by Jem Lester
Mary Carey is making copious notes when Dad arrives home from his bowls match. The floorboards creak under his loping gait and I can visualise him inspecting Mary Carey’s bike and other paraphernalia while he makes a snap judgement about her right to breathe oxygen.
‘Good afternoon. Georg Jewell, Jonah’s grandfather,’ he says, holding out his hand. He sniffs the air like a fox-crazed beagle and I watch the colour rise from his neck to his eyebrows.
‘Mary Carey, social worker.’
He takes her hand. ‘Can I wash your coat … I mean, take your coat?’
‘No, I’m fine, thank you.’
‘Where’s Jonah? Ah, in the garden, naked again, I see.’
She scribbles more. ‘He’s a handful, isn’t he?’
‘He is,’ says Dad proudly.
‘She wasn’t referring to that, Dad. His behaviour …’
‘Oh, yes, challenging, certainly.’
Her cheeks have reddened. ‘So Jonah is currently living here with his father and grandfather. And his mother?’
His mother, my wife. Certainly we won’t be back together until after the tribunal is over.
‘Not living here. That was the basis of sending the letter.’
‘I’m aware of that, Mr Jewell, but is she seeing anything of Jonah?’
‘Not since we separated, three weeks ago.’
‘Do you know if she has any intention of seeing him?’
‘You’d have to ask her that.’
Scribbling.
‘So you and your father are his sole carers at present.’
‘Yes.’
‘And how old is your father?’
‘Seventy-eight.’
‘And you are thirty-seven. In work?’
‘Yes, I run the family business, but of course having Jonah to care for is making that difficult.’ Or rather, easier – he’s just the latest excuse for not going in.
Mary Carey puts her pen down and grips her chin. ‘Could you explain how?’
‘Well, Jonah is doubly incontinent, so mornings are a nightmare even though he wears a nappy at night. He needs to be bathed every morning and for that you need his cooperation, which is not always freely given. I should really be at work by seven a.m. but rarely get in before ten, after seeing him on to the school bus. His sleep is sporadic, which means mine is sporadic too.’
She scribbles again.
‘So how do you see things improving?’
‘Well, while I’d be delighted for some help, it’s just a sticking plaster. Jonah needs consistency. From the moment he gets up until the moment he goes to bed he needs consistency and stimulation. There are so many transitions in his life at the moment that he finds it impossible to transfer any of the skills that the school claims he’s learnt from there to home. He needs a residential setting.’
I hear these phrases slipping off my tongue with ease and watch for her reaction while they do so. I feel caught in the shame of my use of language, certain Mary Carey will identify the words as the euphemisms they so clearly are – waking day, residential setting, consistency, stimulation. My diaphragm is rejecting them, my heart constricted by them. She knows what they mean – I can’t cope and I want him gone. As soon as the thought enters my head I mentally bat it away, like fleeting thoughts of slitting my wrists or dining on paracetamol.
‘But if we could put together a comprehensive package that would alleviate many of your problems, that should negate the issues that Jonah is experiencing. It is best that he stays with his family.’
‘Cheapest, you mean.’
‘No, I said best. For him to remain in the community. There are other options.’
‘Such as?’
‘Well, there’s fostering …’
‘Excuse me – did you say fostering?’
‘Yes, Mr Jewell. When experienced couples – or sometimes singles – and families, take in a child for a variety of reasons for up to three hundred and sixty-five days a year. Often it leads to adoption.’
‘Yes, I kind of knew what fostering meant, Ms Carey. I just cannot for a millisecond understand how a total stranger, albeit one with Health and Safety training, no doubt, could foster Jonah. Do you really think that any couple in the world knows and loves Jonah as I do?’
‘No, but if you’re truly not coping—’
‘Ms Carey, you just chased a naked Jonah around the garden and he pissed on you then laughed. Should we put that on his curriculum vitae and post a crotch shot of him in the local newspaper?’
