by Jane Shemilt
“Sweetheart”—I stood behind him, wrapped in a towel, my feet puddling the wood—“I know what you’re thinking . . .”
“You don’t know what I’m thinking,” he said quietly.
“It’s a metaphor. If we open ourselves to the natural world, shed our sophisticated layers, it will protect us in turn. I know Theo—”
“Stop saying you know everyone. You don’t.” His voice got louder. “It’s got bugger all to do with the natural world. He’s exploiting her, making a series of risqué photos to get attention. She’s too young to see that, but surely you can.”
“Ted, it’s art.”
“I can’t believe you’d use that clichéd excuse for pornography.”
“It’s not pornography.” My voice was rising too. “She was wearing underpants, for God’s sake; she kept her coat on until she was hidden. Nikita was there. Naomi threw her clothes out to her as she undressed.” I paused for breath. How could he think Theo would exploit her? He and Naomi had always been the closest of the three children, even when they were little.
“You’re missing the point again,” he said curtly.
I stepped back from the fight. There was no time.
“Let’s talk about it tonight, with Theo.”
“Nothing more to say.” He shrugged.
Time had run out. Arguments were often left unfinished and seemed to disappear, untended bonfires burning out, leaving only a pile of ashes behind. Ted, with clothes on, was harder, surer, walked quicker. He gave me a kiss that missed my mouth, his eyes somewhere else. The door shut behind him.
Naomi appeared as I was gathering my bags. She still looked tired, despite the night’s sleep, and moved around the kitchen slowly, finding folders, scarf, and hockey boots. She seemed absorbed in the day to come and didn’t look at me when I suggested breakfast.
“Not hungry,” she said briefly, knotting her scarf as she watched herself in the little mirror on the wall by the phone.
“Have something, darling. Toast? An egg?”
She wrinkled her nose in disgust without replying, and then bent to the dog.
“Love you, Bertie.”
She kissed the air above his head and left; the door slammed. She came back for her cell phone and left again.
The boys appeared, sleepy and silent. Ed looked disheveled, with unknotted tie and half-combed hair. He poured muesli and ate it slowly, reading the side of the packet with concentration. Theo leaned against the fridge door eating the rest of the apple cake, his eyes closed. Then they left, bumping shoulders as they went out the door together, both carrying Theo’s art folder, shoulders hunched.
It was time for me to leave. I followed them but turned at the door, sucked back by the warm disorder. Teeth marks in the buttered rind of toast, a glittery pool of spilled sugar, bent packets, open jars. I wanted to stay, shut the mess into cupboards, and restore order to the surfaces. My mother, as her younger self, seemed to be watching from the shadows behind the hanging coats in the hallway, so close I could feel her breath behind my neck, her chin on my shoulder. She was telling me to stay, tidy up, and keep watch as she had done. I quickly pulled the stacks of shoes apart until I found the new red ones with heels. I put them on, becoming the professional, the doctor, and I slammed the door shut behind me.
Outside I met Anya being dropped off by her husband. Under her coat was the patterned apron she wore to clean our house. She always worked calmly, her gentle hands honoring each task. No matter how hard I tried, I ended up pushing at things angrily, running from one unfinished job to the next. She and her husband came from Poland. Whenever I saw him, he scowled at me. I wanted to tell him that Anya made my life possible, but that would have made him angrier, as if my life was more valuable than hers. His hostile glance flickered over my warm coat, the leather bag, the tall house behind me.
As I unlocked the car, I waved to Mrs. Moore opposite; she was putting out her small items for recycling. Ted had left ours on the sidewalk last night: the rinsed bottles of Shiraz, the exotic cardboard sleeves from ready meals, copies of The Telegraph folded neatly edge to edge. Mrs. Moore straightened up, her hand in the small of her back. She looked toward me and her old mouth cracked open briefly. I could just see the soft shape of her son, Harold, as he bobbed uncertainly at the bay window. He was about thirty, with Down’s syndrome. Her husband had left years before. I wondered, as I did whenever I saw her, what kept her going day after day. She was still staring at me as I started the engine and pushed the knob of the radio, and it came to me unexpectedly that it could be the other way around. Perhaps I needn’t feel guilty about how much more I seemed to have than she did; she watched me rush in and out, she would know how late Ted came home from work every day. She might even feel sorry for me.
THE MORNING SLID away quickly. Three women, one after the other, derailed by the mess of ordinary biology: periods, pregnancy, menopause. As I listened and examined, I wanted to tell them that this was normal life, not illness. In other cultures there might be celebrations; perhaps I was the celebrant here, providing recognition of these rites of passage. The last patient, though, Mr. Potter, was really ill. Aged ninety, he had polished his shoes, walked down the hill, and waited his turn to tell me he had left-sided central crushing chest pain. I looked at his sweaty face, at the smile he was attempting that trembled on his lips. There wasn’t much time.
“Sorry, Doctor, I didn’t know. I thought it was indigestion. I didn’t want to bother you.” He spoke with difficulty. Gasping for breath. “Who will feed my cat?”
