The Mountain in My Shoe

by Louise Beech

  Gosh, I’ve been filling in lots of your reports and care plans so I haven’t written in your book for a while. I have seen you lots though and you are doing very well in spite of the circumstances.

  Since you left Maureen and Michael’s home you have been staying at a children’s home called Redcliffe. This is a temporary thing until a suitable foster placing can be found. We know all of this can take such a long time.

  Next week you are going to stay with a lovely lady called Julia, who is a new foster carer and very keen to look after a child under ten years of age. We hope you will be with her until it is decided whether you can return to your mum. Your care plan is open (which means you might still go back to your family) and this can be good, but unfortunately it also means lots of change.

  We don’t include all the endless reports in these books, but sometimes I do make copies of ones I think might matter to you in the future. There are ones that give you information you might need as an adult and ones that might explain better than I could how or why something in particular has happened to you.

  As I promised and didn’t get around to doing (gosh, I’m forgetful sometimes!) I have printed out some more information about what we hope this book will do. I’ve stuck it in below.

  I will see you very soon.

  Jim Rogers

  Lifebook – Principles and Aims

  Every Looked-After Child is entitled to an accurate and chronological account of his or her early life. It should have enduring value and can be given to them when they reach adulthood, or sooner if preferable.

  A Lifebook helps every child to:

  Understand the background and history of their birth family.

  Know where they came from and develop a sense of identity.

  Understand why they are separated from their birth family, know who has cared for them and put their past into perspective.

  Build self-esteem.

  Express feelings.

  Help any care worker understand who/what is important to the child.

  The principles of the Lifebook are listed below:

  The child’s Lifebook belongs to them and should be readily available once they are of an age to read it.

  From the time a child becomes looked after they should have a photograph of their parents and siblings and important others.

  The best people to write in the Lifebook are those caring for them.

  The gathering of information and writing of history needs doing throughout the child’s time in care.

  Overall the responsibility should be with the social worker to ensure that accurate information is gathered and that Lifebook work is undertaken. Foster carers should provide memories for children they care for, and this practice needs to be extended to children in residential care. The Lifebook of a Looked-After Child should begin at birth and continue indefinitely, whether the child is returning home or not.

  10

  Bernadette

  Bernadette and Conor were chosen for each other. Matched like two dominoes. Something so predetermined probably shouldn’t work. Years ago, before Richard, Bernadette knew a girl whose marriage was arranged by her strict parents. It was a wretched partnership. The girl was unhappy, the husband brutal and rigid in his belief that she should bend to his will. Divorce was not an option. Nothing was an option – choice didn’t come into it. But whoever had joined Bernadette with Conor had startlingly perceptive judgement.

  Now Anne comes out of her house like a thin shadow and for the first time in five years hugs Bernadette. She surrenders to the affection and finds she is crying. Years of buried emotions flood out. They cry together.

  Then they go inside

  Despite the circumstances, it’s calm in Anne’s house. Not the calm people describe before a storm but the calm that comes when people are doing the things they should be.

  Even though September has been pleasant so far, a log fire burns in the hearth, flickering and spitting wood. Hand-crocheted blankets hang over worn sofas and pictures of children Bernadette knows are not all Anne’s line the mantelpiece. A box filled with Lego and cars and Star Wars characters sits near the TV, and in a neat pile – as though carefully placed – are a variety of Muhammad Ali DVDs.

  Bernadette has always loved how homely Anne makes her modest council house, how she caters to simple needs and so provides much more. It’s a place that has housed numerous children during the last fifteen years, many of whom have gone on to find permanent homes, either with their own families or via adoption. There is no better refuge for ten-year-old Conor, who’s lived everywhere; it is a respite from his travels, at least until his destination is known.

  ‘I just don’t know where he is,’ says Anne.

  ‘We’ll find him,’ insists Bernadette.