‘But there are people out there—’
‘Yes, I’m sure there are. Many well-meaning, kind, patient, saintly people who I admire. But Jonah’s not just morose, he’s not a pot-smoking shoplifter with a crack-whore mother. It’s not just his learning difficulties, or autism, no. Do you know what defines Jonah and makes the idea of adoption both ludicrous and offensive to me?’
‘No, Mr Jewell.’
‘He’s my son.’
Mary Carey sighs, regains her composure. ‘Mr Jewell, I object to what you are insinuating about the way Wynchgate Social Services works.’
‘You opened this discussion by saying how important it was for Jonah to remain part of the community and yet your next suggestion went past Go and straight to jail. Would it be fair to say that you and your colleagues bend over backwards to keep children with their parents?’
‘Yes, that’s fair.’
‘Despite the recent coverage surrounding Baby Peter?’
‘That was a different authority and a tragic set of circumstances.’
‘On that we agree. But you do expend an awful lot of energy trying to keep children at home – with the correct supervision.’
‘Correct.’
‘So why such little effort with Jonah? Why straight to the most drastic solution?’
‘No, it’s just one of the options. But if you really feel you can’t cope …’
There they are, the knowing raised eyebrows – this game of tennis is a sham. She’s just fed me a series of dropshots and now she’s smashed away the winner. We know what this is about really, Mr Jewell, don’t we? And it’s not about Jonah. You want us to make it all better for you, say ‘there, there’ and make the pain go away? Well, I called your bluff, you lazy, childish waste of space. Stop whining and man up.
‘You do not give your children away. Never! This is the best you have to offer?’ Dad’s presence has slipped my mind. ‘We can cope, now go and get your package together and take your muddy bicycle from my hallway.’
‘Mr Jewell, I didn’t intend to upset you.’
I’m lost for words, but for once Dad has found them.
‘You didn’t upset me, missy, you angered me.’
Mary Carey stuffs her sodden vest top into her saddlebag and wheels her bike down the path.
‘I’ll send my care proposal to you as soon as possible.’
Dad slams the door behind her.
‘This is what you have to deal with? These people? Women with spiky purple hair?’
I nod in assent.
‘That naked boychick in the garden goes nowhere. Now, get me a cherry brandy.’
We both sit and watch Jonah’s uninhibited wanderings through the window – he sipping his cherry brandy, me trying to sip my Scotch. The sun begins to set and we’re still staring silently. He’s not a drinker, my father, I’ve never seen him drunk – but he’s a giggler. I explain to him in bullet points the events as they arose before his arrival.
‘All over her? A bladder-full? I knew he was a genius.’ Dad chuckles.
‘Should I dress him? Don’t want the neighbours complaining.’
‘What for? Let him enjoy himself, Mrs Colnbach is blind as a bat anyway.’
If he’s anything like me, alcohol loosens his tongue and opens his pockets –
so I take a chance.
‘Dad, I need your help with this.’
‘So what’s new?’
I avoid the barb, because it’s true. ‘I’m a bit short. You know how it is?’
Dad sighs. ‘Don’t think I’m not aware of what’s going on at the warehouse.’ He suddenly sobers up. ‘You are a very good taker, Ben. You want me to keep you while you plot to send my grandson away? No, no, no.’
‘It’s not sending him away, Dad. It’s giving him the best chance, the best opportunity to have the best possible life. It’s only a short-term problem.’
He stands up and turns away. ‘Nothing is short term with you, Ben.’ And to himself he adds: ‘He wants me to pay for his booze while he plans to have my JJ locked up.’
‘This is not the nineteenth century.’
‘No? In Hungary in 1944 they said the same. This is not the nineteenth century, it’s the twenty-first and look, look.’
‘Dad, it’s for Jonah.’
‘And not for you?’
That bullet finds its target.
