The Accusation

by Zosia Wand

  I call Neil. He’s not in a great mood. The first weeks of term after the long summer break, with the new intake, are always tiring and he’ll be missing us. My question is automatic – ‘What’s up?’ – but as I deliver it I feel a sudden anxiety, as if I’ve stepped off a path and taken a route that was more precarious than I anticipated. When he tells me we’ve had a letter from social services about Milly’s mum, I can taste the bile at the back of my throat. I don’t want to discuss this over the phone. I want to be at home, face to face, dealing with it together.

  ‘She wants regular supervised contact with Milly.’

  So, Claire is not simply going to accept what’s happening. I’m almost relieved. I realise now I’ve been quietly waiting for this, shrinking at the possibility but unable to tackle it. Now it’s in the open it’s easier to confront. They warned us. Shona tried to play it down, ‘Sometimes it’s simply that they want to be seen to be doing the right thing,’ but in Claire’s case I believe it’s more complicated and raw than that. She’s losing her mother and that will pull her closer to her daughter. I can’t deny a mother access to her child. I feel enormously privileged to be adopting Milly. ‘This could be good news. It means she’s accepting the adoption is going ahead. She isn’t planning to contest it.’

  But Neil is less positive. ‘She had four years to prove herself and failed. This isn’t good for Milly.’ I wish I could see his face. There’s fear behind what he’s saying. His own experience with his birth mother will be on his mind. As far as he’s concerned Betty and Mike are his parents. ‘It’s not about blood,’ he’s said, more than once. ‘It’s about being there.’

  But sometimes there can be love, even if someone can’t physically be there. Is it right to deny that?

  We end the call, frosty with one another. He’s too harsh, his judgement coloured by his own experience, and I’m too weak, always worrying about everyone else. But it’s more than that, I want to do the right thing. I want Milly to know I did the right thing. Her mother wants contact; who am I to deny that?

  Too wired to go to sleep, I head downstairs. Mum is still in the wing-backed chair half watching a soap she’s recorded, a fresh glass of sherry on the side table in front of her. ‘Do you have any more of that?’

  She looks at me over her glasses, clocks my mood and nods to the drinks cabinet. ‘Help yourself.’

  I’m not a sherry drinker, but right now anything will do. The room is warm and cosy. I remember sitting here when I was a teenager, watching the weekly episode of Inspector Morse, a family sized bar of Cadbury’s Fruit and Nut on the coffee table between us, broken into squares. Me and Mum in our own little world. I was safe here. I was loved and I took that love for granted. Milly hasn’t had that from Claire, but she had her grandparents to provide stability. How important is Claire in Milly’s life? Neil’s right, I must put Milly’s needs first, but if she is with us, if she’s in a stable environment, with support, then a supervised visit once a year might work. It would be unsettling, but cutting off all contact might be worse and would leave Milly with a dilemma at eighteen. More vulnerable to an experience like Neil’s. Far more unsettling to visit a stranger at eighteen and try to make sense of that relationship.

  ‘What’s worrying you, Evangeline?’

  I hesitate. I’m not sure it’s right to discuss this with Mum. I know Neil wouldn’t want me to, but I need to talk to someone. ‘Claire, Milly’s mum, has been in touch.’

  She raises an eyebrow. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘She’d like contact with Milly.’

  My mother snorts. ‘You’ve got to be joking!’

  ‘Supervised. And probably only once a year.’

  ‘What on earth for?’

  ‘She is her birth mother.’

  ‘So? What has she done for that child since she’s given birth to her?’

  The moment is shattered. I shouldn’t have talked to her about this in so much detail. This is Milly’s story. Mum is unlikely to be respectful of Milly’s privacy. If she talked to Dawn, who else might she talk to? What if she says something next time she’s visiting Tarnside? She might mention Millie’s ‘druggie mum’ in town, and Milly will have to grow up with that shadow over her. Someone like Dawn wouldn’t hesitate to spread that information across her network, like an itchy rash. Mums. Kids. Neighbours. Milly has the right to create her own story. Her past is something she should be able to choose to share, or not.

