All the Good Things

by Clare Fisher

  There was some friction when I brought up the father: ‘I’ve no idea where he is and I hope I never find out.’ She was aggressively resistant to the idea that we might help trace him through the Child Support Agency. ‘Things have been hard,’ she said, ‘but I’m doing well. I take my medication and everything. A few years ago, I could never have imagined having someone like Beth in my life.’ When I questioned her as to the nature of her difficulties, she was somewhat terse. Her parents were dead, she said, but she didn’t care; it was years since they’d been in touch anyway. She studied English at UCL for two years before dropping out. ‘Uni wasn’t for me,’ was her only explanation. She has supported herself since then by working as an administrator for a small arts organization and lives in a housing association property. ‘We don’t have much money but we have everything we need. She’s gone through all the kids’ books in the library, practically. I take her to all the free museums and stuff.’

  My other observation was that Bethany was noticeably less animated when separated from her mother. When I knocked on her bedroom door – as instructed by JM – she let me in but was reluctant to engage in conversation owing to her game. The bedroom floor was carpeted with what appeared to be a crayoned jungle, drawn on to the inside of old cereal boxes. A medley of different plastic and wooden animals balanced on top of this jungle, along with the occasional toy truck or train, and in the middle of it all, a stuffed frog, of which she didn’t let go the whole time I was there. What’s happening in the game? ‘Everything,’ she said. ‘Can you tell me a bit more?’ ‘It’s complicated.’ ‘Does your Mum understand?’ For the first time, she looked up from the game. Slowly, she shook her head.

  Considering the state of resources and the evidence at hand, I therefore recommend that no further action be taken.

  I even went back to the scout hut.

  ‘At thirty weeks, it’s time to start bonding with your baby. Of course, this will have been happening since conception, but now is the time to start doing so consciously.’ Gloria rubbed her baby-less belly. When none of us pregnant mums moved, she told us to hurry up and get bonding. The woman nearest to me on the carpet – Gloria still hadn’t found the Community Centre’s chairs; there were now beanbags instead – closed her eyes and began to whisper. She must’ve felt everyone staring but she didn’t care.

  ‘Maybe some music will help.’

  All around me, a mooing. Not cow mooing; mooing with guitars. It was silly but also quite good. I was so happy to be away from the things in my flat, especially the letters from the pay day loan people reminding me that my next pay day would really be their pay day.

  ‘I didn’t go looking for you; you came for me. You stayed. You grew yourself into a space I didn’t know was there. You grew exactly as the doctors hoped you would. When I look down at my belly, I still can’t believe it. Some days, I’m scared. I’m scared because there are so many things outside of you and me – things I can’t change. Bad things. But our life will be a good one. We’ll have adventures. We’ll do fun things, like waking up with the sun and running to the park and scaring all the birds. We’ll do dumb things, like messing our faces with icing sugar and talking in silly voices. We’ll bake. We’ll host parties. Yeah, parties. Not grown-up parties; kid parties, with matching paper plates and cups and napkins, all branded with some film you’ll 100% love but which hasn’t even been imagined yet. And you – you’ll tell me things I don’t know. Could never imagine. You’ll make me laugh. Sometimes you’ll mean to and other times you won’t, and you’ll stamp your foot and get grumpy if I laugh when you didn’t mean it, and this will make me laugh more, and I won’t be able to explain that I’m only laughing because I love you. You haven’t even been born yet and already I love you more than anyone else.’

  What we did for the rest of that class, I don’t remember; having started talking to you, I couldn’t stop. Between the words of those reports, I’d glimpsed the life my mum had imagined for me – imagined but not quite made. Things would be different for you and me, though; they’d be good, and not just imagined-good, but real.

