by Jane Renshaw
How could they?
Deirdre wouldn’t be coming at all today if Ruth hadn’t passed their suitability tests with flying colours. All the screening had already been done. Every time she’d stepped into that aggressively cheerful little room at the Linkwood Adoption Agency, all red walls and big Impressionist prints, she’d braced herself for Deirdre to greet her not with a smile but with a look of barely concealed disgust and a cold ‘I’m sorry, but something has come up in the background checks’ – but that had never happened.
Of course it hadn’t.
There was no way the background checks could have uncovered anything.
The home visit was just the final step in the process; the rubber-stamping of the approval of Alec and Ruth Morrison as potential adopters.
She looked down the little single-track road. After the night’s high winds, the tarmac was carpeted with a fresh fall of coppery beech leaves – all colours of copper, from newly polished to dull and tarnished. The huge old beech trees along one side of the road arched their pale, thick branches up and up against the bright china blue of the sky, and on the other side a stubbly field rose from the hedge up the slope to the plantation. There was no sound, except for a blackbird somewhere in the wood, chattering a complaint.
It was beautiful.
It was going to be fine.
Deirdre Jack could have no concerns about Ruth or she’d already have voiced them. Her main worry was probably the carbon footprint she was leaving in coming all the way out here from Glasgow – although Alec would say she probably felt carbon footprints didn’t apply to people with socially responsible jobs. Maybe she was enjoying the drive. Singing along to Emmylou Harris or Nancy Griffiths. Looking forward to spending a pleasant morning in pleasant company.
Deirdre was coming not to interrogate them again but to check out their home, the environment in which they were proposing to bring up a child.
Which was beautiful.
Which was perfect.
Wasn’t it?
It was going to be fine?
She looked up at the sky, an unbroken blue apart from one high wispy little cloud.
Did all this baseless worrying have at its root her desperation to adopt a child, her fear that she was going to be knocked back at the final hurdle, or was it her brain’s way of telling her that this wasn’t right? That this wasn’t what she wanted at all?
She walked a little way along the road. Amongst the beech leaves were scatterings of crushed beech nuts where tyres had run over them. All the trees that would never be. She stooped to pick up an intact nut and close her hand on it, its spikes prickling her palm.
And now she was there at her side.
Ruth had known she would come, her face turned up to her with a smile – rosy cheeks, a woolly red hat, blue and green stripy gloved hands full of the brightest leaves for the collage they’d make later at the kitchen table.
‘Darling,’ she whispered, like a mad woman. ‘No. No more.’
She had only ever confided in one person about her daydreams of this unborn, unnamed child – and that one person had been Sara, the woman she’d been paired with by the agency, who had adopted three children through them. She’d been so lovely, Sara, a woman made to be a mother if anyone was, and Ruth had found herself confessing that she fantasised, regularly, about an unconceived, unborn, never-to-be child.
Sara had smiled, and nodded, and told her she used to do the same.
‘I’m so scared,’ Ruth had gulped. ‘I’m so scared I won’t love the little girl we adopt as I would have loved my own.’ Scared about other things too, of course, but those fears she would never, ever blurt out to anyone, let alone a virtual stranger.
Sara had grabbed Ruth’s hand. ‘Oh no no no, you mustn’t worry about that! She will be your own, and you’ll love her so much. You’ll love her as you’ve never loved anyone in your life. You’ll love her just as much, maybe even more than if she’d been biologically yours.’
But those were just words, a politically correct recitation of what you were meant to feel.
Maybe it was fifteen years of living with Alec, or maybe it was the pragmatism that nurses seemed to have inbuilt or to develop, but she had a horrible suspicion that blood ties mattered. They were the basis of life, after all, of evolution, of animal behaviour. Human behaviour. Her own experience of the neonatal unit had shown her just how strong, how primeval, was the bond between a mother and her child. Her own child. Her own flesh and blood child.
The little stranger who was out in the world somewhere waiting for Ruth, waiting to be loved as every child deserved to be loved, was counting on her to love her like a flesh and blood mother would.
‘Go,’ she said. ‘Go.’
