Imprisoned by Love

by C. S. Brahams

  Principal Peter and I are the designated parent ambassa­dors; it will be our job to sell the school once again, and also to reassure parents that their children are in good hands. We don’t wear sashes but we do have name badges. We will keep repeating the mantra that it’s essential that the school matches the pupil and vice versa. No one wants to be a square peg in a round hole. Besides, we don’t wish to appear desperate.

  Parents are invited to stay for forty-five minutes (for light refreshments) and should return at 1 pm when the ordeal is over. The Year 6 (11 Plus examinees) will be tested on maths, English, verbal reasoning and non-verbal reasoning. They will receive a goody bag at the end which will include a Bond Street School bookmark; a tote bag with our school crest on it; a pen; a bar of chocolate and a fridge magnet. They will be given mini Magnum ice-creams in between the maths and English examination. Any more than this and we will be accused of corruption.

  Once the innocent lambs are escorted upstairs to the Long Hall, Liam explains the rules. He is far less officious with them than he is with our own pupils. After a period of silence, there is a soundless scribble and the tests are clearly under­way. Harry-the-Harrovian and I will oversee the marking whilst the rest of the department make their contribution. We accept most pupils so the whole process is something of a sham; however, we do place quite a lot of importance on the interview and the meet/greet with parents. We don’t want to encourage any difficult ones. Last year, we erroneously gave the children a choice of composition titles which included: “The Best Day of My Life”. Marking them was the “worst day” of my life: how many surprise parties have these chil­dren really been to? This year, we have set much more inter­esting titles such as: What’s your favourite museum and why? Co-educational schools are better than single-sex ones. Discuss. If I could be Prime Minister for a year. Write a campaign to save our environment and The Perfect Home.

  Once the day is over, the English department congre­gates in one of the classrooms and the maths department assembles in another. The department that marks the fastest takes the other one out for a drink. We know it’s prepos­terous. Caffeine and crisps on tap, in addition to the left­overs from the 11 Plus refreshments (we aren’t too proud to accept them) and we start. We begin with the verbal reason­ing as the maths department start with the nonverbal rea­soning. It is not subjective but we are all tired and we know we make mistakes; this is why we double mark everything. After about an hour, we have a five-minute comfort break. I decide not to check my mobile. It’s not that I don’t care. I promise myself that I will be a better wife tomorrow. We start marking the compositions. We separate them into three piles: offer, maybe and reject. The last pile is always the smallest. Some of the children have beautiful handwriting. Some can barely write at all. A few bright sparks write with flair and discuss the environment; enforcing laws to protect our oceans, mostly along those lines; whilst others write in lists, forcing adjectives into their sentences, just because they have learned them. My particular favourite this year is “incredulous” which must be on a tutor’s list, as at least a quarter of the cohort has used it whether it makes sense to or not.

  We are progressing well; however, I am a little disturbed by one of the entries and stop to re-read it; I know that this slows me down. But it seems important. The departmental race isn’t. The girl who has written the essay has tiny hand­writing; it’s almost apologising for being on the page. The title is: The Perfect Home. She has drawn a picture of a house next to the title. She won’t get any marks for this. As I read each paragraph, I can’t hide my discomfort. The girl (whom I shall call X) writes that a perfect home would be one with a sister or a brother so that she could have less attention. She could sleep the whole night through; have a lock on her door; not have to do “certain” things in exchange for pocket money. It gets worse. I decide to read the child’s closing paragraph to the rest of the department. It sounds like a case study from the Child Protection Course that I did last year. I put the paper on one side and write “REFER TO PETER” on the top.

  We are only about halfway through our marking when the smug maths department come tumbling into our class­room. They have finished. They’re going to the pub. We con­tinue until 10 pm Bond Street is buzzing. It’s Friday night for everyone else. I had almost forgotten. It could be any day of the week during the exam season. I cycle home, relieved that the roads are emptier than the pubs.

