by Clare Boyd
‘He’s on a bike ride,’ I answered, conjuring up the cheering image of Peter in his Lycra. ‘He should be home any minute.’
‘Were you aware that Rosie was throwing things out of her window?’
‘No, I wasn’t.’ Embarrassment fired up my cheeks. I was her mother, I should have known. I should know everything about her and I felt that I knew nothing.
I could hear Rosie and PC Connolly’s voices coming closer. My heart pounded.
When they came into the kitchen, I pushed out a smile, which slackened when I realised that PC Connolly was not smiling back. I had an urge to tear them apart.
I wanted Rosie to run towards me.
‘Everything okay?’
‘We had a very good chat, didn’t we Rosie?’ PC Connolly said.
‘Hi Mum,’ she said, barely looking in my direction. ‘Can I go outside with Noah?’
‘Of course.’ And off she ran.
PC Yorke read out a rough outline of what we had discussed, and PC Connolly nodded and drew her forefinger across one eyebrow as if smoothing it. She sat down next to PC Yorke.
‘Could we just go back a bit, Mrs Bradley? So, you say you cleared away the broken glass. Can you tell me where it is now?’
‘It’s all in that bin-bag I took out when you arrived.’
‘And your clothes? We understand they were bloody? With Rosie’s blood or your blood?’
‘Rosie’s. It’s in the washing machine.’
‘I see,’ she said, looking over at PC Yorke.
‘What? Would you need it as evidence or something?’ I laughed.
‘It helps us to build a picture of what happened.’
‘I’ve told you what happened.’
‘Yes. One more thing, Mrs Bradley, do you ever forcefully shut Rosie in her room?’
‘I’m not even going to answer that.’
‘It is important that you do, please.’
‘No, of course I don’t. Of course not. Anyway, there isn’t a lock. You saw her door, didn’t you?’
‘But do you ever try to trap her inside?’
‘How the hell would I do that?’
‘You tell me.’
‘I would never trap her inside her room. Sometimes I tell her to go to her room for time out.’ As I said it, a flash came to me, of me pulling at her door. Her wrist. The welt. The dress. The bag. It would be impossible to explain.
PC Connolly nodded at me.
I repeated it. ‘I would never trap Rosie in her bedroom.’ I wanted to add, Don’t you understand? I love her, and, I would do anything to take back this afternoon, but I knew the words would be lost on them.
‘Have you or anyone else in the family had any history of involvement with children’s social care?’
‘For goodness sake. No, of course not. Look, quite frankly, I’ve had enough of this,’ I said, shooting up from the table. ‘If that nosy old bag next door had a life, you wouldn’t even be here. It was a malicious call and it has absolutely no grounding whatsoever. She doesn’t have her own kids and she doesn’t seem to understand that kids scream when they’re young. If she did have them, she’d get it.’
There was a horrible silence after my rant. I wanted to push the defensive words back down my throat, pull myself together again. But it was too late. If Peter had been here, he would have told me off. He would say I was over-sensitive and too ready to fight back at the smallest criticism. But the police officers’ insinuations weren’t small, they were huge. They cut deep into my fears of what I was truly capable of in those desperate moments with Rosie. Their intrusive probing questions sent lightning strikes of panic through my whole being.
I took the J-cloth from the sink and rubbed a smear of butter from the edge of the table.
There were other questions, seemingly hundreds of them, until my mouth was parched and my head aching. Finally, PC Connolly pulled the plug.
‘Okay, Mrs Bradley. I think we have everything we need for now. What time will your husband be getting home?’
I sighed and pressed my fingertips into my forehead. ‘Any moment now.’
‘Okay, good. Okay, we’ll be in touch over the next couple of days,’ she said, pushing her small arms into her huge coat.
‘About what?’ I said, throwing the cloth in the sink.
‘Just to confirm we’ve made the visit and that everything seems in order,’ PC Connolly explained.
‘Oh good,’ I said, letting out a huge breath and a little nervous laugh.
