The Accusation

by Zosia Wand

  ‘And what about the mother?’

  ‘Claire isn’t in a position to take care of Milly.’

  ‘For goodness’ sake. Say it like it is, Evangeline. I assume the woman’s a druggie?’

  ‘Please don’t use that word.’

  ‘If the cap fits.’

  Claire has lived with Milly and her parents, on and off, for brief periods of Milly’s life, but hasn’t been able to sustain a drug-free existence, repeatedly retreating to that world, stealing from her parents, lying and breaking their hearts, but I’m not going to tell my mother this. ‘Contact with Claire hasn’t been agreed. But the grandparents are a different issue.’

  ‘If they were any sort of parents their daughter wouldn’t be a drug addict with a baby she can’t take care of.’

  ‘Keep your voice down,’ I hiss, scanning the crowd, but most people have packed up and started to leave and there’s no one close enough to have heard. ‘It isn’t easy when you’re a single parent. You of all people should know that.’

  ‘I do.’ She has, at least, lowered her voice. ‘I do know that. And social services have never had to step in to help me out!’

  ‘Well, lucky you.’

  We sit in fizzing silence.

  India has given Milly a ball and she’s preparing to throw it, while the dog sits, trembling with anticipation. I get up to join them, wiping grass from my jeans. Tomorrow is Milly’s birthday and Lizzie is coming with Pearl. I’ll invite India to pop in. That should provide enough of a distraction. The review is the following day and Mum will be heading home then. Think positive. We’re nearly there.

  9

  Neil cooks tea when we get home. It’s late and Milly needs to eat quickly so it’s pasta shells with a simple tomato sauce. Milly wolfs it down and asks for seconds. Mum makes a barbed comment about the insubstantial meal. ‘A child needs vegetables.’

  Neil tells her, ‘There are peppers and mushrooms in the sauce.’

  Mum picks at the pasta with her fork. ‘Really?’ He’s chopped them small, so Milly will eat them. She raises an eyebrow at my empty bowl. ‘Is this all you’re having?’

  ‘That’s plenty for me.’

  ‘You’re looking terribly thin.’ She looks at Neil. ‘You need to feed her up.’

  Neil spoons more pasta into Milly’s bowl. ‘Eve’s an adult. She can decide for herself how much she needs to eat. Would you like some more, Joan?’ He pauses, serving spoon hovering over the pan.

  ‘Not at the moment, thank you.’ Her tone is prim. I’m dreading her saying anything else to prickle him, but instead she changes the subject and addresses Milly. ‘I have a surprise for you upstairs.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Well, it won’t be a surprise if I tell you, will it?’

  Milly looks at me. I give her a smile of encouragement. She finishes her pasta slowly and slips down from the table. My mother stops her. ‘What do we say?’

  I feel Neil shift in his seat. Milly looks from him to me. ‘Thank you?’

  ‘No.’

  Neil says, ‘Thank you is fine, Milly.’

  My mother says, ‘It’s polite to ask if you may leave the table.’

  Neil clears his throat. ‘That’s enough, Joan.’

  Mum glares at him. I intercept. ‘Milly has lovely manners.’ Giving Milly’s hand a supportive squeeze, I add, ‘Asking permission to leave the table is a bit old-fashioned these days,’ and before my mother can retaliate, I lead Milly out.

  *

  We’re in Milly’s bedroom when Mum makes her laborious way up the stairs. Milly is giving me the story of each of her Moshlings, taking them down from the shelf to introduce them, one at a time. Mum hovers in the doorway waiting for us to notice. I wish she’d either come in and join us or go to her room, but she does neither. Finally, I look up. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Nothing. I don’t want to disturb the two of you.’

  This is my cue to ask her what’s wrong, but I resist and return my attention to the wide-eyed Moshling Milly is handing me.

  My mother coughs. ‘So, Milly. Do you want to see what I’ve got for you?’

  ‘Not at the moment, thank you.’

  Milly has mimicked Mum’s voice perfectly. I bow my head to hide my smile. Mum turns away and gives a little yelp of pain, rubbing her knee. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘It just takes me unaware sometimes.’ She limps into her room.

