The Accusation

by Zosia Wand

  ‘Yes! Yes, I’m scared of her. She’s toxic! Can’t you see how dangerous this is? We could lose Milly! We could lose everything!’

  We could lose Milly. He’s right, and I’m responsible. I sent the photograph. I let her stay. I let her plant little worms of doubt into my head about Neil, about us, about my ability to be a mother. I was about to postpone the adoption hearing. But it’s Milly I need to be thinking about. We need to press ahead. We must focus on 2 October and get this adoption approved. And if that means keeping Mum away from here for the time being, that’s what we’ll have to do.

  11

  The new school term started on Wednesday and Neil has been back at work. Things are scratchy between us right now. It’s like it used to be when we were living in Hitchin and Mum was just around the corner. She does this to us. That’s why we moved away. Neil’s right. I need to to establish some firmer boundaries. I’m a mother now, with a daughter of my own, and I don’t want this to affect Milly. I want my relationship with my daughter to be different. None of that claustrophobia and neediness. I want Milly to be free of all that. If I lead by example, my mother might follow.

  Milly doesn’t start school until next week, which has given us day after day to enjoy just hanging out, the two of us, before I go back to work. Lizzie has covered my days at the park. We’ve been to Coniston on the bus (Milly’s request) and fed the ducks at the lake edge in the grey gloom. It was a bit wild and windy so we sheltered behind the glass veranda of the Bluebird Café and had plump curls of Cumberland sausage for lunch. Yesterday we drove further into the lakes and took the Ratty Railway, from Eskdale to Ravenglass and back, in the drizzle. Milly loved the tiny open carriages and made friends with another little girl and her lively sheepdog which kept jumping on us with its muddy paws. Milly’s been begging for a dog since she arrived and Neil’s keen, having grown up with dogs himself, but I’m not so sure. I’ve never had a dog and, with work and Milly, it might be too big a commitment.

  It’s Sunday. Neil has gone out for a few hours on his bike and we’ve decided to have a lazy day at home and bake a cake together. Milly is assembling the ingredients on the table. She’s done a lot of baking with her nana and wants to show me how it’s done. The doorbell is an interruption neither of us is too pleased about. Leaving Milly to continue her preparations, I go to see who it is.

  Dawn, our squeaky-clean neighbour from a few doors up, is waiting on the doorstep. Perfectly straightened amber and honey highlights, ironed jeans and a crisp white shirt. Even the soles of her trainers gleam. She’s holding a plastic doll’s house and a bulging cotton shopping bag.

  ‘Oh, hello, Eve,’ she says, breathlessly, as if I’ve surprised her by opening the door. Milly wanders into the hall behind me and Dawn leans forward, as if drawn by a magnet, her face creasing into an even smile exposing straight, white teeth. There’s something slightly manic about her expression. ‘Is this Milly?’ Her voice has risen in pitch, that irritating thing some people do when they talk to children. ‘Hello, Milly! I’m Dawn. I live in the blue house up the street. It’s so lovely to meet you. I’ve brought you some toys.’

  I’m touched. Dawn has never really had much to say to me, though she’s always polite and cheerful, waving as she glides past in her white Mini. She never appears to walk anywhere. A woman with things to do, people to meet, places to be. She’s waiting to be invited in. I hesitate. Dawn’s house is immaculate. She has regular parties for the neighbours: ‘Drinks and Nibbles’ to celebrate her latest extension or make-over. The Plaster and Paint van is permanently parked outside the house. I open the door and usher her in to the living room, not wanting her to see the mess in the kitchen. I love this room, with its comfy sofas, the view over the tarn, the way the light falls. At night, with the fire glowing in the hearth and candles burning on the marble mantelpiece, it’s inviting, but I’m painfully aware of how shabby it all looks in the sunlight. There are cobwebs above the bay window, the rug is tattered around the edges and grubby from coal dust and the sofas have seen better days. Dawn has designer chairs in funky modern upholstery, Farrow and Ball walls and full-length Orla Kiely print curtains. If I’d had any warning I would have rushed through with the hoover and dusted the shelves, but it would have made no difference and I console myself that I’ve spared myself the effort. I suspect that when Dawn leaves here she’ll phone her polished friends and bitch about what a state my house is in. Do I care? I look at Milly, eyeing the doll’s house. No, I don’t.