  When I enter our house, there’s a strong smell of gas. I walk straight into the kitchen and switch the lights on. There’s a small saucepan with two eggs in it; they’ve been boiled to death. The water has totally evaporated and the hob is still on. There is no sign of Michael but he has left his usual trail behind: cereal on the work surfaces; two slices of bread in the toaster; the Flora is on the kitchen table (without its lid) and the telephone is off the hook. Michael’s mobile (which he never uses anymore anyway) is also on the table. I rush up the stairs and check each room methodically. I call Matt; my friends Emma and Rosie; their husbands; Olivia and Eddie; my parents and finally the police. I dread to think what has happened. No one knows here he is. He hasn’t been arrested. I suppose that’s something.

  I am so weary and worn out that I just want to curl up and go to bed. I can’t lie down for fear of passing out, even though I am the world’s worst sleeper. I have got to find Michael. I don’t really like wandering around at night on my own, even in our area. I change into warmer, more com­fortable clothes, and put on my trainers. I take £20 with me and one debit card. I leave everything else behind, except for my mobile and house keys. I write Michael a large hand­written note saying that I am looking for him but will come back at various intervals. I am almost sleepwalking. I don’t even have a route planned. Various people approach me and ask me if I need help. I don’t accept. I don’t know who these people are. I keep going until I realise that it’s 2 am and I am almost back at work. The traffic lights look as though they’re dancing in some sort of haze; the rain starts buck­eting down, right on cue, and I am drenched. My mobile is down to 10% so I decide to switch if off to preserve the bat­tery until I really need it.

  I don’t know how I keep going. I am drunk with fatigue. My steps are becoming shorter and shorter until I collapse into the alcove of the flagship store, John Lewis, opposite Cavendish Square. I don’t even know why I am here. I have been to all the places that I think Michael might have gone to. After a few minutes, a homeless man gestures for me to leave. I am in his space. His rolled up sleeping bag is tucked neatly under his arm. Ex-army, perhaps? I realise that I am sitting on his cardboard. I am not too tired to say sorry; it’s something we British people say without thinking. It all seems totally futile. I make my way to the entrance of Bond Street School. Even if I had the keys on me, I don’t think I would go in. I sit on the steps and try to think where Michael might go. There is just one place left.

  Chapter 20

  Missing

  At 10 am I wake up, fully dressed and grimy, on the bed. The curtains are open and the lights are on. I cannot remember getting home. I feel totally disorientated. Is this an insight into dementia? If so, it is terrifying. I vow to be more sympa­thetic to Michael. I come downstairs to find both my parents and the twins sitting at the table; they’re all talking about me. They drove down earlier this morning. I say you can stop saying “she” and “mummy” because I am here now. I sound annoyed and resentful when I say this. I hate myself a bit more every day. My mother sends me straight back upstairs. My odour lingers behind me; it’s a combination of dried sweat (quite an achievement in the cold weather) and damp clothes. I run a bath, chuck my laundry into the washing machine and submerge myself in the water; I haven’t done this since Michael nearly drowned me. I wash my hair; dress in warm comfortable clothes and return to the kitchen. I am not wearing any makeup and my hair is still damp. I remind my parents to put a visitor’s permit in their car; it’s Saturday and the parking restrictions aren’t lifted until lunch time. I haven’t totally lo
st the plot.

  Olivia looks horrified at my natural state. I probably have more lines that she realised. I look pale and gaunt. It doesn’t suit me. A mug of tea is placed in my hand and I drink it in silence. Everyone else is making plans. My son, Eddie, is the note-taker. He has always had remarkably neat hand­writing. Missing posters will be printed off and plastered to lampposts and trees from here and beyond, all friends and contacts will be informed and asked to help find Michael, one of us will contact all the hospitals within a designated radius, his disappearance will be formally reported to the police again and we will use all modern methods of media to see if that helps. Eddie wants to know why I haven’t tagged his father. I explain that not only is there Life360 on his mobile (which I know he no longer uses) but his anorak has a GPS tracker sewn into the pocket and he is or was wearing an identify bracelet. We should be able to find him. But, of course. it is not that simple. Michael isn’t wearing the anorak of choice and the identify bracelet is in the bathroom next to washbasin. We are back to square one. We all have our spe­cific areas of research. Mine starts with the police station. Emma has offered to meet me there, once the ordeal is over.

