by Zosia Wand
That woman would never have contacted my father. No matter how difficult things were. She would never, never have asked for his help. She didn’t write to him. He wrote. And she will have told him where to go. I can picture her tearing the letter into shreds. Furious. ‘How dare he!’
My mother is bitter and lonely. I have Neil. I have a job I love, a beautiful home in the Lake District and now a daughter of my own. I don’t have to ask hostile neighbours for help. I don’t have to prove day after day that I can manage alone. ‘I have the life she never had, I guess.’
‘I didn’t mean you.’ Naz gives me a poke. ‘She’s jealous of Milly.’
I snort. ‘Don’t be daft! How could she be jealous of a five-year-old child?’ But then I remember the abandoned game of Ludo.
‘Eve! Wake up! Your mum always needs to be the centre of your attention. She wants you all to herself. That’s why she hates Neil. Why she’s always hated me.’ I shake my head, but she grins back. ‘Oh, come on! I know she slags me off. I don’t care! It’s you I care about, Eve. I don’t give a monkey’s what your mum thinks of me, and nor should you.’ She wrinkles her nose in sympathy. ‘Your mum wants you all to herself. She’s your baby; there’s no room for Milly.’
Max, Milly and Cam settle with their ice creams a little distance from us. Max has the wipes and regularly cleans his brother’s chin, taking his cone to lick the drips. Milly observes them both, her face giving nothing away, storing the details. Is Mum jealous of her? I remember the Play in the Park, Mum insisting she needed a chair, not being able to sit with Milly, waiting for Mum to release me, to say that I should go and put my daughter first. She would never say that, I realise now. Those words would never come from her mouth.
When I look back at Naz, she’s frowning at her boys, deep in thought. I’m about to say something about the address I found in the drawer, about William, though I’m not sure what it is I want to say, but she speaks first, without looking at me. ‘I sometimes think, if they were both drowning, which one would I save?’
‘Jesus, Naz!’
‘Don’t.’
‘What?’ She frowns, shaking her head, but still looking towards the pool. ‘Don’t shut me down like that. If I can’t talk to you, who can I talk to?’
‘There’s no answer to that. How could any parent answer that question?’
‘I have to answer it. On some level, every day. Who needs me more?’ She watches Max get up, wiping the last of the ice cream from his mouth with the back of his hand. He grins at a group of girls and runs past them, hurling himself into the pool so the water rises like a magnificent sea creature and crashes over them, sending them squealing and dripping in all directions. Naz’s eyes do not leave her beautiful boy. ‘He needs me too.’
Cam bum-shuffles across the grass towards us, sensing something. Naz sniffs. ‘Always liked dandelions. Popping up in the middle of those pristine lawns, burning bright; a miniature sun.’ She rubs Cam’s hair and wrinkles her nose towards his. ‘Cheeky little buggers.’ She blows a raspberry into his chest as he giggles and wriggles.
Naz has given herself up to her boys. She had no choice. Her father, rather brutally, suggested she let Cam die and focus on the healthy twin, but Naz wasn’t going to do that. She’ll never be Kate Adie now, but she’ll be something else. She campaigns on behalf of children with disabilities. She’s had features on the radio and been interviewed by Jenni Murray on Woman’s Hour. She may not report back on war-torn countries and international injustices but she’ll move things forward closer to home. Perhaps that’s what motherhood does? It makes us step back and put someone else first. We take an alternative path and channel our energies differently; we’ve had our turn, now it’s about them. As if she’s reading my thoughts, Naz asks, ‘If Neil and Milly were both drowning, which one would you save?’
‘Naz!’
‘Humour me.’
‘Milly, of course.’
‘And if it was your mum – her or Milly?’
I hesitate. ‘This is horrible. Why are you asking this?’
‘Why can’t you answer it?’
‘I can answer it! The answer’s the same – Milly!’
‘But?’
‘No but!’ I can feel my face burning. Why is she doing this?
‘You hesitated. You didn’t hesitate with Neil.’
‘Neil’s a strong swimmer. Neil can look after himself.’
