it in as Laura placed the dry mugs on a tray and then opened one of the cupboards and took out a jar of instant coffee. She was like a child asked to perform a task by their mother – meticulous and wanting to get it right. But I saw her hands tremble as she spooned a teaspoon of coffee into each mug. Even a simple task like this appeared to cause her anxiety.

  ‘I don’t know what biscuits we have,’ she said, now looking in the cupboards. ‘Geraldine’s been buying them.’

  ‘I’ll just have a coffee,’ I said. ‘No biscuit for me, thank you.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve been eating too many.’ I smiled.

  ‘Do you take milk?’ she asked intensely.

  ‘Yes, please.’

  With the same profound concentration she opened the fridge door, took out the milk and set it on the work surface beside the tray. A plume of steam rose from the spout of the boiling kettle before the sensor switched it off. I kept Paula at my side, away from the boiling water, as Laura carried the kettle to the mugs and then carefully poured in the hot water and returned it to its stand. She added the milk. All her movements were slow, controlled and precise.

  ‘Ready,’ she said with a small sigh, and returned the milk to the fridge.

  She carefully picked up the tray and Paula and I followed her back into the living room where she set it on the coffee table. I was going to ask Laura if I could fill Paula’s trainer cup with water, but she flopped on the sofa and, throwing her head back, began crying again.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ I asked, very concerned and going to her.

  ‘I’ve spilt some,’ she said, pointing to the tray.

  I glanced at the tray; there was a tiny slop of coffee on it, really small. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ I said. ‘I can wipe it up if it’s bothering you.’

  But, of course, in Laura’s fragile state it did matter, a lot, and her tears fell silent and uncontrollable. My heart went out to her. To be so wretched and upset over something so small was pitiful. ‘It doesn’t matter, really,’ I said, trying to reassure her. ‘Shall I fetch some kitchen towel and wipe it up?’ I thought this might help.

  She shook her head but wouldn’t be consoled. It was heartbreaking to see a grown woman reduced to this state over something so trivial. Paula must have felt it too for she climbed onto my lap and wanted a cuddle. I sat with one arm around Laura and the other around Paula.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Laura said through her tears. ‘I’ve upset your daughter now.’

  ‘Don’t worry. It’s you I’m concerned about.’ More tears fell.

  Geraldine must have heard, for she came in. ‘I think it’s best if you go,’ she said.

  I nodded. My presence didn’t seem to be doing Laura any good, but I thought I should hear from Laura that she wanted me to leave.

  ‘Shall I go?’ I asked her gently. ‘And come back another time?’

  ‘Yes, I’m so sorry. I’ll have a sleep now.’ Fumbling for the packet of tissues, she stood and walked quickly from the room calling ‘Sorry!’ again as she left.

  I looked at Geraldine. Her face had finally lost its stern, almost condescending expression and she looked worried. ‘It’s a pity you’ve had to see her like this,’ she said. ‘But she’ll feel better after she’s had a lie down.’

  I didn’t point out that Laura had been in bed all morning and had only just got up. ‘Don’t you think she should see a doctor?’ I asked.

  ‘If we think it’s necessary then of course we will consult a doctor,’ she said, her usual terseness returning, and clearly resenting my suggestion.

  ‘And you don’t think it’s necessary now?’ I asked as I began returning Paula’s toys to the baby bag.

  ‘No. And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t discuss it with your friends in the playground,’ she said. ‘I know you like a chat.’

  I was mortified. I stopped what I was doing, straightened and looked at her. ‘I wouldn’t dream of discussing Laura, but I am very concerned for her.’

  ‘So are we,’ she said tartly.

  She waited, watching me, while I finished packing away Paula’s toys, almost as if she was on guard. Then she led the way to the front door.

  ‘I’ll let you know when Laura feels up to having visitors again,’ she said as we went out.

  ‘Thank you.’ The door closed behind me.

  I breathed in the warm spring air, relieved to be out of the crushing, depressive atmosphere in the house but also very worried. It wasn’t time to collect Adrian from school yet and I didn’t feel like going home, so I put Paula in the stroller and told her we were going to the park. She clasped her hands together in glee. As I walked I went over what I’d seen and heard at Laura’s. Was she suffering from postnatal depression, also known as postpartum depression? I didn’t know. What were the symptoms? I wasn’t sure. My friend with the thyroid problem had confided in me that she’d felt ‘low’, and another friend had told me she’d felt ‘down’ after the birth of her first child – a dose of the baby blues, she’d said, and had put it down to tiredness and having to adjust to a new baby. But that was surely very different from what Laura appeared to be going through: constant tears, wanting to sleep all day and talking of suicide. That must be more than the baby blues or a ‘bad day’? Thankfully I’d escaped all of this – othe
r than feeling tired, I’d been fine when I had my children. We arrived at the park and I let Paula out of her stroller and then lifted her into one of the toddler swings where I pushed her gently.