  Beechdale Primary Safeguarding Query 15.06.99, Ms. Isabelle Massfield (Year 2 class teacher)

  I realize this is meant to go through our school safeguarding officer but when I tried, I was reassured that ‘all issues had been dealt with’. However, I see Bethany on a daily basis and I don’t believe this to be the case. She really has undergone an alarming transformation over the past year; in September, she was one of the brightest members of the class, if prone to veering between reticence and a dominating confidence, but she bonded strongly with a few classmates and I was at first confident that she would bloom over the year. Sadly, the opposite has happened; she’s slowly lost interest in her school work and responds to all offers of help or encouragement with outbursts of anger – she threw her maths book across the room after one of the teaching assistants tried to help her, for example – that I found quite out of character. Her friendships, too, have crumbled; almost every lunchtime one of the other children comes crying to the lunchtime supervisors about her behaviour, and when asked to discuss or apologize, she either has a tantrum or withdraws. Having what I thought was a strong relationship with her, I’ve tried to talk to her about this after class. But she refused to open up or even make eye contact.

  The only clue I’ve found is in her weekend diary. Firstly, I should say that many of the children concoct the most ridiculous things that are patently made up; trips to Disneyland Paris on a Tuesday night, meeting the X Factor cast, etc., etc. Bethany’s entries were notable for their profusion of real-life detail; she’d write long, if slightly rambling accounts of visits from Granny Nina, progress on her Jungle Book game and some sort of elaborate chasing game she’d play with her mum. A few months ago, however, she stopped writing in her diary at all. When I encouraged her to continue, she kicked off and grew even more stubborn in her refusal. Since then, the only way I can stop her disrupting the class during diary-writing hour is by allowing her to read books. When I eventually managed to ask her why she was prepared to read books but not write her diary, she said: ‘Because I don’t have any good things to write in my diary any more. The stories in the books are much better.’ I asked her whether there was anything she wanted to tell me. She shook her head and said, ‘My mum said not to tell anyone or they’d get me.’ Who would get her? ‘She never says,’ said Beth, ‘but I think it’s spies. Can I go out to play now?’

  As for Bethany’s mother, Joanna, I’ve now lost track of the number of appointments she’s missed. She did, however, come to parents’ evening. I’ll say now that things were a little awkward between us, owing to the fact that she’d missed so many appointments and so seemed scared to meet my eye, but also because we are, I’d guess, a similar age (around thirty). When I expressed concerns over Bethany’s behaviour, she asked if I had children and when I said no, she raised her eyebrows as if this settled it. She was also noticeably thinner than when we met at the beginning of the year, with the bones horribly prominent in her face. She was by no means the most difficult or alarming parent I’ve had to deal with, but in light of the changes I’ve witnessed in Bethany this year, I did come away feeling that all was not well.

  I sincerely hope my more senior colleagues are right in telling me I’m jumping to conclusions and that Joanna and Bethany are the least of our worries. However, on the chance that I’m right, I demand that you investigate the situation before it deteriorates any further.

  ‘Beth . . .’ It was my last day at the Odeon and the first day Chantelle had spoken to me since I ‘slutted up’ (as she’d loudly put it to the Chuckle Brothers whenever I was nearby) with her ‘boyfriend’.

  In front of me, the High Road, with its 99p! Everything 99p! Store and its Wimpy stuffed with granddads and its Save Streatham Cats charity shop. Behind me, the Snack Station. Kilograms and kilograms of slightly stale popcorn. The red Slush Puppie and the blue Slush Puppie. And Chantelle.

  I t
urned back. ‘What?’

  She opened her mouth. Her eyes hovered on my bump. ‘I . . . Are you sure you’re gonna be OK?’

  She reckons you’re weak and pathetic. No way can you be a mum. Hey, maybe she’s right. Maybe –

  ‘Course I am. I’m not an idiot.’

  She stepped away from the Slush Puppies. ‘It ain’t about being an idiot. It’s about –’

  ‘Whatever,’ I cut her off. ‘It’s too late. I’ve got it sorted. Laters.’

  Then I heaved us out of the doors and across the road to the bus stop. When I say ‘us’ I mean you and me; it was impossible to eat or walk or sleep or breathe or sit down or stand up without remembering there was another human in my body with me.