‘What? I shouldn’t benefit too? Would that be an unacceptable by-product of fighting for Jonah’s future? That we should both have a life we’re happy to live? Please, I’ll never ask you for anything else as long as I live, but please …’
He swings round and stands so close that the smell of cherries is the only barrier between us. I look up to see his eyes – they are amber, they are Jonah’s.
‘You prove to me that it’s for Jonah, you prove to me one hundred per cent that his life will be better away from his family, that he needs what you say and they have what he needs, and I will consider it.’
‘I promise you, Dad.’
‘Don’t make promises, show me evidence. Now go and get him in, it’s getting dark. I’m going out tonight.’
I just want Jonah in bed as soon as possible – preferably asleep – so after Dad leaves I call Jonah up and go through the bath routine at double speed, adding a good dose of Medised to his usual drugs to gently knock him out. I kiss him goodnight and stagger down the stairs. I want to flop on the sofa with a large dose of something to numb me while I check my email for the thousandth time today. Downloading, my mobile says and up it pops: I am home, need to see you tomorrow. E.
I read it over and over, zoning in on ‘need’ and ‘tomorrow’ like a whirring Enigma machine. She ‘needs’ to see me tomorrow. Needs: desires, desperate longing, misses me, can’t live without me. Tomorrow: can’t wait another day. I daydream about my own bed, satellite TV, the sole burden of Jonah’s future removed. Stomach acid bites at my tonsils as the inevitable negatives shoulder their way in like party gatecrashers – the What Ifs Posse from the wrong side of the tracks. I shall retreat into oblivion until I no longer feel their blows.
Four fingers of Scotch help me drift off easily. I doze and wake, dream and doze and wake dehydrated and irritable and Jonah is tugging at my hand.
‘Oh, go away, please, Jonah, go back to bed.’
But he won’t go, will not budge.
‘Look, just fuck off and leave me alone. If you want something, get it yourself.’ I jerk my hand away and turn my back to him and doze again. I am vaguely aware of him coming and going, of cupboards opening and closing, of laughing and jumping. Deep down I know I should investigate, but I resent the burden tonight, I’m comfy and he’s not driving me mad and I’ll deal with him later. The hours pass.
‘What is this? I’ll kill him!’
I’m jolted awake and remember with horror what I haven’t done and what he’s probably found. I use the lounge doorframe to prop myself up and try and look awake.
‘Benjamin, what is this?’
The hallway is littered with ground-in Oreo cookies, spat-out lumps of bread and what look like thousands of tiny insects, which – on closer inspection – are sesame seeds. At the bottom of the stairs sits a sodden, shit-stained nappy; I watch Jonah tread in it on his way up to his bedroom.
Dad follows him up as I pretend to know where to start. He stops halfway and I sense his glare.
‘How dare you allow this to happen, lying drunk on the sofa while your son could have done God knows what to himself. Useless boy. Now turn down the television and leave us to sleep. I’ll clean up in the morning.’
I stand with my head against the wall for what seems like an eternity, but my drunkenness, distilled down to dehydration and edginess, forces me up and, as I pick my way to the kitchen for a glass of water, the full force and devastation of Hurricane Jonah is revealed.
Half-eaten apples on the floor like a deserted game of petanque, dismantled bits of garish feathers glued to the lino with the remains of tortured grapes, a wedge of Parmesan with teeth-marked sculpture, a dozen packets of crisps – their innards ripped violently out, now solidifying like concrete in the sink.
The wall cupboard doors are all gaping. He’s been climbing, sweeping tins of fruit, tuna and sardines to the floor like a burglar searching for diamonds. Dare I check the fridge? At first, all looks relatively unscathed – apart from the bag of apples that is now just a bag. There are the telltale teeth marks in an onion – serves him right, that little git – and a banana that looks like it’s been through a mangle, but …
‘Oh, shit.’
The chicken is gone, he’s eaten the chicken. Four raw chicken breasts from the top shelf. Now I panic.
I take the stairs two at a time and burst into his room, but he’s not there.