  I’d like to connect with other mums. Not Dawn, her children are older and we have very little in common, but other mums with children Milly’s age. Lizzie’s great, but she’s quite a bit younger than me. India has been helpful, but her son is a teenager. Milly needs friends. If I was back in Hitchin there would be friends from school I could hook up with now. Naz has twin boys and we keep in touch by email and Facebook, but we haven’t met up since I stopped going down to Mum’s, and she hasn’t been here because one of her twins, Cameron, has severe disabilities, mental and physical, and going anywhere with him is an enormous upheaval. They do get respite care, but it’s sporadic and they need to prioritise that time for Max, the other twin, to redress the balance. Naz is stoic and blunt about the situation. This is the hand she’s been dealt and she makes the best of it.

  We were asked if we’d be prepared to adopt a child with a disability. I remember looking down the crude tick box list on the form, horrified. Would we be prepared to accept a child with a visual impairment? A hearing impairment? A physical disability? Asperger’s? Autism? Down’s? How do you answer a question like that? We wanted a family. I was happy to accept whatever they offered us. How could I say, ‘No thank you, I don’t want something that’s less than perfect’? I thought of Naz. When the teachers asked Naz what she wanted to do when she left school she didn’t hesitate: ‘Foreign Correspondent.’ She was going to be the next Kate Adie. She never wanted children. She was working for a tabloid in London, getting some experience on a national paper and doing freelance features for local radio, but she was hungry to get into television with an interview lined up to take part in a scheme for working-class Asian women to get them into broadcasting. I’d persuaded her to go for it. She’d been reluctant, wanting to achieve on her own merit, needing to prove to herself that she could do it regardless of the colour of her skin, but that route would have taken so much longer. It was all about to happen for her when she discovered she was pregnant. There was never a doubt in her mind that she’d go through with the pregnancy. She saw it as a temporary break. Her partner, Stu, would share the childcare, he’d probably be better at it than her, it was all sorted, but they weren’t anticipating twins. And they weren’t anticipating Cam’s complex and challenging needs. If Naz could cope with all that, how could I say no to anything?

  Shona took the decision out of our hands. ‘There’s no point in you adopting a child with a physical disability.’ She put a firm cross in the box. ‘You’re both physically fit and active,’ she explained. ‘Play to your strengths. You can offer an excellent home to a child with a lot of surplus energy who requires physical challenges. Besides, you have a house on three floors with too many stairs.’

  And so it went on. I hesitated over the possibility of Down’s Syndrome. She shook her head. ‘But at my age, if I got pregnant I might well have a child with Down’s and I’d be fine with that.’

  She nodded. ‘In that situation, you would have no choice, and I’ve no doubt you’d embrace that child and provide them with the love and care they needed. However, you do have a choice and you must ask yourself if this is the best use of your skills and talents. You could do it, Eve, but do you want to? Really? If you were going to be a stay-at-home mum, then I’d say, yes, but that isn’t the case. You told me yourself, you want to go back to work. You have a degree, a job, have a career you love, it’s important to you and that’s fine. You must be honest with yourself about your needs. If you try to be something you’re not then this adoption wi
ll break down and we don’t want that to happen.’

  I called Naz. It was weak of me. I knew her answer, but I had to hear it from her. I had to be given permission. She didn’t hesitate. ‘Say no. Say no to anything that will restrict your life unnecessarily. You aren’t doing this for charity. And anyway, you’d be crap. You’re too much of a control freak.’

  ‘Ouch.’

  ‘OK. Unfair. You like things to be nice. To run smoothly. Nothing is nice and nothing runs smoothly when you’ve got a child with a disability. I can do this. I’m pretty good at it. I wish I didn’t have to do it, but shit happens. You wouldn’t last five minutes.’

  Dear Naz, setting me free in her usual sledgehammer style. I took Shona’s advice and, as we made our way through that list the following week, I began to feel better about my decision. Our decision. Neil was happy to be steered by Shona, relieved. When it came to questions about the child’s psychological history I was on firmer ground. Were we prepared to take a child that was born as a result of rape? Incest? I was surprised to find that I was OK with this, though Neil was quite resistant at first. Shona pushed me, asking if we’d be able to find a way to discuss such a tricky subject with the child as it became appropriate, and I can understand why some people might baulk at this, but I think I could find a language, a story to share that was honest and kind. I could work with Neil and enable that discussion and make it safe. He wasn’t comfortable at all with this scenario but I talked it through with him and, in the end, he agreed, as long as I was happy to take responsibility for it. Having a child with a traumatic history requires a different sort of courage. I believe I have that courage and those ticks in those boxes made me feel better about all the crosses that had preceded them.

