by Louise Beech
There’s also a photo of your mum that we recently got. You will see how much the painting resembles her. You will also see that in the picture she is pregnant. A few weeks ago she had a baby. It was a boy and she called him George. She is still unable to care for children and George is going to be taken care of by another family. When we have a picture of him I will give you one.
I’ve also stuck in a photo of you painting at Jayne’s house. I’ll make sure that future carers know how much you enjoy it and that they provide you with lots of paper and paint.
Jim
10th November 2003
Today is your second birthday! We wanted to take you to Little Monkeys PlayZone but you’re still not up to it! My name is Kerry and my husband is Colin and we have a dog called Bennie. You have been with us a week. You are our first! We are very excited. We can’t have children of our own. I was so excited when they told us about you. It happened very fast! It was a lucky coincidence because we just wanted one child and they said they had just been made aware of the perfect boy. You were so cute when we first met you! You were kind of shy but looking at everything. You wouldn’t let go of your black and white cat. They told us how much you like to paint so we got you an easel and paper and stuff. You do it a lot. You’re so quiet when you do it that I keep wondering if you’re even breathing! You get scared of going in the bath. The first time you kicked and struggled so much. I know it’s the water. You’re always scared it will be too hot. So I get in with you! You like that. I have to wear my swimming costume and you do too, because I’m a girl and you’re a boy, and it’s what I’m supposed to do as your carer. I make sure the water is cool and we sit close with your back to my tummy and I wash your hair gently. You never giggle or play in the water. As soon as your hair is done you stand up to get out. You don’t like being left in bed alone. I let you fall asleep on the sofa with us! Jim told us you used to be more of a chatterbox. He said you used to climb and get into all sorts. I hope that you go back to being your old self while you’re with us. My husband Colin says you’re a still water that runs deep, which is funny when you don’t like water much. But today is your birthday so happy birthday! We are going to see my mum who loves you loads too and then we’re going to watch a Winnie the Pooh DVD with her. I stuck in a birthday card that came from your birth mum. It is below.
Kerry xxx
Dear Conor,
Happy Birthday Son.
Lots of love,
Mum xxx
21
Bernadette
The rain continues as Bernadette and Anne travel through the dark, heading for Doncaster and hopefully Conor. It pounds hard on the roof as though insisting it be heard too.
‘Do you think something happened to Richard?’ asks Anne.
Bernadette has asked herself this many times in the last few hours. Even though he hasn’t been missing as long as Conor, it’s just as odd. Not as worrying though – not a priority now.
‘I can’t believe how angry I am that he ruined my plan to leave. I finally had the guts to do it and he has the audacity to not turn up.’
‘It’s curious them both going missing,’ says Anne. ‘Such an intense night for you. Does he have a mobile? Did you call him?’
‘He does,’ said Bernadette. ‘But I didn’t. It always goes to his answering service and I don’t want to leave a message about this there. Do you think I should?’
‘I don’t know. He might answer and at least you’ll know he’s okay.’
Bernadette realises she has been quite cruel, more concerned with her own anger at him not turning up than about whether he’s hurt or in trouble. Even though she’s leaving, she should perhaps make sure he’s okay first.
‘You can use my phone,’ says Anne. ‘Do you know the number?’
Bernadette stares at the device in Anne’s hand. She realises she’s scared – scared of why Richard didn’t come home, and yet she has no clue what has kept him away. The rain finally slows outside and the traffic picks up speed. Doncaster isn’t far now. Suddenly the phone rings in Anne’s hand – the name YVONNE flashes.
‘Hi Yvonne,’ she says quickly. Bernadette can’t hear the social worker’s words and tries to interpret Anne’s ‘yes’s’ and ‘okay’s’ and ‘oh God’.
She hangs up and says, ‘PC French just rang Yvonne. A boy in Conor’s class, Stan, told his mum he saw him getting into a black car with someone after school. Stan’s mum just rang the police to let them know. Stan said Conor seemed to know him. God, I feel sick.’
‘Do you want to pull over?’ Bernadette puts a hand on Anne’s arm.
‘No, I’ll be okay. I just want to get to Frances’ house now.’ She takes a deep breath. ‘That’s not all. They were checking on Frances and it seems her twin brother Andrew got out of prison last week.’
Andrew is the only sibling Frances has kept in touch with. Bernadette knows from Conor’s Lifebook that Frances has seven brothers and two sisters, some living in the UK and others in Belfast. Andrew was angry he couldn’t have Conor when his sister wouldn’t have him. He’s a drug user; has been in and out of prison for petty crimes and such.
‘So they think he might have picked Conor up?’
‘Yes,’ says Anne. ‘Which is good, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. It has to be. At least Conor is with family. Do you think they arranged it? That Conor knew? And that’s why he took his money? Maybe they’re all going somewhere and that’s why we can’t get hold of Frances?’
Anne looks doubtful. ‘I don’t know how Andrew would have got in touch with Conor – they only ever met at George’s funeral, and barely spoke even then. Unless he’s caught up with him on his way home from school some time. Maybe sworn Conor to secrecy?’
