by Jane Renshaw
‘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 council housing 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 – drunk as a fucking skunk. 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 dog 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 anybody 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 told 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’m sorry?’ goes the sheriff.
‘She makes me sick.’ 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 earlobes, 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 fifty-four 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 I nearly fall over. 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 pa
st me she gives me a wee smile.
I get 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 fucking schemey retard.
‘Ms Mair,’ goes Fwah. ‘Mrs Johnson claims that she never received notification of the meetings and hearings held to discuss Bekki’s future.’
‘That’s not the case. Mr and Mrs Johnson were sent invitations to all the meetings they were entitled to attend. I can produce copies of the letters…?’
‘That won’t be necessary. As for the character references…?’
‘I never received any character references. I can assure you that if I had done so I would have followed them up and, if appropriate, included them in my report.’
‘Now, as to the injuries that are detailed in the doctor’s report on Bekki when she was first removed from the Johnson family home. Mrs Johnson maintains that they were old injuries inflicted by her daughter Shannon-Rose. Is this, in your view, a plausible explanation for the injuries to the child that were documented?’
‘I’m afraid not. If you look at the doctor’s report, you’ll see he talks about “fresh bruising” and says that he’d estimate most of the injuries were inflicted less than twenty-four hours previously.’
‘And Bekki was last with Shannon-Rose…?’
‘Two weeks beforehand.’
‘I see. That seems clear-cut… Now, another allegation of Mrs Johnson’s is that in fact you only visited the Johnsons’ address on one occasion, not four, and that neither you nor Dr Fernandez visited the property on the twenty-second of August.’
‘The dates in my report are correct. I visited the Johnsons four times, and was accompanied by Dr Fernandez on the twenty-second of August visit. The suggestion that we would collude in falsifying evidence… My professional reputation, I think I can say, is unblemished. As is that of Dr Fernandez.’
‘Am I correct in saying that you have an impeccable fifteen-year record of employment in the Social Work Department of South Ayrshire Council, followed by an impeccable four years in your current position with Glasgow City Council?’
Blah fucking blah.
‘I’m sorry to say,’ says the sheriff, ‘that I found Mrs Johnson to be a somewhat unreliable witness, in marked contrast to Ms Mair, Dr Reid and Dr Fernandez. In particular, I would like to commend the professionalism shown by Ms Mair in what has evidently been a challenging and upsetting case. Although I have no doubt that the Johnson family’s affection for Bekki is genuine, I am persuaded that there is a significant risk of harm should Bekki be placed in their care, and in such cases the safety of the child must always be the paramount concern. I am persuaded that it is in Bekki Johnson’s best interests that the permanence order, with authority to adopt, be granted, with the recommendation that neither Shannon-Rose Johnson nor her parents or siblings have any further contact with Bekki and, should she go on to be adopted, that it should be a closed adoption with no contact between the child and her biological family. Under the terms of the closed adoption, when she reaches the age of eighteen Bekki will be given information that will enable her to resume contact, but this will be entirely Bekki’s decision.’
Out in the lobby, Mr Lyall goes, ‘We’ll appeal of course, but… You mustn’t hold out too much hope, I’m afraid.’
‘We’ve lost her,’ says Mandy. ‘We’ve lost our wee darlin’.’
‘I’m very sorry. Mrs Johnson, you spoke most eloquently on the stand, but…’ He lifts his skinny shoulders.
‘Aye, no so eloquent though, eh, when that bastard started in on me? If I’d been all “I can assure you”, if I’d been a snobby bitch like fucking Mair, the sheriff might have taken a wee bit notice of what I was fucking saying, eh? I was daft so I was, thinking playing it straight was gonnae get us anywhere with these bastards.’
Mr Lyall’s thinking Thank fuck these fucking schemies are outta my hair.
I hold out Shrek. ‘Here’s her wee toy. We were keeping it for her, you know? Can she have her Shrek? She takes it with her to her bed.’
‘She needs it,’ goes Connor in a wee choked-up voice. ‘Bekki needs her Shrek.’
Oh aye, now he’s giving it Disneys, now it’s too fucking late.
Mr Lyall angles the top half of his body away from Shrek. ‘I’m sorry, but that won’t be possible. You can rest assured that she’ll be well looked after. I’m sure – I’m sure she’ll have plenty of – of other, um, cuddly animals… to, um, take to bed with her…’
I take a hold of Mandy and she takes a hold of me.
As we leave the court building and the wind hits us, I’ve still got fucking Shrek cuddled in to my tits. Stupid fucking thing. Stupid cheap fucking toy that needs a wash, and Mr Lyall’s right – Bekki, wherever she is, will have a nice dolly or teddy to take to her bed, not a cheap knock-off from the market that’s probably got illegal fucking chemicals in it.