  If it had been Shelley or someone who had social services’ involvement suffering as Laura was, I would probably have telephoned their social worker and discussed my concerns. But Laura didn’t have a social worker – there was no reason why she should – and she had her husband and mother-in-law looking after her. From what Laura had said, they’d brought her through a similar episode after she’d had Kim, so I had to assume they knew what they were doing, although I still thought a year was too long to wait if Laura didn’t feel significantly better very soon.

  I was still thinking of Laura, or rather worrying about her, when twenty minutes later I returned Paula to her stroller and headed towards Adrian’s school. It was a sunny day in late May and he had the following week off school for the spring bank holiday. If the weather stayed fine we’d make the most of it in the garden, visiting parks and so on. I arrived in the playground with five minutes to spare and kept a look-out for Geraldine, wondering what, if anything, she’d say to me. But she hurried in just before the Klaxon sounded, collected Kim and walked swiftly out again without looking in my direction. Adrian arrived at my side, excited by the prospect of only one more day of school before a week off, and gave his sister a big kiss, which as usual made her chuckle. Having had plenty of exercise in the park she was happy to stay in the stroller, so our walk home was much quicker than usual. As we passed number 53 I glanced at the house, but there was nothing to be seen. I saw Paula look too and her little face clouded over. She didn’t have the vocabulary to express how she was feeling, but she’d seen Laura crying and I knew that it had probably upset her. It had upset me too. ‘I’m sure Liam’s mummy will be better soon,’ I said, reassuring her.

  As I made dinner that evening and then played with the children my thoughts returned to Laura, and I wondered what she was doing with her evening. Had the lie down done her good, as Geraldine had said it would? If so, perhaps she was making dinner for her family or playing with Kim or nursing Liam. I hoped so. Although I knew very little about postnatal depression, I instinctively felt that what Laura was suffering from would need more than a lie down, and I doubted that the instructional phrase her mother in-law used of ‘Get a grip’ would help either. When Adrian and Paula were in bed asleep I decided to consult the fount of much knowledge on motherhood and telephoned my dear mother.

  She wasn’t surprised to hear from me; we often spoke during the week and always at weekends if we weren’t seeing each other. Having asked how the other was and after catching up on our news, I said, ‘Mum, do you know anything about postnatal depression?’

  ‘Oh, love,’ she said, immediately concerned, ‘you’re not suffering from that, are you?’

  ‘No. I’m well, but someone I know with a young baby is feeling very low.’

  ‘The poor dear,’ Mum said. ‘She has my sympathy. I felt like that for a while after having your brother.’

  ‘Did you?’ I asked, surprised. ‘You’ve never mentioned it.’

  ‘Well, you don’t, do you? I mean, it was a long time ago and we just got on with it back then. Now I think you can get pills if you’re really low. I remember feeling very tearful and crying for no good reason, but I put it down to being permanently tired – having a toddler and a baby to look after.’

  ‘Do you remember what it felt like? Apart from crying, did you have any other symptoms?’

  ‘I don’t think so. I really can’t remember. Tearful and tired summed it up for me. It passed after about three months.’

  ‘And you didn’t go to the doctors?’

  ‘Good gracious, no, dear. I wouldn’t have bothered the doctor with something like that. They’ve got better things to do.’ My mother was of a similar age to Geraldine and like many of her generation didn’t consult the doctor unless it was absolutely essential and couldn’t be treated from the pharmacy or by having a rest. ‘But I wouldn’t have called it depression,’ she added. ‘Not like some people get depressed. It was more feeling down. I think they call it the baby blues.’

  We chatted for a while longer and then I talked to Dad before saying goodnight to them both. Interesting that Mum had never mentioned suffering from the baby blues before, I thought. How many other women had had similar experiences but never mentioned it? Perhaps they were ashamed to admit it at a time when everyone around them was overjoyed by the arrival of a new baby. It seemed a bit of a taboo subject, although as Mum had said there was a big difference between feeling down (the baby blues) and depression.

  The following day was Friday and that morning I was delighted to receive a telephone call from Shelley.

  ‘Hello, love,’ I said. ‘What a nice surprise. How are you?’

  ‘Back to normal and no toothache,’ she said.