  Dawn kneels on the rug and tips out the contents of the bag: dolls and furniture in bold, primary colours. ‘This used to belong to my girls. I have two little girls, just like you.’

  Not so little. Dawn’s daughters are teenagers. Glossy, thoroughbred girls with long, lean limbs. I wonder how Dawn would have dealt with a child with a disability? Everything in her world is so perfect. I could imagine she would have unravelled, but who knows? Maybe she would have risen to the challenge. A dependent child, that could never leave, might have suited Dawn. The dolls she’s brought are a little family with a mother, a father, a girl and a boy. All white, of course, and there’s no wheelchair, but there is a rubbery dog. Milly’s eyes widen with anticipation. I’m going to have to give in to a dog eventually.

  Dawn opens the front of the doll’s house and starts to put things inside. I think she’s more excited than Milly is. I was never a fan of dolls when I was a child and I didn’t have a doll’s house myself. Should we have bought one for Milly? I watch her inching forward. Dawn holds out the girl doll. She has two wiry orange plaits and a pinafore. Dawn smiles then turns back to the doll’s house, giving Milly time to make up her mind.

  There is no incest or rape in Milly’s story, at least as far as we know. Milly’s mother’s drug problem is a familiar scenario with many young children and babies given up, or taken away, for adoption. Claire has remained stubbornly silent on the subject of Milly’s father. We suspect she doesn’t know who it was. She’s tried, but has been unable to stay clean and even her parents have decided adoption is the best way forward. It’s a sad enough story to tell a young child, but it’s no secret. Milly has been coping with her mother’s weaknesses all her life. She’s been lucky to have two loving, stable grandparents to care for her. Her foster mother, Ruth, and Helen, her social worker, made a life-story book with her that we look at regularly and keep on the shelf in her bedroom so she can reach it whenever she wants. There are photographs of her mother and grandparents and the world she came from, as well as the foster family, who are now a significant part of Milly’s history. Her life-story book is less popular than the one we created for her about us, but Shona tells me that’s normal and healthy. She’s investing in this life, but she’ll come back to the old one when she’s ready, and when she does, there will be no burden to disclose. It’s our responsibility to keep that book to hand, to be there to talk, to leave the door open so Milly can walk in any time she needs to. We can do that.

  If we get that far. What if Claire does manage to turn it around at the eleventh hour?

  Slowly, gathering courage, Milly creeps over and kneels on the rug. Dawn hands her the doll. ‘Shall we sit her on a chair? Where do you think she’d be? In the living room? Or maybe she’s sitting on her bed?’ Dawn is kind. The high-pitched voice is irritating, but she likes children. I feel I should kneel with them and play with the doll’s house too, but it’s not really my thing and there’s something about the way Dawn and Milly are interacting that doesn’t invite me in. If I’m honest, playing with Milly bores me. Does that make me a terrible mother? Dawn is so good at this. She clearly loves it. Should I love it? Maybe I’m too old. I’ve lost the ability to play. I don’t mind board games, but creating imaginary worlds, playing with dolls, doesn’t work for me. I like being with Milly, I like doing things with her, but I don’t want to play. I’m not like Dawn; she was a full-time mum and I could never be that. Would Claire play with Milly? Would she be there, full time? Could she be a better mother than me?

  Milly’s mesmerised. Dawn is in her element. I ask her if she’d like a tea or coffee, eager to escape before they see my distress. ‘Coffee would be lovely,’ she replies, taking the opportunity to get up, brushing her knees. I try not to think it’s a comment on the state of my floor. She follows me to the door. Glancing back at Milly and lowering her voice, she asks, ‘How is your mum?’ There’s something about her tone. Concern and something else, something creeping, cloying. She steps closer, lowering her voice a little more. ‘She seemed quite upset.’

  ‘When?’ Dawn has never said more than a sentence to me at any one time before today: a comment on the weather, a welcome drink at her parties before she drifts off to more important guests. Why would Mum talk to Dawn? What has she said?