  Yvonne, Conor’s current social worker, is on the telephone. She’s steadily telling whoever it is that yes, they’ve done all the necessary searches – they have looked in every room and cupboard and loft, in outhouses and sheds and garages, knocked on doors in the street, and called all friends and family. Hearing the list, Bernadette realises she was more thorough about looking for the book than about considering where Richard might be.

  ‘It’s the police,’ Anne tells Bernadette.

  They go into the kitchen, which is just as welcoming as the lounge. Mismatched mugs hang from rows of hooks and frilled nets block the view of a concrete garden, the only place Anne’s touch hasn’t reached. Bernadette knows why. Anne’s second husband, Sean, died there seven years ago. While tending his beloved pigeons he had a huge heart attack. Anne found him, frozen like a garden statue.

  She and Bernadette only see each other alternate Saturdays, their friendship a result of Conor’s existence. Anne spoke of her late husband one day while they watched Conor chalking on the fence. She said that what was most cruel was how she’d had to wait so long for Sean, having been married previously to the wrong man. Since his death she has ignored the garden, not planted a flower or placed an ornament.

  What if Richard is dead?

  The thought comes to Bernadette like a news headline. What if death prevented his homecoming? Might the police be at the Tower Rise doors now? If they are, what can she do? Nothing. It will have to wait. Conor is just a child. She must stay here until he returns and absolutely not permit the dark thoughts about where he might be.

  When Conor is back she will return to whatever her life might be now.

  ‘We had to ring the police,’ says Anne, her voice soft, as if too much volume will make her cry again. She fills the kettle and switches it on: tea, always the comforter.

  ‘Of course.’ Bernadette touches Anne’s arm.

  ‘Conor’s just not anywhere. He left school as normal – I rang them and they said he did get into a bit of bother, messing about in lessons. But we all know that’s nothing out of the ordinary. He never went to Sophie’s house afterwards, like sometimes. She’s been ill, off school with a nasty tummy bug. He doesn’t go anywhere else, does he? He has other friends but they don’t invite him around.’ Anne pauses and says with effort, ‘He just didn’t come home.’

  ‘What about his mum?’

  ‘We tried Frances’ house but there’s no answer.’ Anne stirs the tea in the pot and replaces the lid with a gentle clink. ‘He wouldn’t be there, would he? He doesn’t know the way. He’s never gone without someone. You were the first one I called after I rang the people I was supposed to – the school, Sophie’s mum, Yvonne. You’re the one who really loves him.’

  Bernadette thinks back to that phone call – her confusion, all the missing things, her plan to leave in chaos. Now the strange calm of Anne’s home infects her and she says, ‘We’ll find him. I know it. I promise you we will.’

  Yvonne comes into the kitchen as Anne pours tea into one flowered, one blue and one checked mug.

  ‘The police are on their way,’ she tells them. Then to Bernadette, ‘Have you let BFL know?’

  ‘No, I…’ Bernadette didn’t think of it.
It’s one of the things she should do. A thing that, like making tea and calling the police and knocking on neighbours’ doors, will keep her busy and stop negative thoughts. She must let the agency know one of their children is missing.

  BFL is Befriend for Life, a local voluntary organisation that sets up willing, police-checked adults with children who are in care, so they can befriend and take them out occasionally. It offers respite to foster carers and home workers, but most of all it gives a vulnerable child a person who just focuses on them. People come in and out of the lives of children in care, but a BFL volunteer is a constant, meeting them regularly wherever they live. Bernadette has been such a friend to Conor for five years.

  ‘The office is closed now,’ she says. ‘But I’ll leave a message and they can call me here if they pick it up. Can I use the phone, Anne?’

  ‘Use my mobile,’ says Yvonne. ‘We need to keep the landline free. Just in case. Anne, did Conor have a phone with him?’

  ‘He doesn’t have one,’ says Anne, the regret apparent in her face. ‘I was going to get him one in a couple of months – for his birthday.’ She wraps her hands about the mug. ‘I shouldn’t have waited.’

  Bernadette leaves a quick message for Carole, the team leader at BFL, and gives the phone back to Yvonne. They drink their tea in silence.