‘And your mum can’t?’
‘Not as well as him.’
‘Maybe.’ She pauses, waiting. Not wanting to encourage her, I turn away, but she carries on. Her voice is softer, but the words are just as brutal. ‘If Milly was drowning, Neil wouldn’t expect you to save him.’
She stops. She doesn’t need to spell it out. If I was the one drowning, there’s no doubt, Mum would dive straight in and save me. I am her world. No one else comes close.
Mum would let Neil drown.
I refuse to go any further. I cannot think about Milly.
17
We land back at Mum’s tired, damp and chirpy.
‘Did you have a nice time with Naseema?’ Mum always uses Naz’s full name. She’s trying not to be racist. She tries so hard it has the opposite effect. The first time Naz stayed for tea at our house, Mum asked me, ‘What does she eat?’
‘Food?’
‘I haven’t got any curry.’
Seriously. She had no idea. I told Naz and the next time she came around she put on a heavy Indian accent and asked Mum if she could have, ‘Some of the special potatoes you are roasting,’ and Mum was delighted to oblige, unaware that she was the subject of a joke.
‘How is that boy of hers?’
‘The disabled one or the normal one?’ I ask, channelling Naz.
Mum pulls a face. ‘There’s no need to be like that.’
‘They’re both good, in their individual ways, Mum. What do you want me to say? He got better suddenly? It’s all going to be all right?’
‘Of course not. Why are you being like this? I was only asking.’ She looks hurt.
I take a deep breath. ‘Sorry.’
She turns, with an air of purpose, to face Milly. ‘You need to hang out those swimming things, young lady.’
‘I don’t know how to do that.’
‘Well, it’s time you learned.’ Milly looks at me and wrinkles her nose. I offer to do it for her but Mum stops me. ‘Milly can take the wet things upstairs to the bathroom and spread them out in the bath for the time being.’ She’s adopted her schoolteacher voice. Milly gives a low growl. ‘Stop that, this instant.’
Milly stamps her foot. ‘No!’
Mum looks at me, one eyebrow raised.
‘I’ll come with you, Milly.’
‘For God’s sake, Evangeline!’
Milly lowers her head and, looking through her fringe, growls, ‘What big teeth you have.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
Milly gives a short bark, and then again, ‘What. Big. Teeth. You. Have.’
I take her hand. ‘Milly, stop. Come on. We’ll hang out the things together.’
‘You’re making a rod for your own back there.’
Milly snatches her hand away and turns on Mum. ‘I hate you. I HATE YOU!’ and then she pinches her eyes shut and howls.
Mum’s face is flushed deep red. ‘Stop that! Stop that at once. Do you hear me? I will not tolerate that sort of behaviour in my house.’
‘HATE YOU! HATE YOU! HATE YOU!’
‘You, young lady, need to be taught some respect!’ And before I know what’s happening, Mum has grabbed Milly by the arm, raising her off the ground, and slapped her across the back of her bare thigh.
There is a brief second where everything stops.
And then Milly shrieks. One wild, guttural sound projecting a riot of emotions: shock, pain, indignation. I gather her up in my arms and hug her to me. ‘Mum!’
‘You are ruining that child, Evangeline!’
‘How could you?’ Milly curls into me sobbing. I check
her leg. The pink outline of my mother’s hand has appeared like a brand. I can feel the sting on my own flesh, a memory, sharp and hot. Something steams and billows inside me. Something uncontainable. I look at my mother, facing us, still rigid, eyes hard. ‘How dare you?’
A flicker of hurt crosses her face before it sets in a belligerent line. ‘That child—’
‘That child is my daughter!’
‘She’s controlling you.’
‘She’s five years old!’
My mother’s face is pink with indignation, the hair around her face is damp with sweat. ‘She needs to know who the adult is here, Evangeline.’
‘Well, it clearly isn’t you!’
Shoving her aside, I carry my daughter upstairs.
