by Zosia Wand
I can’t hear Milly. She must be sleeping. Drugged, but safe. Please, please let her be safe. I need to find another way to reach her.
‘Let’s get you into the kitchen.’ She slips one arm behind me as if she’s going to cradle me to her and slides me away from the wall, placing her other hand beneath my armpit, proceeding backwards along the hall towards the kitchen, dragging me. It’s amazing what strength she can find when she needs to. I protest, but she’s not going to take any risks. Propping me against the kitchen units, she crosses the room to the back door, where her wheelchair is folded into the corner. ‘Just the thing!’ she says, flashing me a triumphant grin as she opens it out. The wheelchair will, at least, get me off the floor and give me a little mobility. I allow her to help me in. ‘There’s a good girl.’ She relaxes as I succumb. If I do as I’m told she’s happy. This is my role in her reality: dutiful daughter, the victim she’s rescued. I must be grateful. I need her help. I can play that role, if it gets me what I want. I can do that.
A memory. Naz in my bedroom, singing. Never smile at a crocodile. I remember frustration. Tears. Neil had asked me to meet him at a party in Stevenage but Mum wouldn’t let me go. I’d known she wasn’t keen on Neil, barbed comments and that pinched face whenever I mentioned him, so I’d been keeping things to myself. Then, one day, she’d asked me about him, all smiles, acting like she was genuinely pleased for me, encouraging me to confide, and, relieved to be able to talk at last, buoyed up by the joy of this new relationship, I’d told her he was the one.
Don’t be taken in by his welcome grin.
She’d turned then. Panicked. Set about making it as difficult as possible for me to see him. My mother has razor teeth, I can see that now. Back then, I put it down to her being overprotective. I assumed she was afraid that I’d throw away my opportunities and make the same mistakes she’d made, but it’s more menacing than that. My mother is dangerous, but she’s utterly predictable. This is my only weapon.
As she bustles about, fetching the icepack, wrapping it in a towel, strapping it against my ankle, boiling the kettle for tea, ‘A strong cup of tea with a spoonful of sugar, for the shock,’ I play the part. I’m defeated, grateful, apologetic. I persuade myself that Milly’s safe upstairs, as long as Mum’s downstairs, fussing around me. She isn’t interested in Milly. Milly’s an inconvenience; I’m the one she wants. I need to keep her here.
‘I’m sorry, Mum.’ My voice wobbles. ‘I’ve made such a mess of things.’
She hurries over and strokes my hair. I tense my jaw in order not to recoil. ‘Evangeline, my baby.’
‘I should have listened to you.’ Memories of my teenage years. How many times have I said this to her? How many times have I been cornered without realising it?
As she pets, cajoles and fusses, I manoeuvre the chair so that I am at the opposite side of the table, closer to the door, where I can see into the hall. If Milly wakes up and comes downstairs I will see her first. I don’t know what good this will do but it gives me a degree of control. Mum places a cup of tea on the table in front of me and refills the kettle. She’s fretting, worried; I’m not the only one trying to work out what to do here.
There’s a knock at the door. Mum freezes. I look down the hall and see a small figure, the outline of India’s wiry mane on the doorstep. Bracing myself, I propel the wheelchair forward. I hear Mum lurch after me, but the wheels move smoothly across the wooden boards and I have the advantage. I bellow to India, ‘Call the police! Quickly. She has Milly!’
I am almost at the door when Mum grabs my hair and yanks me back. I shriek with the sudden pain. She blocks the door, grips my arms, her nails sinking into my flesh, but her voice is sweet as syrup. ‘Evangeline darling, please. Don’t do this to yourself,’ and before I can say anything else she’s shoving the damp dishcloth into my mouth. I gasp for air, but she packs it in. ‘Calm down. You need your pills. What are people going to think?’ and back to India, ‘It’s all right. I’ve got it all under control, thank you. If you could just leave me to sort this out.’
I’m kicking, writhing and moaning like a beast caught in a trap, but Mum’s stronger than she looks and the dishcloth has hit the back of my throat, making me gag.