He used the phone to speak to his neighbors while I organized his admission to coronary care. He was changing worlds: Behind him was his tiny clean council flat, the faded wedding photos on the brick mantelpiece, the flare of the gas fire with the empty chair opposite his, and the warm presence of a little cat. Ahead of him was a world of high bright lights, tubes, and bleeping monitors; the staff around the desk would be too far away, or too close, breathing into his face, or talking to him as if he were a deaf child. I wanted to tell him to wear his war medals.
FRANK SAT BEHIND a leather-topped antique desk, making phone calls. He lifted his eyebrows, smiled, and nodded at the chair. There were two mugs of coffee on the desk in front of him, the fragrance filling the room. I sat down.
He put the phone down and sighed, wrapping large hands around one of the mugs. His glasses were askew; no bit of desk was visible beneath the rubble of instruments, pens, and forms.
There had been a bureaucratic screwup by the Primary Care Trust; appraisals were changing again. The coffee warmed me and I began to relax. We talked about the morning.
“I’ve referred Jade Price to the community pediatrician. Possible child abuse. I didn’t tell the mother I would at the time, so I’m going round to the house later today.”
Frank listened to the story, eyes wary.
“I know the Prices. Be careful, Jenny, and look from all angles. They don’t strike me as abusive.”
“There aren’t that many angles,” I said, remembering the bruises and Jade’s exhausted stillness. “The family profile fits. Her father’s an alcoholic bully. Her mother’s depressed.”
“Why go round? You could simply phone.”
“It will be difficult to tell her I suspect the family of child abuse. I can pick my moment better face-to-face.” I paused as another thought occurred to me. “There might be more clues at the house as well.”
“Do you want me to come with you?”
“What? Why?”
“They could run rings round you, or get nasty. You seem a bit . . . preoccupied. I mean, not just about this. Something’s ruffling the feathers.”
Frank hadn’t been a family doctor for thirty years for nothing.
“Oh, you know. Family stuff.”
“Ted okay?”
“Fine, mostly. In fact, his star is in the a
scendant,” remembering the glimmer last night, the excitement that had shone from him.
“Kids? My favorite godchild?”
“Naomi’s changed. Quieter, I think. Can’t quite put my finger on it.” As I said this, a pulse of worry thumped in my head. What was I missing?
“Up to something, I expect.” He grinned. “Fifteen-year-old girls spend their lives up to something.”
“She usually tells me.” Not lately, though, not for weeks. Months, even.
“Knowing Naomi, she will, in her own time. What does Ted say?”
“Hasn’t. Well, I didn’t run it by him—too much happening.” I smiled ruefully. “We always run out of time. One of us goes to sleep.”
“God knows how you do it all. I’ve only got one and Cathy’s at home all the time.”
I didn’t like it when people said that. As if I must be cheating. There was no magic. It wasn’t even difficult. I just had to keep going, and I knew exactly how to do that. Sometimes it felt as though I was escaping from one life to another and back again. I wasn’t sure exactly what I was escaping from each time, but it seemed to work; I told my friends it gave me a built-in excuse if something went wrong. Over time I’d realized that if it meant I had to leave the children to sort themselves out, they usually did. Now I had only myself to blame if Naomi was learning to be independent. I’d wait until her guard was down and she was ready to talk. I’d overlook the cigarette, then once she’d told me what the matter was, I would help.
If I was asked, I would say she was happy, that Ted and I were as well. I would say we were all perfectly happy.
THE PRICES’ HOUSE was on a road near the docks, a mile or so from the practice. The area near the river had been reconstructed; the old warehouses were now brick-and-glass offices and a gym. But the glamorous architecture didn’t go deep. The Prices lived a couple of streets back. I parked the car and walked, looking for number 14. One or two windows had broken glass patched up with cardboard; in a front garden there was a television set leaning into the mud. None of the doors seemed to have numbers. I stopped near a group of boys who were standing around a motorbike, the sleek machine at odds with the street. The boys were thin, shoulders up against the bitter wind. One of them sucked at a can, tilting it high, carelessly, so the fluid fell on his face. A yellowing sheet of newspaper blew against my legs. I pulled it off and let it go, watching as it flapped against the lamppost. I went closer to the group.
“Hi. I’m looking for number 14?”
The tallest boy jerked his head up.
“Jeff Price? What for?”
A smaller boy stepped forward, shifting his weight from side to side, a hand-rolled cigarette gripped in his teeth, bare white arms tightly folded. He jerked his head silently at a house with a yellow door.
“Thanks for your help.” I smiled quickly at them all.
“Up herself, isn’t she?” someone said as I turned away, and one of them threw his can into the road.
There were rows of bottles outside the yellow door, some had fallen over. My feet tapped a pile on the step sending them crashing to the path and a small wave of laughter hit against my back.
The door was slightly ajar, and the smell of urine and beer reached outside. The bell didn’t work, so I knocked; there was no answer. I pushed the door wider, stepped inside the narrow, dark hall and called, “Hello? Mrs. Price? It’s the doctor, from yesterday.”
“Who’s this, then?”
A huge man emerged from the darkness down the narrow hall. His stained dressing gown fell open, revealing a mat of graying chest hair. As he came barreling down the corridor toward me, my hands tightened on my bag.