*
Milly curls up on my bed with Gerry, her thumb in her mouth. She hasn’t sucked her thumb for weeks and seeing her like this is a fist in my gut. I slide down alongside her and she snuggles into my arms reassuringly, allowing me to smooth her hair back from her sweaty forehead. I wait for her breathing to steady. Her body slowly softens against mine. She doesn’t want to go back down to Mum and I’m not about to make her, so I offer cheese on toast in bed and leave her tucked up with the door closed.
Downstairs, Mum hovers, weighing up the situation, working out her next move, but I have no time for her machinations. Naz is right, she’s a jealous toddler and she’s crossed the line. If social services find out about this – if Shona had seen – I feel sick to the stomach. Milly is a ‘looked after’ child, at risk. She is meant to be safe with us. We are meant to protect her. This could jeopardise everything. I’ve been naive, thinking that Milly would create a bridge for us, shifting our relationship to a more equal footing. That’s never going to happen. My mother is stubborn. She’s used to getting what she wants and she doesn’t want Milly.
‘It was a little smack. Anyone would think I’d given the child a severe beating.’
‘It’s unacceptable. I’m pretty sure it’s illegal!’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. Sometimes, when a child gets themselves into a state like that, a short, sharp smack is what they need. It never did you any harm.’
There is so much I could say to this. Memories whipping through me. Humiliation. Fury. Shame. The back of my legs, a swipe across my shoulders from behind, a cold slap against my cheek. Flinching, ducking, running up the stairs to be dragged down by my foot, my chin banging against the stair edge. ‘Milly did not get herself into a state; you upset her. You didn’t get your own way so you resorted to violence. She’s five years old. She’s vulnerable and we have a duty to keep her safe!’
Mum gives a little snort. ‘There’s nothing vulnerable about her, believe me. She knows exactly what she’s doing.’
‘And what is it that you think she’s doing?’
‘This. Creating divisions between you and me. She’s jealous. She wants you all to herself and she needs to learn that she can’t have that, Evangeline.’
‘She’s a child. She’s been removed from her home. She’s struggling with an enormous change in her life. Everything she believed to be stable has gone. It’s our responsibility to make her feel safe and loved. We promised to do that!’
‘You don’t have to spoil her.’
‘I’m not spoiling her, I’m being kind. I’m building a relationship.’
‘On her terms. She needs to respect you.’
‘She needs to trust me.’
Mum shakes her head, as if she knows better, but she doesn’t. She would not be a good mother for Milly. She would not have been approved by social services, not with this attitude. We may not be approved if they ever get wind of this. I look at my mum. She has no idea how vulnerable we are right now. I feel so tired. How do I make her understand? Will she ever understand? Maybe Neil’s right. The last two years have been so much easier without her around.
‘Why is it, Mum, that when we’re on our own, when you’re not there, everything is fine, but as soon as you’re involved—’
‘Because she has you to herself then! That’s what she wants.’
‘Is it? Is it what she wants, Mum? Or is it what you want?’
This winds her. Her face hardens. ‘How dare you!’
‘Are you going to slap me now too?’
A moment. She would like to, but things are different now. Something has changed. She’s not used to me fighting back. I can protest, I get grumpy sometimes, but I don’t fight like I am now. This is new. Something has been woken in me that I never realised was there. I’m the lioness fighting for my cub. Milly may not be my flesh and blood, she may not have been with us long, but it’s there, that instinct. I am a mother. I can do this.
She changes gear. ‘Evangeline, sit down. I want to talk to you.’
The words project from my mouth like vomit. ‘Why didn’t you tell me you had his address?’
She stares at me, uncomprehending.
‘William. My dad. You’ve got his address, torn from the back of an envelope.’
‘You’ve been snooping?’
‘No, not snooping. I don’t snoop, because I thought there was no reason to snoop. I didn’t realise you were lying to me.’
She sighs. ‘I haven’t lied.’
‘You told me you didn’t know where he was!’
‘The truth is, Evangeline, he didn’t want to know.’
‘He wrote to me!’
She frowns. ‘When?’
‘The letter. The letter you destroyed!’
A beat. She’s watching me. ‘Did you see a letter?’