  ‘Mum, do you think you could try and be a bit more discreet? This is confidential information.’

  ‘Not between us.’

  ‘It’s a sensitive issue.’

  ‘I understand that.’

  ‘So, if you could avoid terms like “druggie”?’

  ‘Well, pardon me for not being PC. I won’t say another word.’ She sips her sherry. ‘What does Neil think about this contact thing? Does he believe it’s a good idea for the child to carry on seeing her mother?’

  I sigh. ‘No, he doesn’t. He thinks we need to put Milly first. She’s had enough disruption in her life. What she needs now is stability, a clear routine and I can see his point, but this is her mother.’

  ‘You’re her mother!’ Mum is on her feet, her face pink with indignation. ‘For God’s sake, Evangeline! Where’s your gumption? Where’s your self-respect? This is a wonderful and generous thing you’re doing and I’m so terribly proud of you, but you must remember that you have rights too. And you have feelings. You have to put yourself first.’

  ‘You’re proud of me?’ Everything else she’s said falls away, leaving that one word upright and gleaming. She is proud of me, for adopting Milly, for creating a family.

  ‘Of course, I’m proud of you!’ Her eyes fill with tears. She sniffs them back. ‘I’ve always been proud of you! Haven’t I told you that, over and over, all your life?’

  I stand up, put my arms around her, sink into the familiar folds, a relieved child. My mother is proud of me. She loves me. ‘I thought you didn’t approve?’

  She pulls away to reach for a tissue, wiping her eyes, blowing her nose. ‘I’m sorry if I gave you that impression. It wasn’t my intention. I…’ she hesitates, ‘I was simply giving you some space. Isn’t that how Neil puts it? It was clear that, for whatever reason, you preferred to pursue your life without me.’

  ‘That’s not true!’

  She holds her palm up to stop me. ‘My mistake. He…’ She hesitates.

  ‘He what?’

  ‘Anyway, I understand now.’ She frowns to herself, as if she’s working something out.

  ‘Did Neil say something to you?’

  She shakes her head, dismissively. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Did he tell you not to contact us?’ I thought she was sulking. I thought she was punishing me for not visiting. Did Neil warn her off?

  She squeezes me tight. ‘I love you. I’ll always support you in everything you do.’ Her voice is choked with emotion.

  ‘What did Neil say?’

  But she won’t be drawn on this. It’s unlike her not to take the opportunity to put him in the wrong. This makes it worse. He must have said something to her. I can imagine him losing his temper, telling her to leave me, us, in peace, but why would she pay attention to that? My mum’s a fighter, she wouldn’t give up that easily. Why did she listen to him? What did he say? I remember venting to him about her, how she suffocates me, how I struggle to get free of her, but these were emotional rants, not something I’d ever want her to hear. Did he repeat any of this? My guts clench at the thought of her hearing that I find her suffocating. How deeply that would have hurt her. Did he tell her?

  He let me think she was ignoring me. He let me believe that my mother didn’t want to speak to me. He saw how much that hurt me, and said nothing?

  She sniffs again and blinks, tears brimming. ‘I hoped that you’d have a child of your own, of course, what mother wouldn’t? A babe in arms.’ She sighs. ‘A five-year-old… But it is what it is. She’s your daughter
now. You need to think about yourself. Why should you be driving all that way, putting yourself out, to meet a girl who couldn’t be bothered to look after her own child? She probably won’t even turn up.’

  She has a point there. We tried to meet Claire once before. Neil and I took a day off work and drove up to Carlisle. We waited, with her social worker, in the family centre, for an hour, but she never came, and, with hindsight, we decided this was for the best and made the decision to play safe and remain anonymous. I imagine sitting in that bland room on the royal blue chairs with Milly, at some point in the future, watching the clock eating away at the time, making excuses, trying to distract her. I want to protect her from that. But what if Claire turns it around? What if she does manage to take control of her life and Milly, when she’s eighteen, finds out I denied contact? How will she feel about that?

