Bad Blood (Tales of the Notorious Hudson Family, Book 5)

by Julie Shaw

  ‘Of course let her in,’ Christine said, gesturing with her free hand. For all that the woman had come at the worst moment possible, this might finally be her chance to get away.

  She trawled her hand through her knotted hair and wished she could do something about her face. Not to mention her clothes, or, rather, lack of. She was wearing nothing but an oversized T-shirt – one of Nicky’s, which had an old stain down the front. Great. She adjusted Joey slightly, to better hide it, while Nicky stomped off to the front door.

  She heard the door open, and the sound of an unfamiliar female voice, and though she couldn’t make out anything from the sounds of their conversation, it only took one look on her brother’s face when he returned to know she wasn’t from the housing department after all.

  Christine would have known anyway, just as soon as she saw her. There was just something about her expression, and the way she looked generally – slightly down at heel, slightly hurriedly put together. She had one of those trendy puff-sleeved shirts on, but the neck tie was wonky, and with her hair, which was big and mad and full of chunky blonde highlights, she didn’t look properly ‘office-y’ – much less officious enough. She was young, too. Christine reckoned not yet into her thirties. But sharp. Her gaze, even hidden behind a pair of pink glasses, was cool and assessing – and roving all over the place.

  ‘Carol Sloper,’ the woman said, holding her right hand out for Christine to shake, and then withdrawing it as she realised Christine’s was otherwise engaged with Joey’s bottle. ‘No, no, stay as you are,’ she said, cracking a smile finally. ‘Sorry to call so early. I’m from social services.’

  Christine’s mouth twitched politely but her heart sank to her boots. She knew the woman’s smile meant sod all. Social services, in her world, was a dirty, scary name. They were the enemy of every good parent – June McKellan was always saying that. They were the ones who silently watched until you slipped up on something and then swooped in and took away your children. She glanced at her brother, who was ploughing a hand through his own dishevelled hair.

  ‘Oh,’ she said, not having any other response ready. The woman’s gaze seemed to bore into her. ‘Social services? Um, why, exactly?’

  ‘She said it’s nowt to be worried about,’ Nicky offered. He still looked anxious.

  ‘Quite,’ the woman said. ‘No, it isn’t. You’re Christine, right?’

  Christine nodded. ‘Yes, but –’

  ‘Good,’ she said firmly. As if Christine had just answered a question in a test. ‘I needed to come and see you, love,’ she went on. ‘Check you were still living here. Only you’ve not been to clinic and your midwife was worried. Asked me to pop in and check you’re okay, that’s all.’

  Christine relaxed a little. Though Joey was now wriggling on her lap. She realised she’d let the bottle tip and he was now sucking on air. She lifted it again. ‘Course I am,’ she said. ‘Where else would I be? I’m still waiting to hear from the housing about a flat, aren’t I?’ She let it hang.

  ‘I know, love,’ the woman said. How, exactly? How’d she know that? ‘And all being well,’ she added, making another visual circuit of the shabby lounge, ‘they’ll find you something soon. But in the meantime we need to know you’re coping okay with little Joey here, don’t we?’

  Christine didn’t like that ‘we’, nor the fact that the social worker then plonked herself down beside her on the futon, moving the greasy pillow on which Nicky’s head had only recently lain. Just shifted it and sat down. Just like that.

  ‘So how are you doing?’ she asked pointedly, but not unkindly, her eyes now on Joey, who, having drained the bottle, was entering that floppy stage – all drowsy and replete – which usually signalled an hour or so’s peace.

  ‘I’m managing,’ Christine said, wishing it was true. Up close, she could smell the woman’s perfume, which she recognised but couldn’t bring to mind.