Bernadette nods; knowing something makes her feel better. She feels sure Frances has all the answers. A sign for Doncaster appears, offering more than just physical guidance; a beacon of hope. They turn off and head into the town.
As a child Bernadette always loved the adventure of arriving somewhere in the dark – it usually meant a holiday or trip to relatives, and she’d know that an alien bed and interesting people awaited her. She has missed travelling while being with Richard. The world is now waiting. All those travelogues she’s collected over the years might soon guide her through other unlit places.
Suddenly Bernadette sees something clearly – her books, the shelf.
She suddenly remembers, absolutely. She did put Conor’s Lifebook in its place.
‘It was there,’ she says abruptly, her words accompanying the recollection that lights up her night.
She remembers reading it on the bus on Saturday after seeing Conor. Top Taxis had three drivers off sick so she’d taken two buses home and read to pass the time. Maybe it was her mood after seeing Conor, but the book upset her. So much sadness and rejection in its much-fingered pages. She decided then that she would not read it again for a long time. Decided Conor’s future was more important than his past. She didn’t even write about their trip to Ferens Art Gallery or their stroll on the foreshore. She simply put the book back on the shelf and walked away from it.
‘What was there?’ asks Anne.
‘Conor’s Lifebook. On my bookshelf.’
‘Of course. Then it’s not lost,’ smiles Anne. ‘It’s at home.’
‘No,’ says Bernadette, softly. ‘It’s more lost than ever.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘When I said I’d lost it, I meant it wasn’t on my shelf this evening. That’s the place I always put it so Richard doesn’t find it. So I wondered if I maybe hadn’t put it back there the other day. But I did. I absolutely did. And I didn’t look at it after that. I was going to just give it back to you next week.’
‘I know you told me –’ says Anne, ‘– about keeping the book with all the others to hide it. But I did wonder if that was really such a good hiding place. Do you know what I thought?’
‘No,’ says Bernadette, not sure if she wants to know.
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‘That maybe at some level, deep down, you wanted it to be found.’
Bernadette lets the idea sink in, but it struggles – like air-filled cups trying to stay afloat in a washing up bowl. No. She knows how angry it would have made Richard. How he would object and stop her volunteering.
‘So what does it mean?’ asks Anne.
‘What does what mean?’
‘If the book isn’t there but you definitely put it back.’
‘Someone has to have taken it,’ says Bernadette.
‘But who would want it? And who knows it’s even there?’
‘No one,’ says Bernadette.
Anne concentrates on looking for the right street. ‘Could Richard have come across it?’
Bernadette pictures him at Tower Rise; he isn’t a big reader and she’s never seen him anywhere near her bookshelf. He prefers to watch films and documentaries or play around on his computer. ‘I don’t see how,’ she says. ‘But no one else has been to our flat.’
Anne parks near a row of small terraced houses, most with dirty net curtains at their windows and many with no front garden. ‘What if he does have it?’
‘Well, he would know about my volunteering.’
‘And what would that mean?’
Bernadette doesn’t speak. She looks at the houses, tries to guess which belongs to Frances. If Richard does have the Lifebook he’ll be angry that she hid it and angry that she went behind his back. That she lied. And all of this would explain why he didn’t come home. But where did he go instead? Perhaps he has left her, beaten her to it.
‘It means he knows the truth,’ says Bernadette softy. ‘And I suppose you’re right – I’m glad.’
‘Do you want to try calling him before we go in?’
‘No. Let’s find Conor. My marriage being over can wait.’
They get out of the car. Just as she did when arriving in a new place as a child, and as she did upon first entering Tower Rise with Richard all those years ago, Bernadette closes her eyes and smells the air. You see so much more without your eyes. There’s a karaoke going on somewhere nearby and a woman is shrilly trying to sing a ballad. The smell of Indian food drifts up the street and merges sickeningly with the stench of rotten food from overturned wheelie bins.
‘Number fifteen,’ says Anne.
‘Let’s find Conor then,’ says Bernadette.
22
The Book
24th May 2004
To Conor,
They told me I could right you a letter for your book to read when your older. Im not good at righting would rather text but your too young to have a fone. They said your two and a half now I do no but I forget sometimes. They said your family is nice people I am happy. When you was born I did get to look at you and told you I was letting you go cos its better for you. I didnt mean to fall pregnant again but it happens I wouldnt get rid of you my dad said thats wrong. I am not sure who your dad is but maybe I might no who he is. Yes I might do. I dont think he gave me his real name probably faked me out cos they do sometimes so theres no point telling you it but I do remember him cos he was a bit diffrent to the rest. Your just a kid I wont tell you all that stuff just say that he did treat me ok. He was dressed nice and there not usually. He talked nice and he said we could just walk by the water and chat and stuff. He wanted to know about my house and me mum and dad. None of them ask that stuff normally. He said he was on a kind of mission and I said what like in the Blues Brothers film? You wont know that movie but my dad always had it on. He said he would like to help me but I dont need it. Thats your dad not mine. So anyways I remember him. Im sure its him thats your dad cos after him I was ill a while and there wasnt nobody else. So you come from a nice man. Im sorry Im not a nice woman. My dad always told me I never would be. Ive got seven brothers and two sisters but now I only see my twin brother Andrew sometimes. I was the naughty one. I try hard not to be but it never works out. Do you get like that? I read that you like drawing. I used to like that when I was little too. I hope your having a great time and when I get myself sorted they said I can start seein you and then we can maybe be friends. I called you after my first boyfriend. That was a long time ago when I was like about fourteen. I was good then. He loved me loads and loads. We only split up cos my family moved from Belfast to England. I cried and cried and never got over it. Maybe if wed stayed there and Id married him it would be diffrent. But its this and I wish it wasnt. Be happy little boy. Im sorry.