“The doctor. I’m . . . the doctor.”
“Oh yeah? What might you be after?”
“Your wife brought Jade to see me yesterday.”
The change was sudden and complete. His mouth opened in a wide smile and his eyes widened.
“Bless you, love. I’m dead worried about her and all. Come in, meet Mother.”
I would tell him soon. After I had met his mother I would warn him I was worried about his daughter being abused, though I might not use that word. I would tell him that I had referred her, for safety’s sake. He gestured me down the hall and through a narrow door at the end. “Say hello to the doctor, Ma. She’s come about our Jadie.”
The smell of ammonia made my eyes water. An old lady sat close to the fire where a thin bar of red glowed. An ancient parrot of a woman, with eyes sunk in folds of dry skin and thin claws gripping the arms of the chair. Her limbs writhed and her cheeks bulged rhythmically in constant chewing. Under her seat the carpet looked dark and wet.
“She can’t help it. I’ll make us a nice cup of tea. Make yourself comfy, love.”
I looked for somewhere to sit but every surface was crowded: blister packs of medication, balls of tissues rolled up together with dark green deposits gummed in the creases. Plastic toys littered the floor and were shoved under the television. There was a child’s painting of a house stuck to the wall. The heat and the smell were intense. I went into the hall and listened. I could hear the kettle whistling, rattling crockery, the sound of something smashing and curses from Mr. Price. I looked up the narrow stairs that twisted into darkness. I was listening for a child, but I didn’t have time to hear anything.
“Looking for me, love?” Mr. Price appeared, steaming mugs in each hand. He followed me back into the sitting room, his hard stomach pushing me ahead. “Here we are, Ma.”
He balanced a mug for me on a pile of newspapers, blew noisily into another, then tilted his mother’s chin and spooned tea into her mouth; brown dribbles ran down her chin and onto her pink nylon nightdress. Next to her chair there was a family photo; from where I was sitting, I could make out the small shape of a child dwarfed by her parents on either side.
“About Jade . . .”
“Yeah?”
“I’m worried about . . . her bruises.”
“Tracey told me. This cough. She feels hot sometimes. You know, properly sweaty. And she’s off her food, getting thinner. All the bruises.”
“I wondered how she got them.” I watched him intently as I said this.
“That’s just it. We haven’t got a clue. Not a dicky bird.”
“That’s part of the reason I want to send her to the hospital for a checkup—the bruises.”
“Hospital. Fuck me. You think it’s serious, then?” His forehead wrinkled, he sounded genuinely worried, and I saw what Frank meant. This man could run rings around me.
“Anything we don’t understand is important.” I kept my voice level. “I want her checked out by a pediatrician.”
“Oh yeah? And who’s that when he’s at home?”
“A children’s doctor. Someone to look into the problems that happen when children have injuries we don’t understand. Like Jade. To be honest, we are worried in case she’s been hurt by someone.”
“Those bloody little blighters at school.”
I’d tried. I’d tried hard enough. If I forced a confrontation, he might take her and vanish.
“They’ll send her an appointment or they may call if they see a space coming up in the next day or two. Could even be this afternoon.”
“Thanks, Doc.” His face creased in a smile that looked convincing. “I’ll tell the wife.”
I stood up, ignoring the tea. His mother jerked and writhed silently in her seat.
“It’s okay, she’s going.” Mr. Price leaned toward his mother, shouting in her ear. “Say good-bye to the doctor.”
The parrot eyes flicked in my direction. She knew. You couldn’t live in a house with a child who was being hurt and not know. She probably guessed exactly why I was here.
The gang of boys was still there. One of them held a bag to his face; another was lolling against the lamppost, swaying slig
htly, eyes closed. Two were squatting, heads low, hands dangling. They didn’t see me pass. The narrow street was darker, the strip of sky looked gray green, and it had begun to rain lightly. I checked my watch as I hurried: four P.M. Theo would be in the art studio, arranging his photos for the exhibition. Ed would be rowing for school team practice, serious-eyed, muscles straining. They were about the same age as this group of boys. But I didn’t feel lucky, I felt afraid.
It was cold in the car, and I turned the heater and the radio on. The local news was being read. Rapist attacks inner Bristol. Flooding. Chocolate factory closing down.
Suddenly I wanted to speak to Ted; I wanted to hear his voice. I turned the radio off, pulled out my cell, and tapped his number. His voice told me he was unavailable, to leave a message after the tone. This was different from the last answering message, one he had recorded at home when there had been a faint backwash of music, a pan crashing, and children’s voices. This was just his voice, clear and confident. He sounded very sure of himself and very far away.
Chapter 6
DORSET, 2010
ONE YEAR LATER
I enclose the old lady’s thin wrist with my fingers. Hers is an image I have gathered in without knowing, like a tree by the road that I often drive past. She has until now been no more than a bent shape in a bulky coat. I’d known she was old by her stiff, dipping gait. Sometimes, in the long slow hours of night, I’d look out of my window and see a comforting point of light from her bedroom window. Now she is lying at an awkward angle: her neck is wedged against the doorpost, her arms have fallen across her body, hands bunched.