by Clare Fisher
‘You can’t just do this!’ I shouted. ‘She’s your kid. She deserves a family. And I can’t afford it. I need . . .’ But there were so many things I needed, I didn’t know where to begin.
‘I think,’ the woman in the bobbly fleece and her friends emerged from who knows where, surrounding me with crossed arms and cross faces, ‘you’d better leave our street.’
And I did. On the tube south, a woman jumped out of her seat and motioned for me to sit down. I rubbed my belly and tried to smile but I can’t have managed it because the next thing she asked was whether I was tired, and I said I was, and she said of course, she said she couldn’t believe how tired she got with her first. ‘The second one came out twice the size but I didn’t get so tired. I suppose it was partly emotional, with the first; a part of you is constantly thinking, how will I do it? How will I become a mum?’
When she saw the way I was looking at her, she laughed. ‘Oh, don’t be frightened. You’ll surprise yourself. You’ll be great, I’m sure.’
At Maida Vale, the woman hopped off, but I thought about her all the way back to my flat. Her face, her hands, her words. She wasn’t my mum – I couldn’t remember my mum’s face, but I knew that I’d recognize it when I saw it and this wasn’t hers – but she could be. And someone, somewhere, could be looking at my mum, thinking she could be theirs. My mum was out there, living, breathing, sighing, picking food out of her teeth, just as real as anyone else. Maybe she was even thinking about me. Every other mum I’d ever seen flashed through my head: Cal’s mum, the woman at the antenatal class, the women who shielded their kids from the Odeon pick ’n’ mix and the ones who didn’t, the woman I’d just seen at a bus stop, leaning on her pram and ssshing her baby while texting. Soon, I’d join these women; I’d be a mum. This had to be a good thing . . . Didn’t it? And having my own mum around would help. It would help a lot. By the time I got home I’d mostly forgotten about Phil; I dug through the letters from Social Services until I found my new adviser’s number. I wasn’t going to stop until I found her.
We’ve been locked up for twenty hours now. We haven’t done any new wrong things; they just do this to us sometimes. It makes some of the girls so angry, that the moment they’re unlocked, they kick off at each other or at the walls or the screws or one of the dumb laminated signs that are stuck to the mouth-coloured walls; before they know it, they’re locked right back up. I could have been one of those girls, but I’m not. I’ve got Erika and I’ve got this list and, with every word that I write, I’m getting closer to you.
The other person I’m getting closer to is my mum: she read my letter and then she walked down the street and went to Tesco and did lots of other normal things while thinking about me; then, she wrote back. Luckily, I got the letter before lock-up. I curled up on my bed and I read it and I read it until I fell asleep. I woke up with the paper crumpled against my cheek; then I rolled over and read it again. I munched the cheesy crackers and drank the juice I’d saved from the last canteen. I read until her words and her guts were a part of me. My heart is pumping them to every part of my body, making me strong. Strong enough to face the part of my story that’s been locked up inside me for way, way too long.
Dear Beth
I can’t tell you how much I smiled when I read your letter. In fact, I can: I read it on the bus. I was sitting beside a rather nosy woman (I always end up next to a nosy woman. Perhaps the universe is trying to tell me something?). ‘A real love letter!’ she exclaimed. ‘You don’t see many of those any more.’ ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘It’s not a . . .’ I was about to say that it wasn’t a love letter, but then I realized that it was. It was a love letter, if not of a romantic kind.
I suppose I should tell you how I came to read your letter on the bus. It’s not the sunniest of reasons but it’s part of my everyday life whether I want it to be or not. I saw it on the doormat as I was rushing out for an appointment. Seeing my name spelled out in those round, firmly-pressed letters, it tugged on my heart. I knew even before I ripped open the envelope that it was from you.
The appointment was at the hospital. You know – or maybe you don’t? I never knew how much they told you – I’ve spent a lot of time there. Too much.
I hate having to go back.
The hour with my psychologist is invaluable; sometimes it’s hard, other times, exhilarating, but I’ve been working with this particular psych for three years now and he’s saved me again and again. (Although I can already hear him telling me off for saying that: ‘You saved yourself! We’re doing this work together, remember?’) It saddens me to imagine how different things could have been if I’d found him, or someone like him, sooner. (I never hit it off with any of the others.)