  Her room. Neil told me off for calling it that last night. ‘She’s not bloody moving in, Eve!’ He’s assuming she’s leaving on Monday morning. He doesn’t want her here for the review. Nor do I, if I’m honest. What if she says something tactless? Or upsets Milly? But I haven’t had the courage to talk to her about when she’s going home and I can see she’s got no plan to leave anytime soon. If the worst comes to the worst, I’ll have to think of an excuse to get her out of the house while the social workers are here. Maybe Kath will keep her entertained with a tour of the park and a cup of tea in the café.

  We have about three minutes of reprieve before she calls me, ‘Evangeline? Do you have a moment?’

  Milly looks at me. She takes the Moshling from the palm of my hand. ‘You have to go.’

  ‘Sure you don’t want to come with me?’

  Milly shakes her head firmly and flashes a wicked smile. ‘Not at the moment, thank you.’

  *

  Mum pulls out a tissue-wrapped item from her suitcase. She places it on the bed. ‘Look what I found!’

  I watch with an increasing sense of foreboding as she unwraps the tissue carefully and pulls out a small garment. The dated Liberty print is vaguely familiar. Shaking it out, she holds it between thumbs and forefingers. Dangling before me is a dress. My dress.

  I remember her making this dress for me. Standing on a stool, pins held between her teeth, hissing at me to keep still while she worked her way around the hem. It’s yellow with tiny white and green daisies, a fitted bodice, full skirt, lace collar. I try to swallow but my throat has closed.

  She made this dress for my fifth birthday party. Everyone else was wearing jeans and fancy T-shirts with glittery motifs. I had to wear this. I instinctively rub my neck, remembering the itch of the lace. I have a photograph of me standing in the front room of our house, my hair scraped back into two hideously high bunches with slippery yellow ribbons. I was too hot when she took the photograph, my skin prickled, my cheeks were crimson and there was sweat around my hairline. I can feel the heat rising in my cheeks now. My smile is stiff. I hate this dress.

  ‘I thought it would be just right for the birthday girl.’

  How do I contain my horror? How could she think, for a moment, that Milly would want to wear this?

  ‘Shall I call her?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Her voice wobbles. I know she spent hours making that dress. I know every stitch is filled with love. I know that bringing the dress is saying something significant. I understand that, for my mother, offering this dress to Milly is an act of love and I don’t want to reject that, but Milly isn’t going to understand this.

  Before I can stop her, my mother calls, ‘Amelia!’

  ‘Mum, not now.’ I hear Milly get up, her footsteps across the wooden boards, onto the hall carpet. Her head appears around the door. A comma across her forehead as she frowns. She looks directly at Mum and says, ‘My name is Milly.’ I hold my breath, delighted in her courage, ashamed at my own fear. I could learn a thing or two from this daughter of mine.

  Mum is still holding out the dress. She waits, but Milly doesn’t understand, of course she doesn’t. All she sees is an ugly dress.

  I’m desperately trying to think of a way to intercept this without hurting Mum’s feelings when she prompts, ‘What do you think?’, a lamb to the slaughter.

  Milly wrinkles up her nose. ‘Yuck!’

  Mum’s face falls. She drops her arms. I try to intervene. ‘Milly, love, do you know that Grandma made that dress for me when I was the same ag
e as you? She brought it to show you.’

  And we might have got away with it, but Mum, keen for her gesture to be appreciated, takes a step towards Milly. ‘Would you like to try it on?’

  ‘No!’ Milly snatches the dress from Mum’s hands and tosses it to the floor.

  ‘Milly! That’s naughty!’

  Milly bursts into tears and runs out, down the stairs. Mum sinks back onto the bed, visibly shaken. I step onto the landing and lean over the banisters to see Neil lifting a sobbing Milly into his arms, looking up. ‘What’s going on?’ Behind me my mother gives a hiccupy sob. I shake my head, leave Neil to comfort Milly and go to take care of my mother.