I felt an overwhelming desire to hug her, relieved that they had not seen into my mind to witness my imaginary hand striking my child to stop the screaming. Instead they had seen the woman who would never, ever intentionally hurt Rosie, even in those desperate moments; they had seen the better part of my nature, where I had danced with Noah to Luther Vandross; they had decided that everything was in order.
My obvious relief elicited a small smile on PC Connolly’s face. ‘And we’ll be notifying Social Services about our visit.’
I crossed my arms over my chest. ‘Why ever would you need to tell Social Services?’
‘It’s standard procedure, Mrs Bradley.’
Pursing my lips, I answered with a clipped, uptight, ‘Right, okay,’ holding back a show of panic.
Once they had gone, I shook my head in disbelief, unsteady on my feet, unable to sit down. I blew out a few deep breaths, and then worried I might faint. The stress felt dangerous for the baby. I sat down with my head between my legs and stayed there for who knows how long.
‘What are you doing, Mum?’ Rosie said, standing right in front of me side by side with Noah.
‘Have the police gone now?’ Noah said, running around the kitchen shouting, ‘Nee-nor, nee-nor.’
‘Yes, they’ve gone. Calm down, Noah. I’ll make a pot of tea. Noah, you can watch telly now.’
‘Can I too?’ Rosie asked.
‘I just want a quick word.’
Rosie groaned.
Ignoring her, I filled the kettle and flicked it on. ‘So, what did PC Connolly ask you?’
‘Not much. Just about what happened and stuff.’ She picked at the bandage on her hand.
‘Is it still sore?’
‘It’s okay.’
‘So you told her about how it happened, yes?’ I was trying to sound light-hearted, to tease it out of her as though we were having a gossip about something.
She shrugged.
I placed the milky cup in front of her and inspected her face for something that would give me a hint about how she felt.
‘Are you okay? It was probably a bit scary talking to a real-life policeman, wasn’t it?’
She put her fingertip into the tea and started swirling it around and then licking it, goading me, knowing I hated her doing this. I resisted telling her off.
‘Police woman,’ she said.
I took in a deep breath and counted to ten in my head.
‘It didn’t worry you at all, talking to her?’
‘She was nice.’
‘Fine. Good. I just wanted to check you’re okay.’
‘Can I go watch telly now?’
After our ordeal, I decided that I might need to flop in front of the television too. I craved their bodies next to mine, secure and safe in my arms.
‘On one condition...’
‘What?’ Rosie sulked.
‘That you watch a Wildlife on Four with me.’
She beamed. ‘That’s a deal.’
* * *
We both snuggled up next to Noah and listened to the soothing cawing and buzzing of the hot savannah as we watched a leopard cub gently paw his mother’s face in play and affection. The cub’s mother licked him briefly, looked around her, and licked her baby again.
‘... possibly the injury that the cub has sustained in the attack might be fatal.’
‘Is he hurt, Mummy?’
‘I think he might be.’
‘Don’t worry. His mummy will look after him,’ Noah said confidently
.
I kept my fingers crossed, hoping the poor little cub would get better.
There was a close-up of its bloody leg.
I gasped. ‘Maybe we should watch another show?’
‘No, no! I want to see if he’s okay.’
Knowing Rosie would worry all night if she didn’t find out what had happened to the cub, we continued watching.
The leopard mother tugged at the scruff of the cub’s neck, trying to drag him through the grass. It was clear the cub’s back legs were paralysed as they flopped lifelessly behind him. I looked at Rosie, whose face was slack with horror.
‘Poor cub,’ she murmured, close to tears.
‘Five hours later,’ flashed up on screen. I braced myself.
Sheltered under a bush, the leopard mother is tearing meat from a carcass. There is a close up shot of a severed cub paw.
‘Oh God,’ I said, fumbling around for the remote control, ‘LA LA LA!’ I cried, trying to shout over the narration while dodging in front of them and covering their eyes. The narrator continued in rueful, soft-spoken tones, ‘Perhaps in a mercy killing, knowing her cub would suffer, the mother eats her own young.’