No, it’s the getting from my flat to his room that I hate. The squat Victorian building separated from the outside world by high iron railings. The way all eyes stick to you as you press the bell for that particular bus stop (which is too far from any shops or bars or any other useful place for anyone to doubt where you’re going). I hate, too, the corridors. The reception. The distinct smell: a freshly deodorized armpit writ large. Not that it’s gloomy; first-time visitors are quick to praise its cheerfully bright surfaces. What they don’t realize (not yet, at least) is there’s a reason they make the physical space as cheery as possible. That reason is the kind of darkness that resists even the brightest light. You may or may not know what I mean (I really, really hope you don’t). I was trapped in it for many years, and although I’m not there any more and almost completely believe I will never return there, it takes a tremendous strength to stop the memories crowding in.
Sometimes, the hour with the psych is so good, I come out smiling. Other times, it’s almost impossible to pull on the kind of face that won’t make people flinch at you on the bus. Or I’ll be jumpy for days afterwards, snapping at people at work, dropping cups, saucers, papers left, right and centre, bursting into tears at the slightest provocation. I’m incredibly lucky in that my boss’s sister has had similar struggles to me; it’s the first place where I’ve been open with my issues and where people have understood. ‘It’s OK,’ she’ll whisper, handing me a dustpan and brush, ‘I’m not going to sack you for breaking my second favourite mug!’ Somehow – and I don’t know if it’s the new prescription or the fortnightly sessions – I manage to push through the motions until they keep moving of their own accord. Yes, I’ll think, I have a job. I have a flat. I even have a few friends. No one’s out to take them from me; the only person who’s in danger of doing that is myself, or at least, my old self: I hope and mostly, mostly, I believe, that I’m beyond that. Beyond, I think, is a better word than cured.
Oh dear.
Two days have gone by and, reading over the above paragraph, I’m afraid it’s a little gloomy. I was tempted, very tempted, to scribble it out. Then I looked up and saw the two big words I’ve written in big felt-tip capitals and Blu-tacked to my bedroom wall: BE KIND. Destroying myself has only made things worse, and you can fall into a spiral of destruction at any time; it’s easy to slip on as small a thing as a scribble. Besides, if we’re to be honest with each other – and I hope we can be – you need to know these things.
Now, for some sun: the cat, since you ask, hasn’t done much lying about recently. He’s been too busy chasing birds in trees. He hasn’t had any luck (at least, as far as I can tell) but he climbs the conifer’s narrow branches and waits for hours at the top – a big black-and-white blob among the green; it’s quite something! – eventually pawing at the air so clumsily that every bird within a half-mile radius flaps off. But that doesn’t put him off. The next day he’ll make the same journey all over again. The eternal optimist!
Talking of optimism, I was, in the words of the midwife, ‘one of the most ludicrously optimistic mums-to-be’ she’d ever seen. I had all the books. All the answers. When I spoke to the other women at antenatal classes, they’d ask if I was on my second or third child. When people made that face at me when, after much poking
and prodding, I revealed I wasn’t in touch with the father, I quoted my colleague, who referred to her husband as her ‘biggest, most demanding and immature child of all’. I quoted feminist child-rearing books. ‘There’s no shame in feeling scared,’ the midwife said. But I wasn’t; there wasn’t a future human so much as a future knot of unending possibilities growing inside of me; I was invincible.
My psych would have a thing or two to say about this ‘optimism’, and he’d be right. Nevertheless, the important thing is that I was excited. I felt, for the first time in my twenty-four years, genuinely, completely, unutterably purposeful. I papered the walls of my little flat with lists. Lists of things to feed/say to/do with/sing to/check for in your baby at 0, 3, 6 months. Things to do on rainy days, lists and lists of free things to do with kids in London. (I was WAY ahead of BuzzFeed, etc., was I not?!)