India calls through the door. ‘Eve? Eve? What’s going on?’ I hear the flap of the letter box lift as Mum wheels me out of sight.
*
Mum sits down at the kitchen table. She’s trembling, the muscles in her face twitching as she thinks of her next move. I yank the dishcloth from my mouth, but I can’t speak. There are no words. We’ve entered some other place now. I’m trapped in a different reality with a woman who will not be beaten. What will she do? Milly is upstairs and I can’t reach her. But India heard, India will call the police.
Mum looks at me. I try and read her face. A disappointed mother reprimanding an errant child. ‘What have you done, Evangeline? The police? What do you think is going on here?’
‘Where’s Milly?’
Her face is innocent, her voice soft. ‘I have no idea.’
‘She’s upstairs.’
‘Upstairs?’ A frown. ‘Is that what you think?’
The room shifts around me. There is nothing to grasp hold of. She shakes her head, ‘Oh dear, this is worse than I thought,’ reaching over, patting my thigh. This fear is frozen shards, sliding down my gullet, compacting in my gut. Solid and so cold. ‘Don’t worry, darling. No one can blame you. All this stress. I’ll explain when they get here.’ Her hand lands on mine, heavy, thick fingers coiling around my palm. ‘We’ll work it out, Evangeline. You’re not alone. We’re in this together. Don’t forget that.’
The sound of a key in the lock. ‘Eve?’ It’s India. She’s hurrying down the hall. She has a spare key. It was Neil’s idea. ‘Always good to have a neighbour with a key.’
Mum freezes. I shout, ‘Did you call the police?’
India appears at the threshold of the kitchen. ‘They’re on their way. What’s going on? Where’s Milly?’
‘Upstairs.’
India turns and runs back down the hall to the bottom of the staircase. I hear her feet on the treads as she makes her way up. Mum is watching me, that pitying look resumed. I know before India reaches the top of the stairs that Milly won’t be there. ‘Where is she?’
Mum shrugs. ‘I haven’t seen Milly since you ran off with her.’
India returns to the kitchen. ‘She’s not there. I checked all the bedrooms.’ She’s looking at me, hesitating, wondering what she’s caught up in. Mum sits calmly, wearing an expression of maternal concern. I’m trapped in her reality. She is rational while I’m hysterical. Milly is not here. Milly was never here. My mother is innocent and I am unhinged.
The roar of an engine as the police car turns into the street. The screech of brakes as it pulls up outside. Here we go again.
36
Mum does the talking. I have no words. I am a mad woman. Paranoid. I no longer know my own mind.
PC McAdam gives nothing away. She nods, makes notes. We’re sitting in the living room. A paramedic has looked at my foot and is waiting outside to take me to the hospital for an x-ray. The police are trying to track down Neil. Helen, Milly’s social worker, has confirmed that Milly’s safe, with Ruth and her foster family. She must have dropped Gerry in our hurry to leave. She will have realised at bedtime, but by then she was at Ruth’s and I was on my way to Hitchin.
PC McAdam is accompanied by a male officer in plain clothes. She asks the questions while he listens, watching me and Mum carefully, trying to read between the lines. What does he see? An elderly woman who is doing her best to take care of her paranoid daughter. She sounds so convincing. If I hadn’t seen her raise that stick at the top of the stairs, if I hadn’t felt her yank my hair and ram that dishcloth into my mouth, I would believe that she has my best interests at heart, that in some warped, inappropriate way, she was simply doing what any mother would do to protect her child. If I try to explain, now, what happened I’ll str
uggle. I’ll get emotional, I’ll sound ridiculous. This is her power. She appears reasonable. She’s the one in control, while I flounder. All her lies are rooted in truth. I’m not hysterical, as she’s claimed, but I’m pretty mangled right now. It’s believable.
She tells the police, ‘She hasn’t been right since she found out – you do know? About the rape charge?’
The male officer’s face remains impassive as he corrects her, ‘At this stage it is still an allegation.’
Mum gives an irritated cluck. ‘The evidence is there.’
