The Woman Before Me

by Ruth Dugdall

  “What else?”

  “There was a baby chair in the room.”

  “A baby chair? Are you sure?” I sense Mum is with me, warning me to leave it.

  “Yeah, you know—one of those bouncy ones. It was pink with yellow stars on it. And a little bar with plastic rattles, just like for a new baby. ”

  “Pink, you say? And new?” The spirits are noisy in my head, telling me to stop delving into things that can only hurt me. “Which is funny,” Janie scratches her head, “’cos in that photo in her office her daughter looks way too old for a chair like that.”

  “Office?”

  “In the probation officer’s room. That photo of her daughter, Amelia. She isn’t a baby anymore.”

  “No.” I feel strange, a bit dizzy.

  “You think Cate Austin’s got another kid?”

  “Janie, ” I say, carefully, “that house is not Cate Austin’s.”

  She frowns, “whose is it then?”

  “A friend. She must have had another baby.” I rub my temples, and take a few deep breaths. “You’ve done well, Janie.”

  Janie beams at me, always glad to be of service, and I stagger out of her cell, into my own, and collapse onto the bed.

  Think, Rose, think. A new baby. Does she have red-gold hair?

  Rita and Mum are with me, in the cell. Warning me.

  32

  Tick, tock, tick, tock. The minutes pass until the parole board meets.

  Cate Austin’s parole report is the key to my freedom. She must recommend my release or I won’t get my parole. I need to show her I’m reformed.

  I’m getting to know her better, thanks to Janie snooping in her office. I know her daughter is called Amelia, and she is four or five years old. I know there are no photos of any man. And now it sounds like she might have fucked Officer Burgess if he’s telling the truth about her going ‘all the way.’ She should’ve known better than to go with a schoolboy like him, who couldn’t wait to start boasting. Why are women so weak when it comes to sex? She has to be all professional in the prison, but her personal life is a mess, just like Emma’s was.

  I’m putting the pieces together and forming a picture. So, she needs a man. And I know that Amelia had an accident. Cate having a child could be helpful. She’ll understand how it would feel, to lose a baby. Two babies.

  She seems so pulled in, so tight, that I can’t imagine her blooming with pregnancy or nursing a baby. I didn’t imagine there could be any softness there.

  After Joel was born I was all soft flesh, all rounded and plump like some medieval wet nurse. But that soon changed. When he died, the fat melted off me, like my bones were hot irons. I never regained the weight, and even now my hips jut into the thin mattress in the night, my belly sunk in resignation. But it’s my breasts that suffered the most. Once plump with milk, they hang limp and empty.

  33

  Black Book Entry

  “We think his heart just gave way. I’m so sorry.”

  It was just one hour after Joel’s death and Dr. Cross was talking. The door to my room was closed, the blind down. Luke had been taken from me and returned to his mother. You’d been called straightaway, and had arrived from work flustered and scared. You were at my side, your sweaty hand gripped vice-like to mine. You couldn’t make sense of it, refused to believe it. “But he was getting better,” you kept saying. “He was out of danger.”

  Dr. Cross paused to let what she was saying sink in. “We thought so, yes. It was looking positive. Before we get the post mortem report it’s difficult to say, but it’s likely he had a congenital defect. A weak heart.”

  You were shaking your head in disbelief. “But he was in intensive care. He was being looked after. How could you have missed something like that?”

  “We couldn’t have detected it without invasive tests, and Joel was too weak for that. It’s likely that his heart just gave way. The staff did all they could to resuscitate him. Of course we will know more after the autopsy.”

  “No,” you said, your voice breaking up, “for God’s sake his little body has been through enough.”

  But the doctor was adamant, her calm voice unequivocal. “It will mean we can establish the exact cause of death.”

  “What difference does it make?” You slumped onto the bed, anger giving way to grief, and began to sob. “We’ve still lost our son.” You buried into me, your grief wracking my body, and I wanted to push you away. This is your fault, I thought. As you leaned against me, sobbing, I couldn’t feel anything for you but anger. Your unruly hair scratched my face; your tears dampened my neck. But my eyes were dry.