  When I say ‘us’ I also meant me, you and my mum. All these years, I’d convinced myself she hated me. She hated me and that’s why she missed all those Contacts. That thought loomed like some thick, high fuck-off wall between me and my memories of her; without it, I could see so far.

  But now I could see the life we’d had together, me and my mum. I was surprised by how much of it was good, which is why, even if it came to me as I was supposed to be answering the Job Centre assistant’s question or topping up my Oyster, I didn’t push it away.

  ‘Miss Mitchell? Miss Mitchell? Are you listening to me, Miss Mitchell?’

  No, I wasn’t, and I didn’t care. At last, my mum was back with me; no way was I going to lose her again. Here she was, wrapping a scarf around my neck. No, no, I said, it’s too hot, it’s itchy. But that’s because we’re inside now, she said back, her voice softer than the scarf. Outside, it’s cold. The cold will get into you if you’re not careful. Once it gets in, it’ll never get out! And I’d say, oh no! And then she’d hustle me outdoors. Race you to the end of the street, she’d say, and then we would, and I’d win, she must’ve let me but I didn’t know it, my feet were like rockets, they were boosting me to some place better and more fun.

  She was reading me a story. I was telling her she was reading it wrong but she was saying no, no, these are the words, see? I don’t care about the words, I told her. They’re not as good as the ones inside me. Oh, she said, tickling my tummy, there are all sorts of stories on your insides, all sorts!

  She was showing me how to mould clay. How to draw a really good animal. We were adventuring through the mud in the park. We were on a treasure hunt around a museum which ended by the toes of a humungous dinosaur skeleton. Where’s the treasure? I’d ask. She’d point to the bones high above us. There. It’s right there. Oh. I’d try not to look disappointed. She didn’t like it when I was disappointed. But there’s some treasure in here, too, she’d whisper. Then she’d open her bag and sneak me a squashed biscuit bar. Present from the dinosaur! she’d hiss. But don’t let the guard see. I knew the bar was from her bag; they were the same bars we had at home. But her excitement was catching. And giggling and trying to eat behind her back so the guards didn’t see, it felt like the best treasure in the world.

  She was chasing me around the dining table with a fork. ‘Come on, it’s only broccoli, it’s not going to kill you, I promise!’ Her voice twanged in and out of my head as she read me to sleep. Her fingers would brush across my forehead to see whether I had a temperature.

  Most of all, I could feel her love weaving in and out of these scenes; it throbbed all over my body. Throbbed from my head to my heart to my belly to my toes, from me to you. The way it made me feel . . . Well, it was like drinking a cold glass of water when you’re really, really thirsty. It was better than enough. I thought it was the only thing we’d ever need.

  Call Report: Miss Nina Swainston to Lambeth Social Services 01.08.99

  [NB Nina is an ex-colleague of Miss Mitchell.]

  We always knew Jo was . . . Fragile. You never knew what mood she was going to be in from one moment to the next. One moment, she’d be showering you in hugs, the next she’d break down in tears and declare herself a terrible human being if you asked why she hadn’t processed such-and-such an invoice. Having worked with her for over a decade, I suppose I took something of a motherly role with her; I regularly babysat for little Beth and helped her out in all sorts of other ways. Despite all that, I wouldn’t say that I knew her. Not really. Whenever she seemed on the brink of opening up, she’d hurry away. But she had a certain spark about her – a liveliness and creativity which is hard to find these days (or, indeed, any days). When she wasn’t bouncing off the walls or slumped in her chair, she was an excellent worker; very speedy and productive. That’s why I persevered with her even as she was alienating other staff members left, right and centre; ‘Give her a chance,’ I’d say, but they’d tell me I was soft. She was a crazy bitch. She was taking me for a ride, etc., etc.