But in my head I’m going, It’s okay, wee Shrek. It’s gonnae be okay.
5
Five Years Later
Ruth and Pam leant side by side on the gate, sharing a sneaky packet of smoky bacon crisps while they watched their daughters. Although the sun had finally appeared and the Met Office was promising high pressure for the whole weekend, it seemed to have been raining for most of September, and this corner of the paddock was a dubby mess.
Which was why Ruth and Pam weren’t venturing in there.
In the middle of the paddock, Emma slithered to a halt as Beckie and Hobo trotted up to her, Alec floundering along at their side, mud spattered all up his jeans. Emma threw her arms round the pony’s neck and flopped against him, wailing: ‘I surrender!’
Beckie kicked her feet from the stirrups and slid off Hobo’s back.
Pam shook her head. ‘Beckie, sweetheart!’ she yelled across at them. ‘Have a longer go! Don’t let Emma bully you!’
‘I’m not!’ Emma, indignant, yelled back. ‘Beckie wants to be hunted!’
Beckie, grinning, dashed across the grass towards them while Emma waited impatiently for Alec to lengthen Hobo’s stirrups. At eight, Emma was a year older than Beckie and several inches taller, a raven-haired girl with long supple limbs and a dancer’s grace.
Which was where any resemblance to Tricia Fisher began and ended. Ruth would never have let the two families become so close if she’d had any doubts on that score.
This new craze of theirs, ‘Hunting’, involved one of them chasing the other down on horseback. Well, ponyback, and with Alec running alongside and grabbing girl and/or reins at the first sign of trouble.
The paddock was ideally situated between the two cottages. Opposite this gate was another they’d made into the paddock from Pam and James’s back garden, so the girls could nip across it without having to go on the road.
‘Look at him running,’ said Ruth as Emma, Hobo and Alec trotted after Beckie. Alec had an exaggerated, uncoordinated, John Cleese-ish running style, managing to look gawky and stork-like at five foot six.
Pam was trying not to smile. ‘I’d swap James’s athletic ability for Alec’s willingness to spend his whole Saturday morning running about a muddy field any time.’
‘He is pretty good that way.’ Ruth dived in for another handful of crisps. ‘He never really wanted kids, you know, in the abstract. When it was just a generic child we were talking about.’
With most people, she rarely if ever referred to the fact that Beckie was adopted, as if it was something she had to keep a secret, as if one day someone was going to look at her and narrow their eyes and say, ‘Oh my God. They let you adopt a child?’
Pam was different. She’d never had a friend like Pam. For the first time in her adult life, she felt she had a friend she could trust. She had even, in her madder moments, wondered if she would some day be able to tell Pam.
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But of course she wouldn’t.
If she told her, Pam wasn’t going to nod sympathetically and say ‘But you’re not that person any more.’ She was going to be straight on the phone to Social Work.
They’d take Beckie away.
Or Alec would leave her and take Beckie with him.
Pam was looking at her now with comically wide eyes. ‘Really?’
‘As soon as he saw Beckie, of course, that was it. Adoration at first sight.’
Pam scrunched up the telltale empty bag and shoved it in her pocket. She linked her arm through Ruth’s. ‘Who could help but adore Beckie?’
Who indeed?
She’d been such an adorable little thing, standing there in the middle of a roomful of toys looking so lost and scared, dressed in a green and pink smock and white tights, a wooden train clutched in one plump little hand. Deirdre had warned them that Bekki might not respond to them at this first meeting and that they shouldn’t be downhearted or alarmed if they ‘failed to engage’ or Bekki appeared ‘distressed or fearful’. For all her training and experience with children, Ruth had frozen, a fixed grin on her face, and it had been Alec who’d hunkered down to Bekki’s level and given her a quick, easy smile before turning away to pick up a wooden carriage.
‘Now then Bekki, I think I’m going to need some help here. Does this fit onto… this?’ And he’d picked up a Duplo brick.
Bekki had just stood there.
Alec had tried fitting the brick onto the carriage. First one way, then the other. He’d sat down and frowned, not looking at Bekki, speaking as if to himself. ‘Hmmm. This isn’t going too well. It’s got a little hook on it, so it must attach to something… Something must go on here…’
‘Thith one,’ Bekki had finally whispered, squatting down next to Alec and holding out the train.
And Alec had turned and smiled at her and said, ‘Oh, thank you, Bekki. Just right!’
Just right.
Pre-Beckie, the idea of Alec running about a field with a pony and two little girls would have been laughable. The idea of Alec at a Family Fun Day at a National Trust for Scotland property, or at a pantomime, or in a soft play area, or doing anything at all, frankly, involving children would have been something Ruth struggled to imagine.