  Mum says, ‘Tell them to go hang. The whole damned family.’

  ‘I can’t do that.’

  ‘You can. They’re lucky to have you, Evangeline. You do it on your terms.’

  ‘It’s not about me, it’s about Milly. She has a good relationship with her grandparents. They’re kind people and they love her. She’d be devastated if she couldn’t see them again and she’d never forgive us.’

  ‘She’ll forget soon enough.’

  ‘It’s not an option, Mum. We’ve agreed she will have contact with her grandparents.’

  ‘But not her. Neil doesn’t want contact with the mother.’

  ‘Neil thinks that this is an opportunity to make a clean break from Claire and we should grab it, for Milly’s sake.’

  ‘For your sake! For once, I’m in agreement with him.’

  ‘I’ll talk to Shona.’

  My mother groans. ‘Why do you have to make life so difficult for yourself?’

  *

  Back upstairs, I feel adrift. As if I’ve lost my compass. What did Neil say to Mum to stop her calling? Was it deliberate, or did she misinterpret him? I pick up the phone. His voice is heavy with sleep. My old alarm clock with its splayed feet and bells on either side tells me it’s gone midnight. ‘Sorry! Sorry.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing.’ He waits. ‘Did you say anything to Mum, after we moved? Did you warn her off?’

  He’s quiet for a moment. ‘What’s she said?’

  ‘She didn’t. I just… It sounded like she was keeping a distance because she thought that’s what you, what I, wanted.’

  ‘She told you I said that?’

  ‘No, no.’

  ‘What exactly did she say, Eve?’

  ‘I can’t remember. It wasn’t what she said, it was just… look, forget it.’ Why did I open my big mouth? Now I’ve created more friction between them. Memories of that hotel room. The New York skyline. What it must have cost, all the planning that went into it, the Christmas surprise of a lifetime, but all I could do was fret about her. Why is it always so difficult? Why did she have to choose that same weekend to throw a party? Neil said it was deliberate, that he’d told her about New York, but she denied it. ‘He said he wanted to take you somewhere special. I thought he meant a meal somewhere, maybe a night away. And then he went ahead and booked flights without saying a word to me!’ I did think about postponing, but Naz soon put me straight. ‘If you don’t get on that bloody flight, I will!’ she said, refusing to attend Mum’s stupid party even if it did go ahead.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ I sigh, trying to articulate what I’m feeling. ‘I miss you. Milly’s asleep in the box room and Mum’s getting ready for bed so I can’t get to her, and you’re all the way up there and I feel, I don’t know, sort of lost.’

  He’s silent. ‘What do you want me to say, Eve?’ His tone is weary. We’ve been here before, so many times. I’d hoped, with Milly, it would be easier, but it isn’t; if anything it’s more difficult. He gives a long sigh and all that love vibrates down the line. I wish I could reach him now. I need those arms around me.

  ‘I feel that we were this unit and now we’re all separated.’

  He’s quiet for a long time and I’m wondering if he’s fallen back asleep when, finally, he says, ‘That’s what she does, Eve.’

  13

  I wake late the next morning, my head thick and throbbing. My mother has the heating on full blast and sealed windows. I search for a key along the window sill, but can’t find one. Downstairs I can hear her moving around in the kitchen, talking, and Milly’s voice, answering questions. When I get to the kitchen Milly’s standing on a stool, wearing a little apron and brandishing a sieve. The battered Kenwood Chef is on the kitchen counter along with the rusty kitchen scales and Mum’s ancient Reader’s Digest recipe book.

  ‘We’re making a cake!’ says Milly, brightly. Mum’s face is flushed and she’s wiping a dusting of flour from the kitchen surface with the corner of her apron. She’s never been a baker. She’s a competent cook, generally. The portions are excessive and the dishes she favours are a bit stodgy for me, though perfectly tasty. She can make a cake for an occasion if she must, but it’s no pleasure for her. I suspect this activity was Milly’s suggestion. This is a good sign.