  Bernadette thinks about all the times she’s been there, the cups of tea she’s had with Anne while Conor finishes getting ready or brings some drawing to show her before they go out. He’s exceptionally good; he shades and sketches like a much older child and copies images line for line. He always wants her to take something home, but of course she can’t.

  Richard knows nothing about Conor, her voluntary work.

  Five years ago, when Bernadette first heard of BFL and knew that befriending a child was exactly what she wanted to do, she also knew Richard well enough to imagine his response to the idea. He’d have said that it would be too much for her – especially after their recent loss – or that she belonged with him and not to a handful of unruly and needy children. Had she suggested that the God he trusted in said people should help others, it would have made no difference. Richard didn’t like his God used against him.

  So Bernadette trained as a volunteer in secret.

  Last week Conor gave her a sketch he had done of his class and she pretended to take it to hang on her wall. But secretly she gave it to Anne to put away, hoping that one day she’d get it back and be able to display it. That day is now here. She is leaving Richard, the ghost who isn’t there. Leaving the man who pretended a strange woman was his non-existent sister. Leaving her home of ten years. She’ll be able to hang whatever she wants on walls soon.

  ‘I should make more tea,’ says Anne.

  Bernadette asks a question that none of them want to face. ‘Where the hell do we think he is?’

  The coarse language surprises her. Richard doesn’t like swearing, says it is ugly and lazy, that Bernadette is not. She didn’t particularly swear when she met him, and after they married he chipped away at the remaining words, like a sculptor fashioning his latest piece. Now the words feel necessary and she feels free to say them.

  ‘Where the hell is he?’

  Like an answer, there is a knock on the door. Anne rushes to it, knocking her cup over in the dash. The spilt tea drips onto the kitchen lino like tears.

  A voice in the hallway. Female. Not Conor.

  Bernadette mops up the spillage and follows Yvonne into the lounge, where a uniformed woman is sitting on one of the sofas. She makes Bernadette feel old because she looks as though she’s barely finished secondary school. Her hair is neatly swept up and pinned, but one curl escapes behind her ear. Bernadette is sure she’s not aware of it.

  Anne is poking the fire and it flares again, angry. Her cheeks are damp and her hands tremble.

  Yvonne shakes the officer’s hand. ‘I’m Yvonne Jones – Conor’s social worker.’

  ‘PC French,’ the policewoman says.

  ‘I’m Bernadette Shaw – I volunteer for BFL.’

  They all sit, stiff and awkward as though on a first date. Bernadette is near enough to Anne to squeeze her hand in comfort. Conor’s favourite Star Wars character – Luke Skywalker – sits on top of all the toys as though he has climbed there.

  ‘So Conor is ten, yes?’ asks PC French.

  ‘Yes,’ says Anne. ‘Is his age relevant?’

  ‘Well, because he’s younger than twelve,’ says PC French, ‘he’s immediately classed as missing, not just absent. With an older child we do a risk assessment to see if they’re absent, as in they’ve gone off with friends or are just late home. But the risk levels for a vulnerable child are of course much higher.’

  Bernadette imagines the risk assessment for Richard, a young man in good health who – apart from one other time – has come home bang on six o’clock for the last ten years. What are the odds of him not doing so? That he has just gone off with friends or is late? That he has vanished with a strange woman?

  She mustn’t dwell on his absence, must concentrate on Conor. She’s not sure why she can’t push Richard’s image away, after having been so resolutely ready to leave him.

  Then Bernadette realises she is angry – angry that he ruined her moment. Had he simply come home and she’d said she was leaving, no matter what his reaction, she’d at least now be able to put it behind her enough to focus on Conor.

  PC French opens a folder to write and says, ‘So I just need to ask a few questions about Conor first, okay?’

  Everyone nods, a Mexican wave of assents. Anne asks if anyone would like tea, but no one does. Bernadette thinks they’re wasting time, time that could be spent actually looking for him, but she knows a report will help.