  ‘Great. And how’s Darrel?’

  ‘He’s good. He often talks about you, Adrian and Paula.’

  ‘We’ve been talking about you too,’ I said. ‘Have your ears been burning?’

  ‘No, why? What have you been saying about me?’ She laughed.

  ‘Nice things. Adrian and I have been saying what a beautiful voice you have. We’ve started humming the lullabies you sang that night. We can’t sing well, so we hum them.’

  ‘Aww, that’s sweet. I’ll think of you then the next time I sing to Darrel. The reason I’m phoning is that I was wondering if you’ll be in on Saturday morning. I’ve bought you a little something to say thank you.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have done that,’ I said. ‘You should keep your money. But of course we’re always pleased to see you. Come for some lunch if you like.’

  ‘That would be terrific. Thank you. Darrel will love playing with Adrian again.’

  ‘Shall we say twelve o’clock?’’

  ‘Fantastic. See you then.’

  I hadn’t long finished talking to Shelley when the telephone rang again. It was a social worker from the children’s services department of the local authority. ‘Your name is on the whiteboard,’ she said. ‘I’m looking to place a child on respite for a few days next week and I see you are free.’ The whiteboard was on a wall at the far end of the social services’ open-plan office and showed the names of foster carers in the area who were free to take a child. When a social worker was looking for a carer, either because they were bringing a child or children into care, or they were looking for a respite placement, they checked on the board to see if a suitable carer was free. If not, they approached one of the independent fostering agencies. It’s a basic method, but it works well and many local authorities use it.

  ‘Yes, I am available for respite,’ I confirmed.

  ‘Good. The little boy is called Samson. He’s six. I need respite care to give his gran a break. She’s the main caregiver in the family. It’s the half-term holiday next week and she doesn’t feel she can cope with Samson for the whole week. She’s not in the best of health and struggles as it is.’

  From this I learned that Samson was living at home and being brought up mainly by his grandmother, but his situation was being monitored by the social services.

  ‘Yes, OK. Which days do you want?’ I asked.

  ‘Wednesday to Friday. You will need to collect him and return him to Gran, as she doesn’t drive. I’ll put all the details in the post to you.’

  ‘All right, thank you.’ And we said goodbye.

  I thought three days of the half-term break would work out fine, so that afternoon when I collected Adrian from school I had two pieces of good news to tell him.

  ‘Darrel and his mother are coming for lunch tomorrow,’ I said. ‘And then on Wednesday we’re looking after a six-year-old boy for three days.’

  ‘Nearly the same age as me!’ Adrian said, delighted.

  I thought he’d be pleased, for while Adrian obviously loved his sister dearly, nothing can beat having a playmate of a similar age.
The background information on Samson that I needed was being posted to me, and I was looking forward to a relatively relaxing week out of the school routine with the children playing contentedly. What could possibly go wrong?

  Chapter Eight

  A Playmate?

  At exactly twelve o’clock the following morning Shelley and Darrel arrived, both smiling broadly, as pleased to see us as we were to see them. Shelley presented me with a beautiful potted plant.

  ‘Thank you so much, love,’ I said, kissing her cheek. ‘But you really shouldn’t have.’

  ‘I wanted to give you something to say thank you, and I noticed you like plants.’

  ‘I do. That’s kind of you. It’s lovely.’

  She also gave me three packets of chocolate buttons for the children to have after lunch. Adrian took Darrel’s hand and rushed him through to the living room where he’d already set out his train set for them to play with. Paula toddled after them and Shelley came with me into the kitchen to make some drinks. Toscha was there and Shelley stroked and fussed over her as I set the plant on the windowsill and then poured juice for us all. I carried the tray of drinks into the living room and Shelley and I settled on the sofa. For a few moments neither of us spoke as we watched the children playing, then Shelley lowered her voice and said quietly to me, ‘Darrel would love a brother or sister, but that’s not going to happen now.’

  ‘Why not?’ I asked. ‘You’re young. You could meet someone and fall in love.’

  She smiled reflectively. ‘That would be nice, but I won’t hold my breath. It would take someone very special who would love Darrel as his own. I’ve no idea how I would meet him, as I never go out anywhere to meet people.’ She gave a small, dismissive laugh. ‘Although I am hoping to get some training and a job when Darrel goes to school, so who knows?’ She ended with a shrug.

  ‘Exactly,’ I said. ‘Many relationships start in the workplace. I’m a great believer in chance meetings, if it’s meant to be.’

  She smiled and took a sip of her drink. ‘I do have news, though – good news.’