‘Mummy, what’s happening?’ Rosie was recoiling from the screen with the cushion over her head.
Noah darted around me, ‘I want to see! I want to see!’
Abandoning the frantic search for the remote, I stood in front of the screen and switched it off by the mains. ‘Phew! Gosh! That was a bit traumatic, wasn’t it?’ I laughed, trying make light of it.
Rosie’s eyes were stripped with fear as she emerged from the blanket. ‘Did the little cub die?’
‘I’m afraid so.’ And the rest, I thought.
‘His mummy ATE HIM!’ Noah screamed gleefully.
Rosie shouted back at him and hit him, ‘Shut up, Noah! No, she didn’t. She would never ever do that.’
‘She HIT ME!’ he wailed, cradling his arm.
I couldn’t believe I had made this day worse, with the best of intentions, but I was relieved that we were in the television den at the back of the house where the noise was less likely to carry to Mira’s pricked ears. The one small window in the room faced the garage belonging to our other neighbour, the quiet widower Mr Elliot, who owned the bookshop on the high street.
‘Enough of that you two. No hitting, Rosie. Noah, of course she didn’t eat him,’ I said, rolling my eyes at Rosie.
Rosie smiled, ‘It’s okay Mummy. I know why she killed him. Because he was in pain and she knew the other animals would get him if she didn’t and then she ate him because she was hungry. It’s survival.’
‘That’s right. You’re a smart cookie, aren’t you?’
Our eye contact lingered, her blue eyes telling me she loved me, as mine told her the same, a mutual apology maybe.
And somehow that brief moment between us was enough to remind me of both the lightness and depth of our bond, the highs and lows, the tears and the laughter.
‘No more tantrums now, Rosie.’
‘Let’s not talk about it ever, ever, ever,’ Rosie cried burying her head in my tummy.
‘Okay, that’s a deal.’ I liked the idea that we could wipe bad things from our memories that easily.
After a day from hell, after the worst of us, we could still have the best. A private, impenetrable moment between mother and daughter. We had bounced back from an intense fight and I felt connected to her deeply.
* * *
I had been restless, knowing Peter would be home soon. When he finally arrived, he weaved into the kitchen, clearly drunk.
‘What’s going on in here then? Cooking me a curry, eh?’ he slurred.
I continued emptying all of the spice jars out of the larder cupboard, creating groups for each letter of the alphabet, and he stumbled as he took off his biking shoes. His eyelids were heavy. The smell of stale sweat mixed with the dried spices turned my stomach.
‘Where have you been?’
‘At Jim’s?’ he said. He washed his hands in the sink, losing balance as he pushed the soap pump.
‘You said you’d be home by two.’
‘I sent you a text.’
‘I don’t even know where my phone is right now.’
I shoved the allspice jar and the anise jar into the left-hand corner of the top rack.
‘Ooops,’ he sniggered. ‘Vics was there. She made Pimms. Our swansong to summer! We sat on the terrace wrapped in blankets. We missed you.’
‘I can’t believe you were two doors down all this time.’
How different our day could have been. I pictured Rosie running through the garden with Beth, lost in an imaginary game, whizzing back and forth through the hedges between her camp and Beth’s. And me, with my best friend, who would be jangling her bangles and laughing her head off as she poured more Pimms into my glass, telling me to seize the day, to relax and enjoy life as much as she did.
‘Sorry.’ He handed me the arrowroot jar as though it was a peace offering.
‘Did you happen to see a couple of police cars flying round the close today by any chance?’ I asked angrily.
‘Trouble in the ‘hood, was there?’ He opened the fridge and pulled out a bottle of wine.
I took it from him and put it back in the fridge. ‘I think you’d better have some coffee. You’re going to need to sober up for this.’
I handed him a coffee pod.
‘Sounds ominous,’ he said, taking it and dropping it three times before slotting it into the machine.
‘Those police cars were at our house.’
The noise of the coffee machine was so loud, it drowned out what I had said.