  ‘How long has he been missing?’ asks PC French.

  Bernadette sees Anne look at the gold-edged clock; it is seven-twenty. She catches her eye and knows they’re thinking the same – it’s dark, it’s getting late, they should be out looking.

  ‘He didn’t come home from school,’ says Anne. ‘Even when he pops to his best friend Sophie’s he’s always home by four-thirty. I called the school and they told me he’d been there, left as normal. Then I waited until five-fifteen, thinking he was just taking his time. I started ringing people after five-thirty. So he’s been gone nearly three hours now.’ The words three hours come out as though untrue, like Anne wishes to cancel them.

  ‘Do you have any idea why?’

  ‘Why?’ Anne repeats the word like it’s repulsive. ‘I have no idea at all.’

  ‘Has Conor ever gone missing before?’

  ‘Never.’ Anne thinks about it hard, shakes her head. ‘Conor’s lived here more or less since he started school. He was almost six when he came. I’ve always known where he was. He always tells me where he’s going. This is so out of character.’ Anne stands. ‘Shouldn’t we be out looking for him? It gets cold at night now and he’s only got a thin jacket on.’

  ‘We will, I promise,’ says PC French gently. ‘But we need this information to do the best job we can of locating him.’

  ‘You’re right.’ Anne sits again, wringing her hands. ‘I can’t bear that he might be frightened somewhere.’

  ‘Did he pack anything?’

  ‘No, not that I can see,’ says Anne.

  Bernadette thinks about her luggage still waiting by the lounge door at Tower Rise, how she carefully decided what to take. What does one take when leaving forever? That Conor apparently took nothing is either a good sign, or a terrible one.

  ‘I can check again?’ says Anne.

  ‘Yes, that would be good. Let’s just finish these questions. Might he be testing boundaries, pushing you, playing around?’

  ‘No, not Conor. I mean, he likes to play tricks, you know, hide your things. Glasses, knitting needles, things. But he would never hide to worry us!’ Anne’s voice reaches a pained crescendo.

  Yvonne interjects with, ‘Look, he really hasn’t ever gone missing.’r />
  ‘Okay.’ PC French looks back at her notes. ‘What would you say his state of mind was this morning? Did anything happen before he left for school, even something really small and seemingly non-important?’

  Anne perches on the arm of the sofa and stares into the fire as though she can see Conor there. Bernadette has always thought his hair is like a fading flame, not quite red, more orangey-golden, soft and floppy and made to be ruffled. She imagines his freckled face, pictures him standing in the kitchen doorway as he did last Saturday, wearing slightly too-small jeans and a Spiderman T-shirt.

  ‘He just got up as usual,’ says Anne, eyes closed now. ‘He was a bit grumpy at first, but he often is. He had Coco-Pops and a cup of tea. When he came round he was in a really jolly mood, to be honest. Yes, quite happy. He was chatting about our holiday this year – we went to Bournemouth, stayed in a caravan with my daughter Rose and her two children. He lo—’

  ‘Have you checked that he isn’t at your daughter’s house?’ interrupts PC French.

  ‘Yes,’ says Anne. ‘My daughter lives in Sheffield; he isn’t there.’

  ‘Why do you think he was talking about holidays? Is that usual?’

  ‘Not really, but there was a thing on the morning chat show about cheap last-minute deals. Conor saw the images of the beach and said how much he loved Bournemouth. Asked if we could go again next year.’

  Bernadette anticipates the next question from PC French, and is right. ‘Do you think he might have gone there?’ she asks.

  ‘To Bournemouth?’ Anne half-laughs. ‘Of course not.’

  ‘I doubt he could even get there,’ says Yvonne. ‘He’s not quite as mature as your average ten-year-old.’

  ‘Does he have any sort of disability or medical condition?’ asks PC French. ‘Any learning difficulties?’

  ‘No,’ says Anne, sounding put out. ‘He’s just emotionally quite young, that’s all. Which is understandable, given his history.’