  They left us like that for a long time, as you tried to make sense of our son’s death.

  “I’ll never forgive myself,” you said. I would never forgive you either.

  There was a light tapping on the door and the door slowly opened. It was Nurse Hall. She came to us, putting her arm around us both.

  “I’m so very, very sorry.”

  I could hear in her voice that she’d been crying, and in my surprise I looked at her face. Her eyes were red. She sat on the bed next to me, her hand on mine, your head on my shoulder. We sat like that, the three of us, listening to our own thoughts, none of us knowing what to say. Suddenly there was a buzz and Nurse Hall pulled apart from us to check her pager. She read it, switched it off. “They’re ready for us.” We slowly stood, and Nurse Hall held the door as we trudged into the corridor. She took my elbow, supporting me, and we began the terrible journey to see Joel.

  They’d put Joel in a side room, in a crib. He was wrapped in a white fleecy blanket. His face was pale and slick, like a plastic doll. You held onto the side of the crib for support, your sobs rising again as you stared at our dead son. Nurse Hall stroked your back, in tears herself. You leaned in to kiss Joel. When your lips touched that impassive cheek, I thought you would collapse. Nurse Hall steadied you, helped you to the chair, and I too kissed Joel. His skin felt warm. I placed my cheek to his, desperate to feel breath.

  Please, God, let it be a mistake. Let him wake up.

  But there was no God to listen. No miracle. Just a chasm of nothingness. There was no meaning to anything. I wondered if my mum was watching.

  We sat with Joel’s body for about an hour, and I knew it was way past Nurse Hall’s time to leave work but she didn’t move to go. I appreciated that.

  “I want to go home,” I said.

  Nurse Hall nodded. “Of course. Would you like me to go and pack your bags? I could complete the discharge paperwork.”

  “Yes. Yes, please.”

  When Nurse Hall returned she had packed all my belongings into a plastic bag. She led us out of the room, and back down the corridor. We passed the neo-natal unit, but I didn’t look in. We passed the maternity wards.

  It slowly dawned on me that we were nearing Emma’s room. To my horror, I saw the door was open.

  I couldn’t cope with this, I needed to slow everything down, and my feet began to drag. I needed to make you stop.

  We were getting closer, and I could see Emma, and her husband. He was holding Luke, showing him a small toy. Emma was smoothing a skirt out on the bed, carefully folding it, placing it into a suitcase. Her husband leaned over to her and said something, and she kissed Luke, smiling. She was preparing to leave as well, but she was taking her baby with her.

  You hadn’t seen her yet, but I knew that if you did, if you saw Luke, it would all be over for me. In just a few seconds my whole world would collapse, and still each step took us closer to danger.

  She was picking up her bag now, in moments she would step into the corridor, just as we reached her room.

  Like a sail crashing down, I dropped to the floor.

  I crouched, doubled over my heart in agony. You cradled me, lifted my hair from my face, as you soothed and stroked.

  It was moments. Only moments. But when I came to my feet I saw Emma’s back, saw her husband hold the door open for her, as she left. I thanked whoever h
ad been looking down on me that she hadn’t looked back. I thanked Mum and Rita that you hadn’t seen Luke.

  34

  When Jason Clark opened the door on Monday morning his hair was still wet from the shower and his shirt half unbuttoned. Cate checked her watch, wondering if she was early, but it was gone ten. He stood aside to let her enter, pointing upstairs. “You know where to go.” The last time she had seen him he had been crying on the floor, but his face betrayed no memory of this.

  He followed her to the lounge, which was neater than the last time she’d been here. The CDs were filed away and the table clear of clutter. “Do you want a drink?”

  “Coffee, please.”“Black, one sugar, right?”“Thanks.”He disappeared into the kitchen and she heard him moving around, the click of a boiled kettle. As she waited, she took her notebook and pen from her bag and placed them on the table.

  He appeared in the room, holding two steaming mugs. “Don’t spill it this time.”

  “I won’t. Sorry about that.” Cate looked down at the carpet, where a dark stain showed. “You were pretty upset when I left.”