  *

  I drive Mum to the station for the train on Monday morning. Lizzie and Pearl were a delightful distraction for Milly on her special day. India popped in carrying a fat, wobbly cake and, with the help of Lizzie’s present (a CD of children’s favourites) we managed to put on a reasonable show, but the underlying atmosphere was horrible. This was not the way I’d imagined Milly’s first birthday with us. Mum spent most of the day in her room, complaining of a migraine, which was marginally better than her being among us, parading her injured feelings, but they still radiated down through the ceiling while we sang ‘Happy Birthday’ and did our best to pretend everything was fine. Lizzie and India, to their credit, pretended they hadn’t noticed a thing, and I was grateful for that; had either of them expressed any sympathy I’d have gone to pieces.

  I thought Neil would be angry with Mum, but he sounded more weary when he came upstairs after comforting Milly. He stood looking at us from the doorway of the bedroom. ‘This isn’t working, Joan.’

  Mum sniffed and touched her nose with her tissue. I picked up the dress and smoothed out the wrinkles. ‘It was a really nice thought.’

  ‘It’s too soon.’ He was using his teacher voice. His head-of-sixth-form voice, outranking Mum. ‘This is meant to be our bonding time with Milly and having another person here is confusing her.’

  ‘You want me to go.’ To hear it said, so simply, was devastating. My immediate reaction was to reassure her and say, no, but Neil got there first and, if I’m honest, I was relieved.

  ‘I’m telling you to go.’

  I knew what he was saying made sense, but he sounded so cold. I knew we should be putting Milly first, and I’d had enough of Mum myself, but I felt awful. It wasn’t necessary for him to be so hard. And Mum, being Mum, retaliated, because that’s what she does with Neil. It’s war between the two of them, and she is not about to surrender.

  ‘I know about you.’

  He flinched. I saw it. Had I been facing her in that moment, I’d have missed it, but I wasn’t. I’d looked at him, to try and signal to him to go easy, and I saw. He flinched. And then in an instant he’d composed himself again. ‘What is it you think you know, Joan?’ But she’d scored her point. She shook her head, that satisfied smile stretching her mouth, giving nothing away.

  But her moment of glory has passed. If she had anything to say she would have told me by now. She was bluffing. I can see in the harsh sunlight that streams down onto the station platform that Mum barely slept last night. Her eyes are swollen from crying. She’s broken. I don’t know if she really had a migraine yesterday or if she was simply staying out of our way. I can’t bear to think we made her feel unwelcome. This was meant to be such a special time. It could have been, should have been, so different. I don’t know how to fix this right now. But Neil is right, she can’t stay; we need to be alone together. Mum can come back or we can go there once Milly’s settled in. It’s not unreasonable, but I still feel wretched about the way it’s happened.

  We’re watching the train approach when Mum puts her hand on my arm. ‘Could you do something for me?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘The adoption hearing. Is there any possibility you could postpone it for a bit?’

  Neil’s planning to submit the application as soon as we get the go-ahead. Milly has marked the date of the final review on the calendar with a red flower in felt-tip pen. Monday 2 October. One month to go. All being well, this will mark the end of the trial period and we should get permission to apply for the adoption order. Shona says sometimes it can be just a couple of months for everything to go through. We could be a proper family by Christmas. ‘Why do you want to postpone it?’

  She shakes her head. ‘Don’t worry. If it’s a problem. I shouldn’t have said.’ But something’s worrying her.

  ‘What is it?’

  She hesitates. The train draws closer. ‘It’s just that I’m waiting for a date for my knee operation. I’ve been waiting so long and I’m in so much pain, but if it clashes with the adoption date, then…’

  She wants to come and celebrate with us. She wants to be part of it. Everything – all the irritation and hurt is dissolved by this simple fact. My mother wants this as much as I do. We can be a family.

  ‘It won’t clash.’

  ‘But it will take me a while to recover. And travelling up here… It’s such a special day…’ She smiles at me. Beseeching. She does understand, after all. It matters to her. She’s planning to travel up. She’s prepared to make that concession, finally. ‘The day you become a family.’ I will have my mother with me the day I become a mother. There are tears in her eyes. I pull her towards me. She’s so much smaller in my embrace than I remember. More fragile. She shudders and I feel terrible. ‘I don’t want to miss it,’ she sobs into my shoulder as the train comes to a halt in front of us.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I say, rubbing her back. ‘You won’t miss it. We’ll work something out.’