  ‘Well, he certainly looks a bonny lad,’ the social worker said, smiling. ‘Certainly seems to have an appetite, anyway. But, you know, Christine, you need to bring him down to the clinic. I think you agreed with Sister Davies that, well, given the challenges of your situation, that you’d take Joey down to be weighed every week, didn’t you? Yet you haven’t been.’ She smiled again. ‘Have you? Which is why I’m here. Because Sister Davies was worried about you. How you’re getting on. Whether something’s stopping you from attending.’ She paused. Glanced back at Nicky. ‘Christine, we have a duty.’ She stressed the word ‘duty’. ‘To check on Joey’s progress. Check his weight. Check his height. Check he’s well. And it’s been three weeks now. You do know when the baby clinic runs, don’t you?’ Christine nodded. ‘You don’t need an appointment. You can come down any time at all. And perhaps should. Get you out. Get you both some fresh air and exercise.’ Again, the sweep round the room, like she was a sniffer dog, looking for evidence. ‘And if you attend every week, it will give you peace of mind. And you’ll meet other mums. Share your stories. Swap tips and so on. You’d be amazed how much of a support it is to be with other new mothers … Christine, tell me,’ she added, her tone subtly different now. ‘Tell me, is there a reason you’re not going?’

  There was a part of Christine that wanted to tell the woman the exact truth. That she’d overslept and missed the first clinic and then, having missed the first one, she’d been determined to make the second one – and she really, really had – and for all the reasons the woman was telling her. Pretty much all of which she already knew.

  But the truth was that, when it had come to it, she’d hit another obstacle. It had been raining – tipping it down – and she didn’t have a rain cover for the pram. Which left her with a problem she couldn’t seem to solve.

  Her brother and Brian had been off their heads after a party the night before, which had gone on almost till the dawn, and she hadn’t dared risking nipping round to any of the neighbours to try and borrow one, because how could she? How could she leave her tiny baby by himself? But, it being so wet, the thought of getting him dressed up and carrying him around the flats in her arms had seemed even more preposterous and herculean a task – all those stairs, in the wet, carrying him, and him getting drenched anyway … it had all felt far too much of a nightmare.

  And then, somehow, it hadn’t seemed to matter quite so much after that. Joey was fine, and he was growing, and there seemed nothing whatever wrong with him. And the thought of the telling off she might get for missing the first two appointments was sufficient an additional stress to put her off.

  But she found she couldn’t tell the truth. Not to this organised-looking woman. Couldn’t imagine her understanding just how big a thing it was, having a baby glued to your side day and night. Couldn’t imagine her understanding how big a task it was just to get out of the flat. How big a production. No, she really didn’t think she could understand.

  There was also the fact that Nicky was still standing there, silhouetted in the window. He’d flung open the curtains now – why, oh why? It’s just made everything look so much worse – and was just standing there, like he was a guard dog, arms folded across his chest. But it wasn’t just that, either. This was a social worker. They’d sent a social worker to check on her. And wasn’t that exactly the sort of admission – that it was all just so hard – that would see Joey on a list? Even spirited away?

  ‘I was going to,’ she said instead, trying to think how to put it. Having a baby, she decided, was like going back to school. Your life wasn’t your own again. It was back to following rules. ‘But it was raining, and … well, I haven’t got a proper pram for him, have I? I mean, I’m getting one. Soon as I’ve got enough money together. But at the moment …’ She sensed Nicky’s eyes homing in on her. ‘Till my money comes through …’ She tailed off and shrugged.

  ‘I see,’ the woman said. ‘Christine, you know there’s help available, don’t you? If you’re suffering hardship –’ Again the eyes, which lingered again on Nicky. ‘Then we can get help for
you.’

  ‘She doesn’t need any help,’ Nicky said. The social worker turned and looked at him. ‘She’s fine. She’ll be down at the clinic next week, right? It’s sorted. The baby’s fine. So –’ His expression said ‘sling your hook’.

  ‘Indeed it seems,’ said the social worker. And there was something in the way she said it – to Christine directly, locking eyes with her – that said that, for all her niceness, the likes of Nicky didn’t faze her one bit. ‘So,’ she said. ‘Now. You have your own room here, do you? You and Joey,’ she added, moving her back ever so slightly, but enough to effectively block Nicky out.

  ‘Course,’ Christine told her.

  ‘In which case, can I see it?’

  ‘Um … why?’ Christine asked her, and immediately regretted it. It just made her sound like she had something to hide. Which she did, in a way, given there was a frigging Silver Cross in there. Old yes, and rusty, but still a proper pram. Why the hell hadn’t she told her the truth? Why had she said pram and not rain cover?