My voice emerges like something newly hatched. ‘He didn’t do it.’ My throat aches, the inside of my mouth is sore. Everyone’s eyes are on me. ‘I spoke to Ann Lord. Her husband lied. Tina Lord will provide a statement. She’ll confirm that it wasn’t rape.’
It isn’t easy to expose your mother to the police. Even at my age, even after what she’s done, I’m scared. There’s still a part of me that’s expecting not to be believed. I could tell them that my mother has set out to destroy my family: that she manipulated Vincent Lord into writing that statement, that she wants Neil out of my life and will use any means available to her to achieve that, with no concern for the consequences and how many people she hurts along the way. I could tell them she pushed me down the stairs and rammed the dishcloth in my mouth, but I’d sound hysterical, which only proves her claim. It’s my word against hers and I don’t want to go there. She’s my mother. She’s my problem. I’m an adult and I have to deal with this myself.
Mum shakes her head and gives me a disappointed look. ‘Evangeline, darling. Ann Lord is a timid woman. You saw how nervous she was. Tina will be the same. If they’re disputing the story it will be because Neil’s got to them. If his temper when he came here is anything to go by—’
‘Enough!’
Her nostrils flare. ‘Evangeline—’
‘You have to go.’ She twitches, momentarily startled, but regains her composure quickly. Her eyes narrow. She goes to speak, but I stop her. ‘Go and pack your case. Now.’
I wonder what PC McAdam’s thinking. I’m doing my best not to get emotional, but the only way to achieve this is to remain detached, matter-of-fact. If I think too much, if I allow myself to engage, I’ll lose my resolve.
My mother loves me. That love is twisted and toxic, but to her it is simply love. I’m betraying her, that’s how she’ll see it, that’s what this is: the ultimate betrayal. A daughter rejecting her mother. She’s dedicated her life to me and I’m telling her to leave, in front of the police. If it was me in trouble, if I’d made a mistake, she’d stop at nothing to protect me, but I’m not going to do that for her.
‘I’m not going anywhere! You need me. That man… I am not going to let him come back here – he’s a bully! Can’t you see that? You need me.’
‘I don’t. I don’t need you.’ I can feel her pain, imagine the tears she will shed, the bewilderment. I can hear the great hiccupping sobs she’ll produce when all else fails, but this time I must be strong, for Milly, for Neil, for us.
‘I’m your mother!’
I turn to the plain-clothed officer. ‘Can you escort my mother off the premises, please?’ His face is calm. He is an intelligent man who has learned to assume nothing. ‘Could you do that for me?’ He gives a small nod.
‘Evangeline!’
‘My name is Eve.’
*
I hear the car pull up outside as I sign the statement. A door slams. I drop my pen and limp into the hall to throw open the door as Neil comes up the path.
*
Neil follows the ambulance to the hospital. It takes us a while to work through it all. Mum wouldn’t let him into the house. He didn’t want to do anything that might create problems with social services, so he phoned Shona. She agreed to meet him at her office in Barrow. By the time he got to her, she’d received my message and was able to reassure him of his innocence and update him on my meeting with Ann Lord.
The x-ray reveals a fracture and I’m given a splint and some painkillers.
Shona calls as we’re driving home. Neil switches to speaker and her voice rings out from the phone, rescuing us from the grim puddle of Mum’s spite. ‘Good news. Tina Lord has been in touch. She’s sending us a signed statement refuting her father’s accusation.’
Neil blinks. A solitary tear escapes and tracks its way down the grooves of his face to his chin. I reach across and wipe it away. I will never forgive my mother for what she’s done to him. I’ve tried so hard to maintain a relationship with her, to make it work, but she’s left me no option. I must choose. I should have done it years ago; I could have spared him this pain, but I wasn’t strong enough. It took Milly, it took becoming a mother myself, to provide me with the courage to face up to my own.
Shona says, ‘They’ve decided this is clearly a case of malicious intent and can be set aside.’
Malicious intent. I picture the words typed on a screen, printed out on headed paper, placed on an anonymous desk, copied, circulated to people who make decisions, who hold the power. My mother’s intention was malice. Not my words, not something that can be put down to hysteria or misunderstanding, but the conclusion of an official investigation. My mother is not loving and reasonable and misunderstood, she is dangerous.