  10

  Shona and Helen have come to discuss the ‘incident’. Mum taking Milly and the resulting police search must be formally discussed and documented. Shona has reassured me there’s nothing to worry about, but there is Mum’s claim that Neil wasn’t in the house to deal with and I’m still sick with nerves.

  The trial period was going so well, but nothing is confirmed yet. On 2 October, if nothing goes wrong, we can apply for an adoption hearing at which, hopefully, we’ll be approved as adopters and Milly will become our child in law. Only then will we be a Forever Family. We are not there yet.

  There have been many visits over the last three months. Shona and Helen came once a week to check on Milly from the day she was placed in June, until the first formal review meeting at the beginning of July. That was a milestone for us. All those women lined up on the sofa: Shona, representing us, Helen, not much more than a girl herself, and the reviewing officer, a large woman with a flushed complexion and breathing difficulties. I can’t remember her name, I was too busy worrying that she might have a heart attack at any moment. They’d come to talk, but most importantly to observe. This trio of women, clearly overworked and under-resourced, struggling to create some semblance of order for children escaping chaos, were gathered in our home to decide whether Milly should stay with us. They were relieved, I think, to see her settled. I told myself that, given the difficult situations they all deal with on a day-to-day basis, we were probably a bit of a treat, an unusually happy scenario and a job well done, but this niggling little voice in my head kept whispering: What if they don’t trust what they see? What if they dig a little deeper?

  That voice is bellowing at me now: What if they think our family is too much of a mess? What if this business with Mum tips the balance? I’m terrified that Milly might say something to suggest she’s unhappy. Shona, Helen and the reviewing officer left the last review meeting full of praise for how well Milly was doing, what a great home we were providing, what good coffee and delicious cake. We didn’t expect to see any of them again until October. But that was before Mum got involved. Before I sent that bloody photo and jeopardised everything. I should have talked to Neil. I should have talked to Mum. Sending the photo without any other communication was cowardly. It was irresponsible and this is the consequence. It’s only 5 September and they’re back. They’re digging deeper.


  Shona removes her files from a dove-grey handbag. The reviewing officer shakes our hands and collapses onto the sofa with a huff. I realise that she’s introduced herself and once again I wasn’t listening. Lisa? Linda? There’s something about her demeanour that reminds me of my O-level Physics teacher, who’d bark instructions that I could never retain. This woman is watching us both carefully, her gaze sliding from Neil to me, to Milly. I can see her assessing, sifting, making her judgement.

  Shona writes notes in longhand on sheets of lined A4 paper. What has she added to that file since Friday? Her bag is leather. Expensive. Knowing Shona, it’s a sale item. She’s a shrewd shopper with an eye for quality, happy to disclose the bargains she’s discovered: a new discount outlet in Barrow, a sale rail, a clever find in the indoor market. She may have changed her mind about us as a family and be wondering if she’s made a mistake. Does she believe Neil left Milly unattended?

  ‘I know about you.’ What did Mum mean? Why did he flinch?

  Helen sifts through her paperwork, leans over and says something to the reviewing officer in a low voice. Shona straightens her spine, wriggling her shoulders into place. I’ve seen her slicing her way up and down the pool during the early morning lanes. I prefer the more leisurely lunchtime sessions. Shona thought we deserved to be parents. She thought we’d make good parents. Does she still think that?

  Neil places three cups of coffee on the table in front of the three women. Strong, black for Shona, white and milky for the other two. The reviewing officer asks for sugar and Neil hurries out to get it, returning to sit down beside me. We’re facing the bay window and the view across the tarn. Shona sits to the left of the window on the smaller sofa, knees drawn together, file on her lap. The reviewing officer and Helen sit on the longer sofa beneath the window. Shona smiles. That’s a good sign. She has a generous smile. One of the things that’s always impressed me about Shona is how she listens. She doesn’t think she has all the answers and she doesn’t make assumptions. I cling to this.