When I was pregnant I’d already been working for Spark Arts for a few years. I initially got taken on as a temporary receptionist, but when they saw how I panicked and chased away visitors with my fumbling and mumbling, they moved me into the back office. I was quiet to start off with, very quiet. But slowly, slowly, I stuck my head out from under my shell, and was speedily declared a ‘creative soul’. This meant I was able to help out with pottery and poetry classes from time to time. (They even started a class that combined the two at my suggestion, which resulted in some very unfortunate vases but was a lot of fun.) I was still working there until they lost their funding and I was made redundant and, well, you know the rest. The point is, that dusty old building was my home. The older women all inundated me with bags of old baby clothes and books and toys. They weren’t up to the standards of my lists – no reality ever could be – but just seeing them stacked in the corner of my living room made me feel full. Yes, my life was full, my body was full, and it was about to get fuller. Despite everything, I can still circle back to that moment and bask, once again, in its light. I hope you understand.
Joanna
‘Do you want to get unlocked, or what?’ the screw said.
I did want to get unlocked; of course I did. It just took my brain a few moments to clock that the door was finally open. I hurried out of it before she could give me a negative.
On my way from the wing to the education block, I looked up at the sky. It was just an ordinary grey one but it made me smile. It made me smile because I knew that however many roads and bus stops and barbed-wire crusted walls there were between us, my mum was living under the exact same one.
16. When your mum wraps a scarf around your neck
Your dad used to complain he felt weighed down by his history; one wife, one set of parents, one school, one set of streets. ‘Sometimes I just want to be someone else, just for a bit,’ he’d say. But I was tired of being someone else. Tired of floating about. The first thing I did when I got my case files was hug them. They smelt of dust and glue. They were heavy. Best of all, they were real, which meant I must be real, too.
I read them in bits, taking a few pages to read while I waited for a hospital appointment or a benefits appointment or any of the other appointments that took up a bigger and bigger part of my life. I even took some to the Odeon. I didn’t take them out of my bag, but knowing they were with me made it easier not to notice the way Chantelle stared at my belly; it was a stare that said, ‘I’m sorry but I ain’t gonna admit I’m sorry and I miss you unless you admit it first.’ Easier to believe that I didn’t need her or anyone outside of my story.
Looked After Child Summary for transfer from Lambeth Council to Somerset Council effective 01.05.09
Name: Bethany Mitchell
Sex: F
D.O.B: 02.07.94
Place of birth: St James’s Hospital, London
Birth Mother: Joanna Mitchell. Contact arrangements: see below
Birth Father: Unknown
Under Care of Lambeth Council since 04/05/00
Ethnic Origin: White British (and unknown)
Contact arrangements: contact with mother lapsed c. 2006 (see report A658)
Special Concerns: No physical health problems; Behavioural, Emotional & Social Difficulties (BESD); history of physical and emotional neglect (see EPR & Permanent Care Order 2000)
Criminal Record: None
School Record: 2 Managed Moves, 9 Temporary Exclusions
Reason for move: Vulnerability to older males – meets criteria for Fresh Start Pilot Project (see Report of the Social Work Working Group 2008 appendix 2.1)
Report A658 – Contact Arrangements: Bethany Mitchell and Joanna Mitchell
Effective from 01.04.06
Contact between Looked After Child and birth mother to be terminated until further notice. Contact was intermittent for many years owing to birth mother’s on-going mental health difficulties; after birth mother repeatedly failed to attend Contacts and was sectioned for a second time under the Mental Health Act, contact was reduced in the interest of the Looked After Child’s emotional welfare. Birth mother is now more stable, however, the Looked After Child has clearly stated her wish to remain apart. Given her age and her existing behaviour issues, it has been decided by all parties that this is in her best interest. However, the situation is to be monitored and the Looked After Child to be given the choice to resume contact and make own arrangements should she wish to do so.
North Hatbridge High School – Principal’s Report to the Local Authority 06.12.05
Despite the challenging personal circumstances of which the school is aware, it is felt that a Managed Move would be in the best interest of Bethany’s educational and personal well-being. Bethany can at times exhibit imagination and enthusiasm for her studies, however, her predilection for creating drama of which she herself is the centre combined with her volatile disposition has made it impossible for her to build lasting relationships with her peers.