‘Have you seen Milly? Is she all right?’
‘She’s fine. Missing you both.’
‘Can we see her?’
‘I’m collecting her today.’
Neil asks, ‘What about the adoption hearing? What needs to happen now? Can we go ahead?’
‘The team are happy to continue. We’ll need to schedule another review, and discuss the ongoing relationship with your mother, Eve, but I don’t envisage any problems. I’ll try and sort it this week or next, to keep things moving. And as soon as that’s done you can submit your application to the court.’
When we get home, we sit in silence, Neil and I, looking out of the bay window, across the tarn. This world. This life we’ve built. Milly is coming home. We’ll find a way to tell her what’s happened. I’m already framing it in my mind. Grandma is ill, confused. I don’t suppose Milly will care too much. She’s always seen through my mother. She has Nana and Gramps. She has Betty and Mike and Neil’s extended family. She doesn’t need my mother.
I don’t need my mother.
And there’s Steven. Milly has an older brother. Neil has a son to get to know. We sit, side by side, holding hands, in a strange sort of limbo, between chapters.
Malicious intent.
Epilogue
The final review took place a week later and we were given the green light. I was worried that we might have to press charges against Mum, get a restraining order, prove our intent, but there was none of that. All it needed was for me to say that I would not allow Mum anywhere near Milly. So simple. They have confidence in me and that confidence empowers me. I’m not the girl my mother bullied and controlled any more. I am Eve Wright. I’m the woman who runs over the fell, pounding the earth with her steady rhythm. I am strong. I am in control. I am Milly’s mother.
Neil had the application form ready, completed it and got it in the post that day and our hearing was scheduled for two months later. We were at the magistrates’ court this morning, with Shona, Helen, Betty and Mike. Milly is officially recognised as our daughter: Milly Wright. Betty has baked a cake. There are tears and laughter and everything rolls forward easily. I’m not anxious or torn, but free to enjoy and focus entirely on my husband and child. There’s no more drip-drip-drip of fear.
I’ve no idea where my mother is while we celebrate. She knows nothing about it.
*
Like fear, joy can come in many colours. I’ve always pictured it a deep, warm orange, tinged at the edges with something more citrusy. This joy is different. The orange bleeds into crimson. Nothing sharp here, simply warm warm warm. Back at the house, Betty feels her way around my kitchen, enlisting Milly’s support, producing lunch and treats for the extended fam
ily who’ve gathered with us to celebrate. Neil’s sisters, brother-in-law, nephew and niece and, much to Milly’s delight, the dogs are all here. Ruth and the foster family have come down from Carlisle, though, thankfully, they’ve left their dogs behind on the farm. And Lizzie and Pearl, Kath, India and Guy have joined us. We’re having our own Thanksgiving. It’s like one of those sentimental Christmas adverts. The music isn’t quite as effective, drowned out by the raucous Wright banter as they bellow to one another across the room, and the dogs are making a terrible mess, but this will do.
Pinned to the noticeboard on the wall is my father’s address. Not hidden in a drawer or tucked out of sight, but there, in plain view. I will write to him soon, when the celebrations are over and things have settled back into a routine. I have no idea where this will take me, but I have a family to support me. It will be what it will be.
I have no contact with my mother but Betty drops by every now and then to check on her. I haven’t asked her to do this but I’m grateful that she does. She understands. She is a mother. She is a daughter. That connection can never be entirely broken. I would like to make peace. I would like things to be different but that’s impossible. This is my bruise.
*
There’s a knock at the door and Neil goes to answer it. I glance at Betty, who’s as nervous as I am. Mike takes her hand. Laura, baby Jonah resting in his papoose, moves beside me. We wait, all eyes on the door. It was my suggestion to do this today, with bustle and distraction and other people around. I thought it might lessen the intensity but now I realise how intimidating this must seem, such a huge crowd. Maybe something quieter would have been better. I want to press the pause button, rewind. I’m not ready for this. Will we ever be ready for this?