by Clare Boyd
I nodded.
‘There was once a little baby who was only a twinkle in her parents’ eye. Even before she was born, they loved her so much that they wanted to find her the perfect mother, so they searched the whole world, far and wide, through dark tunnels and busy cities, risking everything on treacherous journeys across the oceans, meeting tall mummies and short ones, kind ones and mean ones, rich ones and poor ones, until they found her one mother who they knew was just perfect to bring her to life. When she was born she was the most beautiful baby girl in the land and they knew they had chosen right. And they lived happily ever after. The End.’
I was moved, in spite of his tongue-in-cheek delivery. ‘That’s lovely.’
‘Yes, it is lovely, so stop stamping down on it in a panic,’ he said, slapping his hand down emphatically on top of the pile of newspapers that was nudging at our thighs. ‘Or you’ll end up fucked up like me.’
‘You’re not doing so badly,’ I smiled, so sorry for him, wondering if his hoarding was a natural reaction to the loss of Sarah, the love of his life. He was literally filling the gaping hole that she left when she died.
He pushed his glasses up his nose in the nick of time. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll take my own advice one day, when I’m feeling brave enough.’
‘When you do, I’ll help you through it.’
He smiled at me. ‘You know you haven’t changed a bit since you were little. You were always so polite when you came round and you always helped Sarah wash up the cups while Jackie and Imogen tore the place up. You were so keen to do a good job for her.’
‘I remember feeling like a burden on her.’
‘You weren’t, believe me. She thought you were an angel.’
‘That’s nice to hear.’
‘But now I think it’s time to throw the halo off and be really rubbish, just like the rest of us.’
‘Okay,’ I laughed, through a spring of new tears. ‘Here’s to being really rubbish!’
And we clashed our glasses so hard in agreement that they almost shattered.
* * *
The following day, I went into work feeling upbeat, refreshed after my night away. In my head I was phrasing how I might tell Lisa that I was going to put a request in for a few weeks’ leave. I was going to take John’s advice, and head back home.
But then Miranda Slater called me.
She informed me that a Child Protection Conference would be held the following week, which I was obliged to attend along with representatives from the Police, Health and Education, and any other agencies involved in the investigation.
I didn’t know why they had called this meeting and I called Philippa Letwin to find out.
Philippa had not hidden her disappointment when I had called her to pass on the news. Apparently, the meeting was a crucial, and unfortunate, turning point; somewhere she had hoped we would never be. If, in this meeting, it was decided that the children’s names were to be put on the Child Protection Plan – which was basically a list of ‘at risk’ children – the prospect of my prosecution at the CPS hearing would be a foregone conclusion.
‘Did you call Miranda?’ I shouted at Peter down the phone.
‘Calm down.’
‘Don’t tell me to calm down, you fucking bastard.’ I was hysterical, beyond terrified.
‘I didn’t call Miranda, Gemma.’
‘Did you tell her I caused Rosie’s head injury? Is that what you told her?’
‘No. You’re being paranoid.’
‘Are you fucking surprised?’ I yelled.
‘Look, let’s sort it out after the meeting tomorrow.’
Panic shot through me. ‘I’m coming home.’
‘It’s not fair on the kids to come and go whenever you feel like it.’
‘I’m not “coming and going”. I’ve only spent one night out of the house.’
‘Rosie was much calmer this morning.’
My mouth hung open. I didn’t know what to say. I tried to swallow.
‘Are you telling me to stay away from my children?’
‘It’s not like that,’ he sighed.
‘What is it like?’
‘I think you’re under a lot of pressure and I think it’s getting to you.’
‘Peter, how many times do I have to tell you, she rolled away from me. I didn’t push her that hard.’
‘Listen to yourself. You didn’t push her “that hard”? You shouldn’t have pushed her at all.’
‘Fuck you, Peter.’ And I hung up.
Peter had turned against me. I couldn’t comprehend it.
I was still shaking violently when Lisa came in to tell me I was late for my one o’clock meeting.
Peter called me again and again that night, and I ignored his calls. If he was against me, if he had turned my mother against me, he could fuck off and leave me alone. If they thought I was the bad guy, then fuck them.
Chapter Fifty-Two
TOP SECRET
* * *
Dear Mummy,
* * *
It is 7 days after you left. Granny Helen comes into my room to wake me up every morning but she doesn’t know that I am already wide awake. I wake up early to look outside to see if your car is home. Daddy says that you are not feeling very well and that you need to get better before you come home. Did I make you ill, Mumma? I miss all the voices you use when you read to me at bedtime. Granny Helen sounds like the Sat Nav, all robotic and boring and she only reads three pages! Can you believe it? She gets really grumpy if I don’t eat my supper. She shouts much more than you do. You shout more louder than her, but only when I’m really, really, really naughty and if I have a tantrum. I would NEVER EVER EVER have a tantrum with Granny Helen. I think she would send me to boarding school or something. You would never send me to boarding school.
* * *
Here are the things I promise cross-my-heart-hope-to-die-stick-a-cupcake-in-my-eye to do if you come home:
- I promise to brush my teeth the very first time you ask me to. (The toothbrush is DRY!!! HA HA. Remember?)