  “Yeah, well.”

  “You said I shouldn’t try and open a can of worms. What did you mean?”

  “Just what I said. Sometimes it’s best to let sleeping dogs lie.”

  “I’m afraid that isn’t possible. The parole board is meeting next week and I need to ask questions to write the report.”

  “And Rose needs a good report from you to get released.”

  “Yes.” Cate blew the heat from her drink.

  “Will it be good?” he fixed her with a hard stare.

  “It wouldn’t be appropriate for me to tell you that, even if I had made a decision yet.” Cate used her coffee cup like smokers use cigarettes, sipping between sentences and using her mug as a barrier.

  “See, that really pisses me off. You come into my home, ask all these questions, but you won’t tell me anything. For God’s sake, she’s been locked up for four years. Isn’t that enough?”

  His voice was raised and his shoulders tense. Cate put her mug on the table.

  “Rose was found guilty of manslaughter. I need to assess if she has sufficient insight into her offence to accept full responsibility, to be as sure as I can be that she’ll never offend again.”

  “It was an accident,” Jason’s eyes welled and she remembered how last time he had swung from upset to anger. “She’s suffered enough.”

  “I have to be certain that there is no risk of future offending.”

  “Of course there isn’t any bloody risk!”

  “Well, I need to be certain. That’s why I have to ask these questions. I need to get a handle on what led her to stalk Emma. You said that losing Joel was the tragedy that triggered her obsession, but I also need to consider if Emma was just a trigger, the seeds were sown in her childhood.”

  “Christ, you’re even digging into that? Her mum committing suicide when she was a girl. Is that what you mean?”

  “Yes, it is. Insight into her behaviour is crucial. If Rose understands why she did it, she can recognise the signs if they happen again. And seek help.”

  “You people!” He leaned towards her, his face so close she could smell his breath. He’d been drinking. “Why do you do it? I mean, what’s in it for you? Power, is that it? I hate the prison. Can’t stand visiting. But you . . . you’ve chosen it.”

  Cate leaned away, “I didn’t exactly choose it. I think it’s just something I have to do. And anyway, aren’t you making a choice too?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means you’re still with Rose. A lot of relationships don’t survive prison.”

  His breathing was ragged and he looked at Cate with bitterness. “I’ve just been pulled along by events. When Rose was arrested it was a shock. I just got bogged down keeping journalists away and speaking with solicitors, keeping it together at work, that sort of thing. It never felt like a choice. Just like you, I think it’s what I have to do.”

  “That would be hard for anyone.”

  He toyed with her pen lying on the table in front of them. “I didn’t have time to think, which made it easier. The trial was the worst part. Speaking in the witness box knocked me for six. I don’t know how Rose was so calm. I kept breaking out in a sweat. And when I saw Emma . . . poor Emma.” His eyes welled with tears and he looked away.

  Cate thought about Emma, her terrible loss. “It would have been worse for her than anyone.”

  He stood up, moved to the window so all she saw was the outline of his back, the rays of sun making it hard for her to look at him.

  “I hadn’t seen her in a while, and I was shocked. The last time I saw her was just before . . . before it happened. She had always been so beautiful. So—I don’t know—vibrant. But in the courtroom she didn’t seem to know who I was. She couldn’t make it to the witness box without staggering. Her husband managed well enough, though, the bastard. He stared at Rose the whole time he was giving his evidence.” Jason turned and the sun made him a silhouette.

  “He was acting like Rose was a murderer. He said as much in the witness box. Thank God the jury didn’t believe him.”

  “Did you never doubt her?”

  His voice rose, “it was an accident.”

  He reached out to her, grabbing her wrist with his hand, “I need to show you something.”

  Pulling her arm free, she stood up. “I think I’d better be going, you seem agitated . . .”

  “If you want to know what’s going on in Rose’s head you need to see this!” Jason grabbed her wrist, led her down the hall, past the kitchen and bathroom, to the closed door at the end of the hall. She felt her heart hammering in her chest, and wondered where he was taking her but let herself be led to the closed door.