She threw the beech nut to the verge. And her never-to-be little girl flung out her arms and ran, full tilt, red wellies kicking through the leaves, running away from her down the road without a backward glance.
‘Go.’
Stupid stupid stupid, to be crying. To be thinking that if there was a heaven, if by some remote chance it existed, surely there must be a place in it for her own child, a place where all the never-to-be children waited for their mothers.
So stupid.
But as the little figure blurred and faded, as she found a tissue in her pocket and blew her nose and laughed at herself, as she looked back at the road, at nothing, she let her never-to-be mother’s love fill her heart and spill over and speak itself aloud, just once, to the empty air:
‘I would have loved you... I would have loved you mo–’
But before the last word had quite left her lips, she had put a hand to her mouth to stop it. The woman Deirdre was about to meet would never think that. Ruth Morrison would be horrified at the very thought that an adopted child could be any less loved than a biological one. Less wanted. Less valued. Less worthy.
Such a possibility would never even cross Ruth Morrison’s mind.
Chapter 5
‘Now, Mrs Johnson,’ says the sheriff. ‘I realise that this is a difficult and emotional time for you. But please keep your language under control and respect the court, or I’ll have to ask you to stop and sit back down. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, My Lady.’ I set Shrek on the wide bit of the sheep pen in front of me. ‘I’m sorry about before. I’m just that wound up, you know?’
I cannae look at Mair or I’ll lose it. I concentrate on Mr Lyall’s eyes behind his glasses as he goes, ‘I believe you’ve prepared a statement to read to the court.’
‘Aye. And it’s all my own work by the way.’ I fold out my statement and give a wee cough. ‘Our Bekki means the world to us. She’s our wee angel and we all love her to bits. She should be with us, her family, where she belongs. We may not have much money but we have plenty of love to give. Bekki has had a difficult time with Shannon-Rose and she needs the security of her family around her, not strangers who don’t know her and don’t love her, and who can never love her like we do.’ Oh God. Oh fuck. I’ve got to stop. I cannae even breathe.
‘You’re doing very well, Mrs Johnson. Just take your time.’ He’s a nice wee man, Mr Lyall.
‘Aye. I’m sorry. This is a bit hard.’
‘Of course it is.’
‘Every grandma loves her grandkids, but Bekki and I have a special bond because of Shannon-Rose being the way she is. I always stepped in when I could, but often Shannon-Rose wouldn’t let me in her flat and when I went to her social worker she said there was nothing they could do about that.’ I heave in another breath. ‘We aren’t in the best of circumstances financially and as a family we’ve had a hard time of it lately, but we are turning our lives around. I’ve got a wee job at the Co-op, and my manager Mrs Shaughnessy has written me a reference which Ms Mair said she never got, but it was sent recorded delivery and Mrs Shaughnessy has the tracking document to prove it… She’ll give it you if you want, the document that proves the receptionist at Social Work signed for it, so she did –’
‘P
lease just continue with your statement, Mrs Johnson,’ goes the sheriff.
Mr Lyall’s nodding at me, so I take another breath.
‘The reference says: “Lorraine Johnson is a valued and well-liked member of the Co-op team. She is a very conscientious worker and can be relied on to perform any task in the store to an exceptional standard. She is particularly popular with the older customers, sometimes even helping them carry bags to the bus stop, and with children, with whom she has an obvious connection, never too busy to chat and raise a smile. I join with the rest of the staff in hoping she will be successful in gaining custody of her granddaughter Bekki.”’
Mr Lyall nods. ‘Well… That’s a glowing reference if ever I heard one. So, Dr Fernandez’s assessment of your IQ as low enough to put you in the category of “learning disability” is perhaps wide of the mark, given your success in your new job?’
‘“Dr” Fernandez never visited us. This is the first time I’ve laid eyes on the bitch.’
‘Mrs Johnson,’ goes the sheriff.
‘Sorry. On the lady in question. She never interviewed us. Ms Mair never visited us except for that one time. That’s a pack of lies in her report about three more visits by the way. And she must have turned round and told “Dr” Fernandez a pack of lies about us, and “Dr” Fernandez put them in her report, making out she’d interviewed us. She never.’