  ‘No, it’s fine,’ she said quickly, lifting Joey against her shoulder and standing up. ‘It’s this way. I was going to put him back down now in any case.’ Then, ignoring Nicky’s eye-roll behind the social worker’s back, led the way into her brother’s former bedroom.

  Once inside, the strength of the ammonia smell hit her anew. As did the sight of the sodden nappy on the bed. ‘I’d just changed him,’ she felt compelled to say. ‘And he was hungry, so I made his bottle up. You know how it is …’ Did she, though? Did she look like she’d had a baby? Christine couldn’t tell. How could anyone tell? She went across to the pram and lay Joey down in it, aware of the woman standing close beside her in the cramped space.

  ‘So you do have a pram then,’ she said.

  Christine turned around. ‘Not exactly. I mean, yes, it’s a pram, but it’s ancient. It doesn’t run right. The brake’s faulty. Like I said, I’m going to –’

  The social worker stopped her with a hand on her arm. ‘Christine,’ she said, ‘there is help out there for you. Money. Support. Support which could help you. Support that could help you become more independent. D’you understand what I’m saying? You don’t have to struggle. That’s the very last thing we want. We want Joey to thrive every bit as much as you do. But you have to let us help you, by attending the baby clinic. Being honest with us about how you’re managing. Straight with us. D’you understand?’

  Christine was horrified to realise her eyes were filling up. That she could all too easily burst into tears, right there, right then. She turned away, busying herself with straightening Joey’s already straightened blanket. Then the hand was on her arm again. And another now, held out. ‘Here,’ said the social worker, who’d clearly rummaged in her case. ‘This is my number. Christine, call me, okay? Call me if you need anything. Call me even if you don’t need anything.’ She smiled as Christine took the proffered piece of paper. ‘If you just need to talk, okay? Call me.’

  Christine straightened up. She was suddenly becoming aware of the sound of movement – ominous movement – from the other side of the bedroom wall. Brian stirring? This early? That would just be the worst luck. ‘I’ll get down there. I promise,’ she said. ‘I was going to go anyway …’

  But the social worker was closing up her battered briefcase anyway. Was leaving. Thank God. She just hoped it would be in time.

  ‘And that’s a promise?’ the social worker said, preceding Christine out of the bedroom. Christine glanced into the lounge. Nicky was no longer in there.

  ‘A promise,’ she agreed.

  ‘Because they’re looking forward to seeing you. And like I say,’ the woman said again, ‘if you need anything, call me. That’s what I’m here for, Christine.’ She paused again. ‘You understand me? We’re not the bogeymen some would probably have you believe.’

  She unlatched the door herself. How many flats like this did she go in and out of, Christine wondered. Plenty, she decided. God, she so wanted to be gone from here. It was like a weight on her, for all its lofty views and grass expanses. A weight, pressing her down to a place she didn’t want to go.

  ‘I know,’ she said. ‘And, um, thank you.’

  The woman smiled again. ‘There is no need to thank me. Just heed me, okay, Christine? For you and for Joey. Take care, love.’ And then she was gone.

  Christine looked down at the note. At the number. At the woman’s tidy writing. ‘Carol’, it said above it, with a big emphatic underline.

  ‘Well, that’s fucking great, I don’t think,’ Nicky said, the second the front door was shut again. ‘Fucking social sniffing round. That’s all we need, that is. The fucking SS on our case. No offence, sis, but I bloody hope they hurry up and find you a place. If Brian hears about this, he’s going to kick off about it royally. He’ll go apeshit if he thinks we’re going to have the authorities sniffing round. Sod the bloody baby clinic, you need to get yourself back down to the housing office. Sheesh, they never change, do they? Won’t leave anyone alone. And how’s it their business anyway? The baby’s fine, and it’s not like we’re hurting anyone, is it?’

  Christine sighed. ‘I know,’ she said, ‘and I’ll sort it, Nick, I promise. And I’m really grateful …’ She stopped, feeling the tears welling again.