  He slowly opened it.

  The room beyond gave her a shock. It was a baby’s nursery. A cherry wood cot, with all its bedding neatly folded. A rocking chair, a changing table. An unopened pack of nappies. Most heartbreaking of all was a row of baby clothes on tiny pastel hangers. The clothes still had their tags attached. In the corner was a pram with the distinctive beige and cream check of Burberry.

  They both stood in silence, taking in the perfection of the room.

  “I’ll never forgive myself,” he murmured, as if to himself.

  “What do you mean?”

  He snapped his head to her, as if remembering she was there. “She wouldn’t let me redecorate. I wanted to get rid of all the baby stuff, but she wouldn’t hear of it. Rose used to spend hours in here, just staring into space. She would sit in that chair, holding a toy, or looking at the clothes. I thought it comforted her. Now I think it made her worse. I shouldn’t have let her dwell on it.”

  Cate searched for a response, knowing that whatever she said would be inadequate.

  “Look at this room, how she’s kept it so perfect. She wouldn’t even let me get rid of the pram. How could a woman with this much love in her, harm a baby?” Jason turned to Cate. “Rose loved Luke as much as she loved Joel.” He looked her in the eye.

  “She would never harm him.”

  35

  Black Book Entry

  After Joel died we tried to pick up the pieces, but nothing made sense anymore. When the phone rang I ignored it, because the only words I wanted to hear could never be said. I didn’t open any post, as the only news I wanted to hear was impossible—that Joel was alive. Each morning my first thought was that he was gone.

  You were still doing occasional shifts at Auberge, but business was so quiet you’d taken on a part-time job in a record shop. You liked it, being surrounded by loud music that deafened your thoughts, and you would go to work each morning, leaving me in bed and come home to find me still there. I didn’t care. I had nothing to say to you. You had no idea how to cope with the stranger I’d become, so you left me for the world you understood, where music and chit chat were the order of the day.

  I got into the habit
of sitting in the nursery where Joel would have slept. The cot was made up with fitted blue sheets and baby blankets. I’d bought tiny blue and white babygros, which still smelt of new cotton, not of warm skin and baby lotion like they should. I couldn’t throw any of it away. I took the blackbird nest from the back of my knicker drawer and carried it to the nursery, gently placing it in the cot, nestled against the jointed teddy bear.

  I sat in that sterile room hour after hour until I heard your key in the door. I always pretended to be asleep but you came up and sat next to me, stroking my face. I knew you were trying, but I wouldn’t let you reach me. It felt like a betrayal of Joel, to let anything in my heart but grief. What I remember most is the loneliness, as I sat through the long days nursing a blanket stolen from Joel’s hospital cot. It still smelled of him, though less each day. I would never wash it.

  I hadn’t been out of the flat since the funeral. You gently commented on the mess and the lack of food in the fridge; we were living on takeaways and whatever could be foraged from the cupboards. But I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t do anything.

  Three weeks after we buried Joel, I forced myself to get up, steeled myself to sit at the breakfast table despite the tiredness in my arms and legs. You were pleased to see me, and gripped my hand. Then you looked at my baggy pyjamas. I was still wearing maternity clothes, which now swamped me. It was all I could do to butter a piece of toast, which I had no desire to eat.

  “Maybe, Rose,” you said softly, “it would be an idea if you saw a doctor.”

  I occupied myself in scraping the butter on the toast. “I saw plenty at the hospital.”

  A beat of a pause. “Not that kind of doctor, pet. A psychiatrist. I think we need help.”

  But you didn’t mean ‘we.’ You meant me. How could you think that I could ever see a psychiatrist? I wasn’t afraid of the drugs—I’d had those in hospital and welcomed their temporary numbing effect. But an ordinary doctor could give me those. To see a shrink meant I would have to talk. And not just about Joel, but about other things, too. Things better left hidden. Things I had kept buried so deep all these years that I’d be damned before I’d let someone dig them out of me. I would have to talk about my childhood, about Mum. About Peter and Mrs. Carron. About Auntie Rita.