- I promise to be good all the time.
- I promise I won’t cry when I do my homework (even when it is maths and even when I am mega tired).
- I promise never to eat chocolate again.
- I promise never to have another tantrum ever.
- I promise to find all my cardigans from lost property.
- I promise not to fight with Noah (I love Noah).
- I promise not to chat-back to you and be rude.
* * *
INVISIBLE INK ALERT: Mrs E sent me a note in the blue bucket to come to her shed tonight after lights out and I sent her a note back to tell her not to forget the hot chocolate. I want to tell her all about Miranda coming round after you left and all the horrible questions she asked me about my head. Like, seriously, Miranda’s teeth make me feel a bit VOMITTY. They sit on her bottom lip like they are growing out of it and she breaths really loudly. Sometimes I want to stick her dangly pen up her nostrils. Mrs E would NOT laugh about that. She would say I was being mean but Mrs E listens to me, like more than any other grown-up ever. Miss Porter in Literacy says we have two ears and one mouth, that means we should listen twice as much we talk. She says a famous writer said that. But Miss Porter never listens. She just shouts just like all the other grown-ups. In The Little Prince that she reads us, the main character thinks he can’t draw very well because when he draws a Boa Constrictor snake that has eaten an elephant the grown-ups think that the picture looks like a hat (it does a bit!) but now every time I see a hat I think of a Boa Constrictor eating an elephant. How upside down is that? Do you think I will see a hat as a hat when I turn grown-up? Answers on a postcard!
* * *
Love,
Rosie.
* * *
P.S. Daddy never laughs at my jokes anymore and I have to ask him ten times about everything until he hears me. I think I know how you feel when you ask me to brush my teeth, like TEN MILLION TIMES. #thet
oothbrushisdry.
P.P.S. I think daddy misses you.
Chapter Fifty-Three
I felt cold and sick as we sat around the large oval table in an institutional grey room to hear the experts decide whether my children were at risk: in my hands, under my care. My children. My children.
Everything rested on this meeting.
Philippa had advised me not to speak. That was okay by me. If anyone had asked me to speak I would have vomited. My mother held my hand under the table. Peter sat on the other side of Philippa and he would not look at me. Dr. Isobel Frayn spoke first. ‘I found a bruise on her left arm, which Rosie informed me was the result of falling off the trim trail in the playground.’
DC Miles checked her notes. ‘The playground monitor, Annie McLean, confirmed that a fall had occurred on November the second.’
I wanted to tell them how long it had taken me to dress Rosie when she was a baby, how gently I had pushed her chubby fists into her sleeves. I wanted to tell them how many kisses I had planted on her face when she fell as a toddler, when she had run ahead before her legs could carry her. I wanted to tell them how I, too, was winded when I saw her fall from a tree onto her back last summer. Why wasn’t I allowed to tell them that?
Miranda Slater spoke next, while she flicked and dangled her smooth grey mane. She had serious concerns about the ‘instability’ caused by my ‘alleged mood swings’ and ‘sudden departure from the home’ coupled with Rosie’s ‘recent head injury and suspected concussion.’
She had rolled away from me. Hadn’t she? Who could I ask to replay what had happened? Peter? What had he seen that I hadn’t?
Philippa Letwin responded in measured tones. ‘Gemma absolutely refutes the allegation that she has in any way harmed Rosie at any point, including that of the incident mentioned, but she feels strongly that the logistics of parenting under the levels of scrutiny and supervision drawn up in the written agreement was stifling and unsettling for the children. Quite selflessly, she believes that Rosie and Noah are now in a stable and secure environment until the hearing, dependent upon Helen and Peter’s continued care.’
But I want to go home now. I have so much to say. Could they see me? Was I invisible?
Miranda nodded, of course, and shared a sideways glance with DC Miles, before adding that ‘consideration should be given as to whether to hold a child-protection conference prior to the child’s birth.’
I clutched my stomach as if she had the power to rip my baby from my womb.
The peripheral view of Peter’s face began to blur, the whole room began to fizz around the edges as my heart leapt haphazardly in my chest.
‘No!’ I cried out, but Philippa held my arm and shot me a warning glance. ‘No, no, no,’ I muttered, under my breath, digging my nails into my thighs.
You’ll never take my baby. Never. Never. Never.
My mother spoke up. I recognised her outrage. Her palm sweated through my trouser leg. Peter spoke. Or mumbled, waffling sheepishly. ‘...wonderful mother... under a lot of stress.’ Numbness spread through me. His regretful ramblings about my ‘uncharacteristic’ behaviour made me cringe. Who was this man who said he loved me?
Philippa said, ‘In terms of her unborn child, with all due respect, I suggest we wait upon the outcome of the ongoing assessment, pending the CPS hearing on December fourth.’
I’ll die if you take my children away from me. Don’t you understand?
Philippa must have seen the horror that had drawn the blood away from my face, for she scribbled on a notepad that she pushed in front of me. Hang in there. It’s almost over.
I was drenched in sweat. I felt it rolling down my back, under my arms, between my swollen breasts. The breasts that had fed my children, that would feed the baby that grew inside me. My role as a mother was being rubbed out, but I held the sensations and memories in my body like painful reminders of the mother I would always be.