  ‘That sounds delicious.’ Maybe this wasn’t a wasted trip after all. Maybe it will prove to be a bonding opportunity for Mum and Milly. On her own patch, Mum might be a little more amenable.

  She doesn’t sound amenable. ‘What a mess you’ve made! Do you think you could try and get some of it in the bowl?’

  I offer to help but Mum waves me away with a wooden spoon. ‘No, no! You get your breakfast and leave us to it.’

  ‘It’s fine. I don’t need any breakfast—’

  ‘Nonsense. Most important meal of the day. There’s a bowl of that muesli stuff you like on the dining room table, I got it in that fancy new deli they’ve opened, and fresh fruit and yoghurt in the fridge.’

  I look at Milly but she’s frowning at the recipe book, pretending to read the small print, while my mother hovers, anxiously awaiting the next spillage. I’m not needed nor wanted here, so I take a couple of headache tablets and do as I’m told. It was thoughtful of Mum to get me muesli. When I was growing up, breakfast was thick porridge with whole milk and golden syrup. The very thought of it makes my stomach churn.

  There’s an insulated jug of weak coffee on the table in the dining room. I fill a mug, drink it black, swallowing the pills, and pour a small helping of muesli, but I can’t eat it. The lasagne from last night is still working its way through my system. The window in here is also locked, but I find a key beside the plant pot and shove it open, thrusting my face out into the cool air and breathing deep. If I had my trainers I’d go for a run but, in the hurry to leave, I forgot them. I sit back down in the silent room alone, listening to Milly’s continual chatter next door, feeling childishly excluded. Why am I in here on my own? I thought this would be a time for the three of us to be together. I want Milly to bond with Mum but I want to be part of that too. Is that selfish? I take my bowl and empty the contents into a plant pot, spreading the soil over the top with my fingertips to hide the evidence.

  Mum keeps a selection of board games in the sideboard. We used to play on Sunday afternoons when we’d cleared the table and washed the pots from the weekly roast. She would put on a story tape in the background, Anne of Green Gables, or Little Women, and we’d play quietly, breaking the silence with the occasional protest as a counter was sent back to base. Happy times. Maybe we can recreate that with Milly now.

  The sideboard is wide and low, in a sixties design which I always thought was old-fashioned and ugly but now looks quite stylish. It has a door on each side and four drawers in the centre. I open the door on the left and retrieve a battered box of Ludo, but the dice are missing. Mum keeps loose change, paperclips and other random bits and pieces in the top drawer of the sideboard, but there are no dice in there either. The second drawer down has envelopes of various sizes and stamps. The drawer below has passports, Mum’s most recent and a stack of old ones with the corners c
ut off. I spend a few moments looking at my old photographs, my crooked front teeth before the brace, the heavy fringe. When I pull out the final drawer I discover letters. Crumpled airmail envelopes with foreign stamps from around the world. My scrawled handwriting an exotic reminder of another time. I pull one out and unfold the translucent sheet. Neil’s name sings out from the page again and again. Memories flood back: the weight of my pack digging into my shoulders, lifting it away from my back as I walked, to dry the sweat. Bare feet in heavy-duty sandals, grinning brown faces with sparkling eyes and white, white teeth, temples and beaches and shacks serving food, starry nights spent stretched out on the sand.

  There are about a dozen letters in this pile. A similar pile for the Australian adventure, a few from the year we spent teaching in Greece, but by then we were able to maintain regular telephone contact. One letter a month. How she must have waited for these, pored over every word, drinking it up. How distant I must have seemed. I try and imagine myself, waiting for news of Milly, unable to contact her, utterly powerless. No wonder she was frantic. No wonder she sobbed down the line whenever she accepted my calls from far-flung telegraph offices. I was so irritated by her need of me, but now, I can imagine how she felt.

  As I go to replace the letters I notice a scrap of paper, crumpled where it’s got trapped towards the back of the drawer. I smooth it out. It’s not airmail thin, but a thicker piece, torn from the back of an envelope, the triangular fold and strip of glue still visible. The writing is unfamiliar, but the name at the top stops my breath: William Leonard.