Mr Lyall frowns. ‘I see.’
‘My neighbour’s CCTV proves it. Sonia McLeckie’s CCTV. That proves Ms Mair only came the once, and there was no one with her. On the other dates she claims to have come, and the date she claims to have come with “Dr” Fernandez, she never.’ And now I do eyeball Mair, and the bitch sitting next her. Mair’s got a beamer, and Fernandez’s got a face on her like she’s chewing a wasp.
Gotcha.
They’re not to know Sonia McLeckie wouldnae piss on me if I was on fire.
‘I also sent Ms Mair a reference from one of the teachers at my old school, which she also apparently never got. I’ve got that here an’ all?’
‘Please read it, Mrs Johnson.’
I cough. ‘Mr Ingrams taught maths at my school. He’s been retired for years and he’s eighty-odd but he still remembers me. “Lorraine Johnson, or Slorrach as she was then, was a bright and likeable pupil who, despite many difficulties at home, more than managed to keep up with her peers in class. She was in the top stream for maths, and it was hoped that she would stay on for her Highers and perhaps apply to university. Sadly, in S4, due to unfortunate circumstances, she missed a lot of school and ended up leaving without any qualifications. However, this was in no way a reflection of Lorraine’s ability or potential.” Aye? Let’s get that wee windae-licker in the top maths class for a wee joke, is it?’
Mr Lyall goes, ‘My goodness, Mrs Johnson – I wonder how many of us in this court can say they were in the top maths stream at school? Personally, I never did get to grips with quadratic equations… So, I would venture to suggest that it has never – until now, that is – been suggested that you might have a “learning disability”?’ And he turns and eyeballs Fernandez.
You didnae need to be Albert Einstein to get in the top maths class at Govan High, right enough, but I goes, ‘Just because I’m fat and that and live in a scheme doesnae mean I’ve no got a brain on me.’
‘Well quite… Now, Mrs Johnson. If we might address the medical assessment carried out by Dr Reid...’
Old bugger was jakied by the way. Bell’s Original syping out every fucking orifice. Here’s me up on the couch and here’s this old jakie coming at me with a massive fucking needle giving it Let’s try again shall we?
But what bastard’s gonnae believe that?
‘Medical assessment, is it? Medical assessment? Weighed and measured and jagged like we was ffff… like we was animals, and not so much as a How is you? I’d “difficulty” getting off the couch because I’d a swalt knee from tripping over the dug and cracking it off of Captain America that the kids had left lying, not because I’m too obese to get off my arse.’
I get up, sit down, get up.
‘Aye? If Dr Reid had asked I’d have telt him I’d a bad knee, but he never. And that’s a lie an’ all, what Mair said about the cigarette smoke. I dinnae let emdy smoke in the front lounge. Or near the bairns.’
‘I see. And Ms Mair’s other remarks about your household…’
‘Pack of lies! Jed and the boys never threatened her or “assaulted” her. They were raging and they might have been swearing and that, but they never touched her! The condom by the settee, aye there maybe was one, Travis and Mackenzie are a pair of wee mingers but at least they use condoms, aye? Most young ones wouldnae be that responsible?’
‘I fear that’s only too true.’
‘And Bekki had run off into the garden because Ms Mair came in all confrontational and Bekki was feart. Ran off and hid. The cuts and bruises on her were down to Shannon-Rose. She might have been malnourished, maybe, but that’s because Shannon-Rose didnae feed her nothing but bacon rolls and chips. She’d been getting plenty peas and carrots and that at ours, and she liked a wee banana mashed up with blueberries in yoghurt before she went her bed.’
‘So the injuries and malnourishment had occurred prior to Bekki’s arrival in your home?’
‘That’s correct.’
‘And as for the – um – dirty nappies in the living room…?’
‘That Rotty was a right wee rascal. He’d pulled them out the bin, is all I can think. The dog’s dead now so it is. And the state of the place, aye it was bowfin’ but I was incapacitated with my knee and none of those ones bother their arses, but now I’m back on my feet that house is f-spotless.’