How I yearned for Rosie and Noah now. Their absence was an unbearable void.
But the chairperson, whose name escaped me, the police and the doctor and the social workers, all seemed satisfied with their officially agreed-upon decisions to put Rosie and Noah on the Child Protection Plan under the category of Physical Abuse. They now universally believed that Rosie and Noah were at significant risk of being harmed by me. The conference had been neatly tied up for now, enough to stand up and leave. Everyone had their duties and roles nicely delineated. Through their eyes, through the prism of their moral and correct judgement, the threat of me had been removed from the equation. I had chosen to move out of my own home and now somehow I was being forced to stay out. Within one hour of sitting in this drab, mean room, I had seen enough to know the tide had turned. DC Miles and Miranda Slater did not simply suspect I was guilty, they knew. Tick. Job well done. Their trajectory was now clear.
I couldn’t stand up. I had lost all ability to move. Everything was moving around me too rapidly.
But Peter could move. It amazed me that he could. It amazed me that he could walk. Towards me.
‘Don’t come near me,’ I said.
As my mother tried to coax me out of the room, I thought back to the ranting and raving of that young woman in the police station and I envied her, spitefully.
I needed that fight in me, but at the same time I didn’t trust it. Spitting abuse had landed that woman in a cell. My temper, my lack of patience, my lack of self-control had brought me here, to this awful room. Finally, I knew how not to be, but I didn’t know how to be. I didn’t know how to fight for my children, without fighting.
A silent scream reverberated around my body, perhaps trapped forever inside me.
* * *
A shaft of sunlight lasered through the crack in the curtains, stubbornly, cruelly rejecting my pleas for darkness. I fumbled for my laptop by my bedside. In one line to Lisa in an email, I could not convey how ill I was: how pointless my breathing had become, how useless my body was to me or my baby, how my thoughts tortured me. My phone lay switched off. I had crawled away from the outside world, tired of the spotlight, worthless in the life I used to own.
At night, I writhed, wide awake, moving from bed to sofa and back to bed again. My eyes ached with exhaustion and misery. I paced from room to room, as though walking towards something, and ending up nowhere, letting one fruitless step follow the next, finding no pathway, no answers. The anxiety crippled me: Were the children safe? What were they doing? Where were they? How were they feeling? Did they miss me? And then the anger came, towards Peter, towards my mother, towards Mira, towards the police, towards Miranda. For holding my children away from me, as though lifting them up from the snapping jaws of a crocodile. I was bitter with loathing and I beat my fists into my mattress, over and over, until I collapsed and curled up in a pitiful ball of self-hatred and powerlessness.
My whole being moaned and twisted at the threat that loomed, the threat that I could never really reach in my thoughts consciously, knowing the very concept of losing my three babies was intolerable. A blinding shot of white blanked out that future. I could not conceive of it, I could not endure it.
Each day was a delirium: an overpowering, endless torment that I had to survive somehow, as the authorities planned my family’s future, without me in it, as the clock ticked towards the fourth of December, when I would hear whether the Crown Prosecution Service had overwhelming evidence to prosecute me for child abuse.
Chapter Fifty-Four
Mira opened the dining room door to reach for the meal that Barry had left outside it. There was a sticky note on the top plate, I love you, and one stuck on top of the bowl that covered her pudding with a felt-tip drawing of two hearts overlapping. ‘Off to the Crown tonight,’ he’d called.
Since their fight, Mira and Barry passed each other in the house like ghosts from different eras.
Mira was looking forward to seeing Rosie after Barry had gone to the pub.
Before meeting Rosie, Mira was determined to complete the photog
raph album. Over the last few weeks, she had begun to slowly but surely fill it up. Not with all the good memories, as one might expect, but with all the bad.
She had ripped out the photograph of her teenage self, looking happy and carefree, and replaced it with a photograph of her as a baby, crying on the sofa with chocolate smeared down her front. She looked small, dirty and neglected, just as she had felt.
This album was the new truth. Gone was her desire to push it away into brown envelopes or burn it on the compost or shove it back into plastic bags. She didn’t want to tie the knot closed on the worst injustices of her life. She now wanted to smear shit over her mother’s memory. The album was to act like a knife poking into Deidre’s thick guts in revenge. There was going to be no rewriting of history. For posterity, Mira was going to uncover the travesty of her upbringing and castigate those she blamed for it.
However, the album was not going to serve as an excuse – Mira didn’t believe in grovelling excuses – it was going to be an explanation. The photographs spoke for themselves. Somehow, the ugliness of them made her feel better, more like herself, and less like the woman she had been pretending to be all of her adult life. She was sick of pretending. Now the truth was out, she could not put it back.
If Barry understood the circumstances around the forced adoption, if he understood the backdrop of her family life, he might understand why she still yearned to meet her son.
Her joints creaked and snapped as she stood from the floor where she had been picking up the rejected cuttings. She was ready to take Barry the album.
He was sitting with his dinner on a tray in front of the television. She turned the television off and replaced his tray with her album. ‘Before you go to the pub, I wanted you to see this.’