Her lack of regard for her peers’ personal space and privacy has raised concerns among several staff members regarding Bethany’s well-being outside of school. These concerns are significantly bolstered by rumours that Bethany offers sexual services to some of the older boys in return for money. Bethany has been known to boast about such transactions, as well as about her associations with certain ‘postcode’ gangs outside of school. Whether or not there is substance in these claims, the school is not in a position to say. However, it is clear from the evidence of her subject teachers’ reports, and from the fact that she has scored the highest number of negative behaviour points in one term – 367 – on record since our introduction of Simmons Behaviour Point Plus system, that her current environment is not conducive to her progress. If the Local Authority decides she should remain in her current environment, we will do everything within our means to support her education, however, this would be flouting Rule No. 3.14 in the parent-school contract which states we have the right to permanently exclude students when they have executed more than six exclusion-worthy offences (Bethany has managed 17 in her short time at the school).
Community Social Work Report 03.04.08 L. Myers
The Foster Parent (Miss Geraldine Wormold) is understandably at the end of her tether with Bethany. GW is a long-standing foster carer with this LA and says that of all the children to have passed through her doors, none have been as hard to crack as Bethany. Bethany was difficult to begin with, GW said, and so she was deliberately gentle with her, knowing she must be in mourning for her previous foster carer who died. However, as time wore on, Bethany grew increasingly difficult (GW said). GW was reluctant to provide details but when I pressed her, she said smashing dinner plates of freshly-cooked food on to the floor was an average example. GW then broke down – tears, shaking, etc., etc. – saying she was beginning to doubt her ability to keep these children safe, for she had woken up in the night on several occasions to hear Bethany stumbling through the door ‘off her face’ and, in one case, sobbing into her tights, which she had balled up in her hand. GW then began to fear that she as the carer would be prosecuted for allowing this to happ
en. I reassured her that this wasn’t the case but she waved her hands in the air and said, ‘What do you expect me to do? Lock her up?’ NB I was unable to consult Bethany on any of this as she remained locked in the bathroom. I recommend a transfer as soon as possible – preferably to a new and contrasting location.
‘I’m happy to tell you that your baby is of ideal size at this stage. Your uterus is the picture of health.’ These words came at the end of a doctor’s appointment in the middle of reading my notes.
When I thanked the doctor, he frowned and said I had nothing to thank him for: ‘On the contrary, you should thank yourself for taking such good care of your child. I assume you’ve been taking all the supplements? Staying active and so on?’
I nodded. It was true that even if I’d not eaten all the pricey food recommended by his leaflet, I had swallowed the vitamins. I hadn’t thought of this as a thing to be proud of, but I was glad he thought it was.
‘I have to say, Bethany, I’m impressed. Compared to your first appointment, you’ve really . . . bloomed.’
‘For real?’
I wanted him to tell me more. Point to the scan and tell me where. How. Why. If I knew all this, I could make sure I didn’t flop back to my old ways, or if I did, that I could bloom again.
But he just typed something into his computer, then opened the door. In real time, the appointment lasted twenty minutes. In Beth time, however, it went on for hours. Days. I replayed his words, over and over, to remind myself that I was more than the things that had once happened to me.
Community Social Work Report 01.02.99 F. Philipson
Miss Mitchell was referred to me by her GP due to concerns over the impact of her sustained anxiety and depression on her ability to care for her four-year-old daughter, Bethany (see report MED MM 5.2). However, Miss Joanna Mitchell (JM) appeared in infectiously high spirits, welcoming me with a pot of fresh tea and a smile. I was immediately struck by the depth of connection between Miss Mitchell and the young Bethany; they joked and laughed with each other, and when Bethany interrupted her mother to ask whether she could show me the picture book she was ‘writing’, Miss Mitchell encouraged her to fetch the book, then said: ‘She’s so imaginative. So bright. I never thought I’d have a kid like that. Or any kid!’ After reading me what was an imaginative – if not terribly comprehensible – picture story, Bethany insisted she give me a tour of the flat. Miss Mitchell was noticeably nervous as we followed her daughter around the house, and it’s true, the rooms were rather cluttered, but not beyond the bounds of normality, I don’t think.