‘I’m sure that’s the case, Mrs Johnson. And I’m very glad to hear that you’re restored to health. Now, if I could turn to the meetings and hearings Ms Mair alleges you failed to attend?’
‘We was never told! Well, aye, twice we was. One time we did attend a meeting but that load of bastards widnae listen to what we was saying so we may as well no have been there. The other meeting we got telt about, we got to the place, right, and here they’d only given us the wrong time! The meeting was over. We didnae know anything about the other meetings. Ms Mair never let us know about them.’
‘Ms Mair says letters were sent to you.’
‘Aye right.’
‘You never received them?’
‘She’s at it! We never!’
‘I see.’
‘She. Gives. Me. The boak, so she does.’ I turn and give Mair evils. ‘How you can live with yourself hen, coming in here giving it I did this and I did that when you never, and It’s in my report like that makes it fucking gospel –’
‘Mrs Johnson!’ goes the sheriff, and at the same time Mr Lyall goes, ‘Thank you, Mrs Johnson.’
Mr Lyall sits down, and Fwah gets up and takes a look round about like he’s saying Can yous believe this gobby cow?
‘Mrs Johnson.’ He says my name like it tastes bad. ‘When Ms Mair – a social worker with almost twenty years’ experience – said your household was “chaotic”, wasn’t that the truth?’
‘No it wisnae. Aye we’ve a big family, but we get by fine so we do.’
‘Isn’t it the case that your household is one in which casual violence has been normalised?’
I goes ‘Eh?’, which makes it sound like I dinnae get what casual violence being normalised means, but I cannae think what to say.
‘Your husband Jed, your sons Ryan and Travis, and of course your daughter Shannon-Rose all have criminal records and have served or are serving time in prison for murder, other violent crimes and/or drug dealing. Is that not the case?’
‘Aye, but –’
‘Isn’t it the case that your husband Jed has been convicted of numerous crimes of violence? In one particularly disturbing case, didn’t he keep his victim, a rival dealer, locked in a dog’s cage for a week in his own filth, sever three of his fingers and both ear lobes, and make him eat
them? He enjoys torturing his victims, doesn’t he, Mrs Johnson?’
‘Aye, when he was young he was maybe a mad bastard right enough, but now he’s sakeless so he is.’
‘Sakeless?’
‘Harmless, aye?’
‘In 2010, the police were called to your address – 34 Meadowlands Crescent – that is your address, is it not? – a total of 54 times. Jed and your son Travis are both currently subject to ASBOs, and Travis wears an ankle tag. There have been numerous complaints to both Glasgow City Council and the police about you and your family from your neighbours, one of whom has described you as a “family from hell”. Do you think that’s a fair description?’
I open my gob, but nothing comes out.
So help me I’ll swing for him.
So help me I’ll swing for that cow Sonia McLeckie.
‘All right. If we could turn to your daughter Shannon-Rose, who is currently awaiting sentencing for murder. If and when Shannon-Rose is returned to the community, how do you propose to keep Bekki safe from her? From her own mother?’
‘Shannon-Rose is a mentalist. You think we’d let her anywhere near Bekki?’
‘I’m afraid I’ve no idea, Mrs Johnson, what you’ll do. And that, I would venture to suggest, is the whole problem.’
I cannae think of a fucking thing to say.
Not a fucking thing.
‘Thank you,’ says Fwah.
‘You may step down,’ says the sheriff.
I feel like I’m gonnae boak. I snatch up Shrek. As I step out the sheep pen I catch my heel against the edge of it and hyter. I cannae breathe. I cannae look at Connor or Carly or Mandy.
I’ve let Bekki down.
I’ve let that English bastard kick my arse from here to fucking Christmas.
Then Fwah goes, ‘My Lady, if I might recall Ms Mair for a moment.’
Mair gets up and as she goes past me she gives me a wee smile.
I hyter to my chair and sit with my head down. Connor pats my arm. ‘That was ace, Maw. You were ace.’
‘I was shite.’
I shouldnae have let the bastard get to me. I should’ve kept the heid, eh? Should’ve got my brain in gear and not just stood there with my gob hanging open like a schemey wee retard.