‘Dad,’ I scream, as I open my father’s door. ‘Dad …’
Dad is on his back on the right of the giant bed, and a filthy-faced Jonah has his head on Dad’s chest. Dad stares me down, his mouth is upturned and his amber eyes burn – get ready.
‘Raw chicken, Dad. The raw chicken in the fridge?’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘The chicken, in the fridge …’
From nowhere, a paperback hits me hard across the top of the head. ‘Ow!’
‘It’s in the freezer, klutz. What do you take me for? Go away.’
We meet in a Starbucks in Holborn. She is warm in her cashmere, and I hold her until she pats me on the back.
‘I’ve got twenty minutes.’
‘How was Hong Kong?’
‘Fine.’
‘How are you coping?’
‘Fine.’
But as she takes her coat off, I wonder. The shoulders of her tailored jacket fit less snugly and as she fiddles with her wedding ring it rolls too freely.
‘I miss you,’ I chance.
‘How’s Jonah?’
‘Enjoying Dad’s attention, I think.’
She smiles, faintly. ‘I bet.’
‘Do you want to see him?’
She bites the inside of her upper lip. ‘How can you ask that?’
Her anger causes panic. I don’t know which words to choose to avoid her ire, to impress her with my stoicism, to placate her.
‘It wasn’t loaded, Emma. It’s been over a month. Tell me when and where and I’ll bring him. This weekend?’
‘I’m in Geneva this weekend.’
‘But you’ve only just got back.’
She sips from her latte and passes me a sheet of notepaper. ‘I’ve found a barrister. Here are her details.’
I fold it and slip it into my pocket, obediently.
‘It’s a conference. Don’t you have plans for the weekend?’ she asks.
‘Thought I’d take Jonah to Paris.’ It’s meant to sound lighthearted, but escapes the leash and barks sarcasm instead.
She leans across the table and stares me down. ‘For God’s sake, Ben, do you think this is easy for me? I still have to get up every morning, without seeing my husband, without seeing my son, and get on with everything and try and concentrate on my job so that when this bloody business is over at least
we’ll both have enough money to finally have a life again. Get out of the victim role.’
She sighs deeply as she looks away and murmurs, ‘I’m sorry.’ On these morsels I shall build my days.
‘It’s okay,’ I whisper and, for a moment, loosen my grip on the bag at my feet, but if it’s not possible for me to speak to her when I need to, I’ll be wreckage without the reassurance. I place the two identical boxes on the table in front of us.
‘What are these, Ben, for God’s sake?’
‘Pay-as-you-go mobiles. They can’t be traced, all we have to do is set a date and time to talk. They’re untraceable.’
‘You said that already.’ She looks weary. ‘This is not some covert MI5 mission. Come on, get a grip.’
‘I need to be able to talk to you, Emma.’
‘Stop wasting your money on toys and take them back to the shop.’
I try to hide the shaking – and my face – as I fake a gulp from my large Americano. I’m behaving like an insecure teenager.
‘I had a meeting at the school. They’re still going on about Maureen Mitchell, Jenny Porter won’t back us. Even if she agrees with us, she’s just toeing the party line. I went to see it. It’s no good.’
She reaches into her briefcase and passes me a large buff pocket file.
‘You’ll need these – every document about Jonah from his birth until last week. They’re in chronological order and I’ve made notes, so don’t lose them. And anything else that’s generated you must keep and you must file – do you understand? There’s also a document providing you with temporary custody. You need to sign it and return it. I’ve already signed.’
‘Keep and file, sign and send. I think I can manage that.’
‘Now, phone the barrister, I’m told she’s the best. You’ll need to have detailed reports on Jonah from a speech therapist, educational psychologist, occupational therapist, child psychiatrist, and anybody else that can add to the case. I know this is not your forte …’
‘But you’ve already been away for a month.’
‘I just can’t do it. Not now. I’m already under huge pressure.’
‘They on your case at work, then?’
‘More than you could know. They have me working all God’s hours, meetings every night. I don’t have the headspace.’