  ‘After the search.’ Of course. Dawn will have seen the police cars, the helicopter. ‘She felt awful. Not that you can blame Neil for being angry. It must have been terrifying for the two of you.’ She’s looking for gossip. Her face is hungry for it. I feel a wave of nausea and swallow it down. ‘She said he wasn’t in the house when she knocked?’

  I need to escape before Dawn sees the effect she’s had. ‘Milk and sugar?’ I stretch my mouth into a smile, but the rest of my face refuses to follow. She hesitates. I don’t want her to think there’s a problem here. ‘It was a misunderstanding. Mum’s fine.’ And I walk out of the room quickly.

  In the kitchen, I lean against the work surface, trying to steady the tremor rippling through me. How could Mum be so indiscreet? Why would she talk to Dawn about Neil?

  The phone rings. I grab it, relieved to have something to distract me. ‘Evangeline?’ Before I can confront her, my mother’s voice breaks into a sob.

  12

  We’re in Hitchin, my home town. I’m in the house I grew up in with my mother downstairs in her usual spot, sunk into the armchair under the window, watching a black and white film on the old TV.

  I told her I was tired and after putting Milly to bed I’d probably get an early night myself. She’s not happy but I don’t have the patience to sit with her this evening and I can’t take any more food. My mother is always trying to force food down me. There was a beef casserole waiting for us when we arrived last night, which I felt obliged to eat, though I had told her not to get dinner ready because I’d be stopping at services to break the journey for Milly and she would need to eat earlier. Tonight, she presented us with a huge tray of lasagne which would have fed six people. I’ve had to undo the zip on my jeans I’m so bloated. And then she produced tiramisu. One spoonful and I had to admit defeat. She was so offended by this you’d have thought she made the damned thing herself.

  I’m furious with her right now. I drove for six hours in heavy traffic yesterday, in a
state of anxiety, with a young child, believing my mother to be seriously injured, only to find her greeting us at the door with a smile, as if nothing was wrong. To be fair, she was limping, and she’s clearly in pain from the fall, but it was hardly the emergency she made it out to be. It was all a ruse to get me down here and I fell for it. Neil’s right, I am a bloody fool.

  I’m in my old bed, in a room that hasn’t been decorated since I was fifteen. Floor-to-ceiling wallpaper with pink roses. It’s always given me a headache to look at it, but I can’t tell her that. She stripped, repapered and painted it all herself, with curtains she ran up on the old Singer sewing machine that stands under the window in the box room off her bedroom. That’s where she’s made up a bed for Milly. More roses. More pink. How could I say that I didn’t like pink? That the roses were too much? That I’d have preferred to choose and, if I’d been able to choose, I would have chosen plain white walls? Calm. Order. I’d have happily done it myself. Stripped the awful Disney scenes she’d chosen when I was five, enjoyed ripping each piece back to expose the bare wall beneath. There’d have been something empowering about that process. A rite of passage. Instead I had her surprise, delivered in vibrant pink with added roses. I’ve never liked pink. Why doesn’t she know that?

  I want to be with Milly. She could have slept with me but Mum had already made up the little fold-out bed, ‘All nice and cosy for you!’ off her bedroom. Milly wasn’t convinced and asked me to stay with her until she fell asleep. I should have brought her in here, but I didn’t want to start a row, and when I went through Mum’s room to check, Milly was sleeping quite soundly, one arm flung out above her head, mouth open. I’m constantly surprised by how tired she gets. Processing all these new experiences drains her as much as any physical exertion. She was meant to attend her introductory sessions at school this week. I was looking forward to connecting with other mums in the playground, starting to build the network that we’ll need, but that will have to wait. The school have gone to a lot of trouble to rearrange the timetable to accommodate Milly’s absence, arranging additional sessions next week, I can’t mess them about any more. We’re here now. Neil is coming down at the weekend and we’re going to visit his parents in Stevenage. There is no point in driving another six hours all the way back north now only to travel back down again and we can’t let Betty and Mike down. They’ve invited Neil’s sisters and Milly’s new cousins are looking forward to meeting her. I’ll have to make the best of it. Maybe here, in her world, Mum might win Milly over. We can share some memories of my childhood, Mum will love that and it might be fun for me and Milly.