‘The police did what?’
‘The police cars were at our house. Mira called the police on us.’
Even before he had a sip of coffee, the lax, drunken muscles of his face tightened. He sat down on the stool at the island and shot back his espresso.
‘Say that again, Gemma.’
‘Mira called the police and two officers came round and basically accused me of abusing Rosie.’
‘You’re having me on.’
‘If only.’
‘Tell me exactly what happened,’ he said, almost aggressively.
The spice jars slowly filled up the racks as I methodically took him through every detail, missing nothing out. Peter’s face became progressively graver.
At the end, I waited for him to react. I was expecting outrage and incredulity.
‘You should have changed your shirt,’ he said.
My mouth gaped open. ‘What?’
‘The blood would have made it look much worse.’
My hands hung suspended in the air in front of me, palms open, as I stared at him gormlessly almost, at a loss. ‘But, Peter, I didn’t do anything wrong.’
‘I know that.’
‘A guilty person changes their bloody clothes,’ I said, disbelief catching my throat.
‘Is Rosie okay now?’
‘She clammed up completely when I tried to ask her about what she said to PC Connolly.’ My stomach lurched at the thought.
‘Probably because she’s still traumatised.’
‘Likewise.’ I rolled my eyes, feeling misunderstood and undervalued.
He shook his head back and forth before he responded. ‘The police are trained to make everyone feel like a criminal, aren’t they? It doesn’t mean they think you are.’
‘I promise you they were really quite reassuring by the end,’ I said, biting my lip, wondering why I couldn’t mention that Social Services were to be notified.
‘And they can’t change their minds?’
‘Jesus, Peter. You’re really freaking me out.’
I imagined the two officers chatting about me on their drive back to the station, analysing and reassessing their information; at their computers, tapping out a report for Social Services.
Peter jumped off the stool and wrapped his arms around me. ‘Sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to. What an or
deal.’
Over his shoulder I noticed the cumin pot was the wrong side of the cardamon seeds. I shrugged him off and switched the jars round. ‘If that Mira woman is watching us, what will she do next time Rosie has a tantrum?’
‘Rosie cannot have another tantrum,’ Peter stated firmly.
‘Right, yes, it’s that simple.’
A twitch of a smile appeared on Peter’s face. ‘A cream egg?’
‘Don’t even joke,’ I smiled, relieved he was coming round.
Both of us looked over at the kitchen window to Mira’s house and a nasty spread of hatred rolled through my body.
‘Why does Rosie put herself through it?’ Peter asked desperately. ‘It can’t be any fun for her.’
‘And it’s only ever directed at me.’
‘You’re her safe haven, I suppose.’
How ironic, I thought, when I was possibly the one person most likely to retaliate. Perhaps this was what she was aiming for, to push me and push me and push me, to check that my love was truly unconditional, to make sure I loved her enough to take the battering. It scared me to think that she needed to test me so radically, that she suspected a weakness in me.
Peter moved away and pulled his fingers across his scalp. When he turned around, there wasn’t a hint of the joke left in his expression. He looked as unsettled as I felt, and he opened his mouth long before he spoke.
‘Where does she get it from?’ he said under his breath, staring at me like a man about to be hit by a train.
I took a step back from him as though he was now capable of hitting me.
‘What difference does that make?’ I hissed back.
He turned away from me and bent over the kitchen work surface with his head in his hands.
I left him there, escaping to the study and pushing the door shut, leaning my forehead into it, the pressure on my skull causing a pleasant circle of pain.
Distraction became urgent. I sat at the computer. A slick of sweat cooled my face and my fingers trembled as I typed in the password for my work emails. I needed to silence the lingering implication on Peter’s lips.
Chapter Fourteen
Enclosed in her small, green dining room, Mira shuffled her chair tightly in, until her belly was up against the edge of the table and her back was straight. The only sound was the flick-flack of photographs through her fingers. The motion reminded her of sifting through piles of autumn leaves as a child to find the best, biggest and brightest leaf.