I hesitate. ‘You know I didn’t.’
She nods. ‘You’d better sit down.’
‘I don’t want to sit down! Milly needs to eat.’
She takes the bread knife from my trembling hand. I have to keep moving. I fetch the cheese from the fridge, the pickle from the cupboard. It’s a different pickle to the one Milly likes, but it will have to do. She probably won’t notice given the state she’s in.
‘He sent a card for your eighteenth birthday. No letter, just a card. And I was angry, yes, on your behalf. How dare he? How dare he send a card, as if that’s all it takes, as if he can just step back into your life as soon as the work is done.’
‘He wanted to see me!’
‘Where was he when we needed him, Evangeline?’
‘You should have told me!’
‘He had no right!’
‘He’s my father!’
‘He didn’t deserve you!’
‘That was not for you to decide.’
‘Yes it was! How dare he presume he can waltz back into our lives and enjoy the fruits of my hard labour! You are mine! I raised you! I did it all! He has no part of this!’
‘I had a right to know.’
‘You think it was a coincidence he got in touch as soon as his financial responsibility came to an end?’
So it comes down to money. He no longer needed to hide because he no longer had a legal obligation to pay. Something inside me collapses.
‘I didn’t want to ruin your birthday. And then you were going to university and things were beginning to happen for you and I wasn’t going to let him to spoil that.’
I slice the cheese. Milly is upstairs, a red welt on her leg. Why are we talking about this now? I’m being selfish. This isn’t about me, now, it’s about Milly. We are supposed to be taking care of her. What would Shona say if she saw what Mum did? Helen? I picture the reviewing officer scribbling a report. How would she describe it? Violence? Abuse? Will Milly say something? ‘If social services find out about you smacking—’
She slams the knife down on the bread board. ‘To hell with social services! Right now, they are the least of your problems. Do you have any idea what you’re getting yourself into? Adopting a child with that man?’
We are back to Neil. The demon Neil. Here we go. I brace myself. Somehow, she is going to twist this around to make it his fault. Well, good luck with that. She has my undivided attention. I can’
t wait to hear just how she’s going to manage this.
‘Neil has a child.’ She is looking at me, her eyes steady, giving nothing away. ‘When Neil met you, Tina Lord was pregnant with his child.’
Pregnant.
That word. It hits the floor between us, exploding into tiny particles that echo through the air.
Pregnant. The blue line that never appeared.
‘Neil has a son. He abandoned his child just like that feckless father of yours. Don’t make the same mistake I made, Evangeline. There’s still time for you to get out of this.’
I shake my head, as if I can shake this information out of it, but I cannot shake her away. She is still there, the expression on her face triumphant. I want to run, but my feet are pinned to the ground.
‘There’s more.’ She swallows. The triumph has gone. Now she is a mother, concerned for her daughter. I want to slam my hand over her mouth. ‘He raped her.’
Rape.
This word doesn’t explode. It hovers in the air, waiting. The world stills around it.
18
Naz put our bag in Max’s room, relegating him to the pull-out mattress in Cam’s bedroom. Max was not enthusiastic about sharing with his brother. ‘He snorts and he stinks!’
But Naz was having none of it. ‘So do you,’ she said, shooing him into the bathroom to brush his teeth, while he objected most robustly.
Naz doesn’t know what’s going on. I asked if we could stay and she didn’t hesitate. She has been efficient and kind, asking no questions. Milly is tucked up in the top bunk. I’ll sleep in Max’s bed below, under a Star Wars duvet. Her obvious relief when I went up to tell her we were leaving Mum’s tore at my chest. I failed to protect her. What sort of mother am I? I’m supposed to be keeping her safe, providing her with a nurturing, loving environment. I shouldn’t even be in Hitchin with her now, but back in Tarnside, allowing her to settle gently into her new life.
With Neil.
With Neil?
Pregnant. Son. Rape. Words that have no place in my world. Circling around me, trying to find a way in.
If I hadn’t come back to Hitchin, I wouldn’t know. If I hadn’t sent that bloody photograph, none of this would be happening.