  He opened his arms then and pulled her in for a hug, taking care, as he did so, with the joint he’d already lit.

  Then he laughed. ‘They can fuck off, the lot of them, can’t they? Tell you what,’ he said. ‘Fancy a toot on this, sis?’

  Chapter 8

  Christine banged the pram down the last flight of stairs, a familiar frustration welling up in her. It was all very well that Carol woman telling her she needed to attend the baby clinic – quite another for her to understand just how hard it all was. And would continue to be till the still-awaited miracle happened and she had somewhere of her own to go and live. Somewhere on the flat. Not stuck halfway up a tower block in Brian’s wretched flat. But another week had gone by and she’d still not heard a word.

  She backed herself and the pram out of the glass doors to the car parks (another thing she was getting good at doing now, she mused), at first frowning because bumping down the four flights had woken Joey up, but then smiling – she couldn’t help it – at the sight of his happy little face. Which soon couldn’t help sour her mood again. He deserved better, even if she didn’t. Though it wasn’t as if she wanted handouts or anything. Just a place to live, for which she would pay rent, out of her own hard-earned money, just as soon as she could find a way to look after him and go to work. Just a chance, that was all, to do her best for him.

  She tried not to think about her mam, though it was hard. Josie was so lucky; she had her mam to help her out with little Paula. Almost every girl had a mam, or a gran they could depend on. And what did she have? No one. Well, apart from Nicky, obviously. But though he cooed over Joey when the mood took him, which was often enough, admittedly, there was no way in the world she’d expect – or want – to leave Joey with him.

  But she didn’t want to be like her mam. Her mam, who saw work as a take it or leave it option – who’d not worked since she’d fancied herself as Rasta Mo’s ‘kept woman’. And that was true of Nicky too, much as she loved him. He too seemed to live by their mam’s familiar credo – do as little as possible, get away with as much as possible and, if he went the way of Brian, which it looked like he might, live in a drug-induced stupor every frigging day you could.

  Which was fine for them, and she was grateful for the roof over her head, even if not quite so enamoured of the four floors of flats underneath them. She just wished she could give Joey something more.

  Out in the car park, in the open, she felt better. The sky was full of scudding clouds, and the trees were turning red and golden, shedding leaves to be scooped up by the light autumn breeze that was fresh and sharp-smelling in her nostrils. She had a sudden image, and held on to it, of a time in the future when she and Joey could tramp throug
h all those fallen leaves together. ‘Look at you,’ she cooed, as he waved his little arms at her. ‘All right for some, eh? Snug as a bug in a rug, you are, aren’t you?’ Which was something of a miracle, she decided, as she turned onto Little Horton Lane, given the jolting of those four flights of steps.

  He responded by sucking on his dummy all the harder, his lips widening into a chuckle as she made faces at him, clearly oblivious of the struggles that had become the large part of her daily life. For all that she loved him, who knew being a mother could be so stressful? Just leaving the house was a major operation, and, increasingly, one that felt like a battle. Just organising feeds, finding clean clothes, packing just-in-case spare clothes, remembering nappies, and extra nappies, and all the wipes and paraphernalia, including a spare dummy, just in case Joey spat it out and she didn’t notice.

  Add to that the layers of clothing, despite it still being mild; the hat, coat and gloves, the blankets and rattles, the all-important rain cover Josie had finally tracked down, and Christine had gratefully cadged. Sometimes, it just felt so easy – too easy – to stay holed up in the flat, in her trackies and jumper, and let the world crack on without them.

  The walk, however, energised her, and as she approached the doctor’s surgery and clinic, it was with a strong sense that getting out and doing things with Joey was the right way. And as she did her usual turnaround and backed through the clinic doors, it was in a more positive frame of mind than she’d felt in days.

  In contrast, the walk had had the opposite effect on Joey, who was now in a deep, untroubled sleep. He would create merry hell, Christine knew, once he was woken. And woken he would be, because Christine had asked Josie what would happen, and, as a consequence, suspected the baby clinic would be his least favourite thing. He’d be stripped off and weighed, measured, pushed around and prodded, and, if Josie was right, given he was coming on three months now, he’d be getting an injection as well.