Your Mum xxx
10th November 2004
Hi Conor,
This is Jim Rogers again.
Gosh, you probably know my messy writing by now. Sadly two things are about to change. First, I will be retiring. I’ll miss this work very much and all the children and adults I’ve met and got to know along the way. I was hoping to work a few more years and would have liked to see you settled with a forever family but my health is in decline.
I have loved knowing you for the last three years (today is your third birthday) and I hope I made all the right decisions for you. While social workers have the pleasure of making a difference, sometimes we also feel guilty that we perhaps didn’t do the right thing even though we can never know it at the time. I’ll miss you very much and hope that one day, when you’re an adult, we can meet, and that you have a safe and successful life.
The other thing that’s sadly changing is that Kerry and Colin have had to leave the Hull area and move to Australia. It’s something they never thought would happen when they took you on, a sad but unavoidable circumstance.
Because they can’t adopt you (they really wanted to) they can’t take you with them. So you are living in a temporary care home until we find a new placement. You loved being with Kerry and Colin and have come on so much and progressed well. You have started a local nursery and mix well with other children now. (We hope to keep you in there but it depends where your next home is.)
You continue to draw and paint beautifully. The play therapy helped a great deal. Your counsellor said you’ve found your own healing process in creative expression. Hopefully it’s something you’ll always enjoy.
A lovely social worker called Tracy Fenton will replace me. She has lots of experience and has what we often call a sixth sense about who belongs where. You’ll like her and I know she’ll like you. She’ll find you a good home. I have asked Tracy to include reports she thinks will be important to you in the future, even if some of them might make difficult reading.
Have a happy birthday, Conor. The care home staff always make sure birthdays are special and you’ll have a small party. (I have stuck a few of your birthday cards in over the page and a recent photo.) Kerry said you had the kind of smile that spreads across your whole face.
Gosh, I hope it stays that way.
Jim
23
Conor
Paul says we’re only ten minutes from Mum’s house. Ten minutes can feel like longer than ten hours. Like when Mrs McCartney says we’ve got ten minutes till the bell goes and it takes forever. You watch the second hand on the clock and it goes dead slow. So I know we’re still real far from Mum’s house.
I’m glad cos I’m kind of nervous now. Not sure why. Maybe cos really I don’t know my mum that well and a social worker or Len is always with me when I see her.
I know Paul much less even if he does seem to know me.
The sun is getting quite low in the sky now and it makes the road all orangey like Christmas sweets. Paul turns the radio off in the middle of Beyoncé. He says he understands what it’s like not having a dad. No one even knows who my dad is. Sounds like a knobhead to me. I never understood how Mum can’t know who he is. You have to do the sex stuff and how could you not notice doing that? So I think she just isn’t telling me.
Sometimes I pretend who it might be. I told Stan Chiswick it’s probably someone real famous and that’s why I can’t know. He has to keep his identity secret. Could totally be David Beckham or someone from EastEnders. Might even be a secret
agent like that Bourne Identity mister.
Paul tells me this story about his dad. I listen good cos I know it’ll pass the last ten minutes in the car. It goes a bit like this: Paul’s dad was quite a somebody. He came from a wealthy family and they wanted him to do something great with his life. I think like a psychiatrist. They’re the ones who look at your head. I saw one but my head was okay. Anyway Paul’s dad fell in love with a girl they didn’t like. She was poor but dead pretty. When she got pregnant Paul’s dad realised she wasn’t right for him after all and the family were glad.
So Paul’s mum brought him up all by herself. I guess the rich somebodies can be as bad mums and dads as the poor nobodies. They can all be knobs. Even if you have money you don’t always do what you should.
We’re driving down thin streets now with rows of houses and I recognise it. I’ve walked down here from the train station with Len. Paul is looking for something. Even if he knows my mum it’s like totally obvious he hasn’t been here before. But he did say he knew her from way back.
I ask if I can talk to Mum by myself first and tell her about my holiday plan. But Paul says no dead firm. He parks the car and turns to look at me and says he has to have a word with her so it’s best I wait in the car while he does. He says it’s been a long time and it’s best they catch up and say hello and stuff first.