  The loss of funding was a blow to all of us, of course it was, but with Jo . . . I suppose it made me realize just how close she was to the edge. I’m lucky enough to be able to retire, and the others have plenty of cushions, financial and otherwise, but the thing about Joanna is, she has no cushions. I’ve tried my best to be one for her but there are limits.

  For weeks after we shut down, I heard nothing from her. I called, left messages on her answer machine, but she never picked up, never called back. Eventually I went round. I was . . . Shocked doesn’t begin to cover it. The house had degenerated from a cosy chaos to an absolute pigsty. More worrying was her reaction to my visit: ‘What are you doing here? Why have you been calling? What do you want?’ etc., etc. I tried to calm her down by making a cup of tea but there was no fresh milk in the fridge; no fresh anything. When I asked if she was feeling OK, she said, ‘Oh, Nina, there are some things a cup of tea will never bloody solve.’ I said that was no way to talk to an old friend who was worried about her, who wanted to help. She then went off on one about how no one wanted to help, they just wanted to ‘get’ her. When I tried to reason with her, she grew so aggressive I had to leave. The other girls from work say she’s been this way for years; it’s me who’s refused to see. I don’t think so. Until now, she was close to the edge, but she was on the right side of it. Now, she’s fallen off. She’s fallen right off. I tried a few more times to go round but she wouldn’t let me in. I know getting social services involved doesn’t always make things better, but I can’t think what else to do. I hope you can help this woman in need.

  Nina came back to me, too: all floating skirts, warm freckled arms and bangles. I remembered the time she fell asleep, and I drew a dot-to-dot between her freckles. My mum wrenched me off her and started to tell me off. ‘Nina won’t love you any more if you do that!’ she yelled. But Nina put her hand on my mum’s hand. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said, ‘it’s the best use anyone’s ever found for those freckles.’ Then she told my mum not to worry, she loved me like the granddaughter she didn’t yet have.

  ‘Nina’s a good person,’ my mum would say, when she’d gone, ‘but that doesn’t mean you can do whatever you want when you’re with her. You’ve got to be careful.’ I couldn’t read the face she made when she said the word ‘careful’. It scared me.

  ‘Will you promise? Will you promise me to be careful?’ I said I would, even though I didn’t know how. When I asked her what it was I needed to be careful of, she got angry. She’d shout about the bad people and then the shouts would melt into sobs and I wouldn’t know what she was sobbing about. When the sobs finally dried up, I’d be glad. The problem was, she’d go quiet for so long, it seemed like she was dead. I’d push open her bedroom door and crawl across the floor and on to her bed. Sometimes, she’d be shuddering with tears. Other times, she’d just lie there. Gradually I clocked that when she was like this, she wasn’t alive in the way people were meant to be alive, but she wasn’t dead, either.

  Whenever I asked why we didn’t have other family the way my friends had other family, she’d say that no one was like anyone else. Other people’s families were good; ours was bad. ‘I only want you to be surrounded by people who are good.’

  Some of my friends’ mums
would be ‘good’ for a while; every now and then another ‘good’ person would come to the flat or we’d go to theirs. But – be careful, be careful – they never stayed good for long. If I asked to go round to my friend’s house, Mum would get angry. ‘I’m not letting you near that woman! Not after what she did to me!’ Only I never knew what these people had done. ‘Your mum’s really scary,’ my friends would say to me. Part of me would be thinking, yes, you’re right. But the other part, the louder part, it got angry. My mum’s the best mum in the world! Shut up. It’s your mum who’s bad. The truth was, I didn’t know what turned good people to bad; all I knew was that it could happen any time, and it was scary. It was better to keep my distance, just in case.

  Nina was the only person I didn’t feel scared around. The only person I thought would stay good for good.

  But when we didn’t see her for ages, and I asked why, and my mum got angry and said she’d turned Bad, that was when I knew it wasn’t just Nina who’d gone bad, it was our whole life. Mum not going to work had turned into Mum not getting out of bed for days then staying out of bed for days, scribbling and drawing and talking all day and all night, only to collapse back into bed.