  The business of reporting a missing person takes hours. He is “wandering” as opposed to “missing” though I fear it is tantamount to the same thing. I explain that his dementia makes him vulnerable and am about to launch into a descrip­tion of his illness when the policewoman interrupts me. She asks me for the Herbert Protocol form. I have never heard of it. I have no recollection of either of our GPs telling us to complete one. I start to question my own memory. I ask the officer to enlighten me. The Herbert Protocol form (safe and found) contains vital information which can help the police immediately start searching for the “wandering” person. If I had completed this form, and kept numerous copies, I would be able to instantly avail the police of all the information that they require. The policewoman hands me the nine-page document to complete now; better late than never, she says. She can see that I am visibly upset and puts her hand on my shoulder by way of reassurance. A little tear falls onto the first page which says “confidential when complete”.

  The second page is straightforward and simply requires facts like Mr Gradgrind from Hard Times: name, date of birth, address, etc. The third page centres on the diagnosis; the medical condition, any phobias, what he might be scared of, what the consequences are if the medicine isn’t taken and the person’s walking ability. I am able to answer all of these questions though I am not sure if Michael’s phobia of rats is what they’re after. I suppose it would make him vulnerable on the streets of any major city in the United Kingdom. The fourth page is of real interest to me as I explain to the police­woman that I think it is possible that Michael has tried to return to his childhood home or his parents’ grave. I also have to list his old school; his late parents’ address (which is in Staffordshire) and his former place of work (he’s not there this time). I ask if a search party can be sent to Stoke-on- Trent. I’m told to take one step at a time.

  I’m also asked to list Michael’s favourite activities; restau­rants and cafés; preferred hobbies and any special interests. He doesn’t have many hobbies though he enjoys swimming. He loved his job, reading the newspapers and spending time with the twins. He played the occasional game of golf and enjoyed walking. He can’t ride a bicycle. I’m getting a little frustrated with some of the questions on the form but the policewoman is patient and says it all helps. She brings me a mug of tea with sugar in it. I can’t drink it. I’m bemused by the question on page five; it wants to know his favourite cake. I write down chocolate though he also likes tiramisu. I add scones to the list for good measure but I am not sure if they count. My phone buzzes several times. My father has checked all the hospitals (by phone) and Michael definitely isn’t in any of them. He has been thorough. My mother has phoned all of our friends and his contacts (not that there were all that many); this has been time-consuming but equally fruitless. Olivia and Eddie have printed off hundreds of “Missing” posters. Olivia sends me a picture of the poster via WhatsApp: it looks like a wanted poster for murder. I complete the form and hand it to the policewoman (Sally) who will photocopy it and return it to me in a few minutes. She will leave me to respond to my messages. Just before she leaves the room, Sally asks me if I am happily married and sexually active.

  Emma arrives just as the photocopied Herbert Protocol forms are returned to me. I am so grateful for her company. I explain that my whole family are involved in Michael’s search. She’s wearing a soft white puffer coat that almost reaches her ankles. Emma is classically beautiful and would look glamorous in a binbag. She gives me a hug which lasts for a long time. Sally, who is about sixty, looks as though she wants to join in. I see that she isn’t wearing a wedding band or any rings, in fact. I’m not sure if members of the police force are allowed to when they’re on duty. I decide it would be impolite to ask.

  I send a text to the “immediate family group” giving them an update and asking for one in return. Messages flood in. Emma has brought her car – the one with the red leather seats – so we get in and drive to Michael’s late parents’ home in the vague hope that he might have been there or is still hanging around. The drive to Bradeley, Stoke-on-Trent, is going to take us about three hours; it’s over 150 miles but most of it is via motorways. The weather is still awful – though at least it’s dry – so I’m hopeful that most people won’t want to go out for the day. I feel so guilt-ridden for wasting Emma’s Saturday. She lightens the atmosphere saying that car needs some exercise; this is supposed to alle­viate my conscience. We chat from Luton to Northampton but by the time we reach Loughborough I am all talked out. We only stop once. When we arrive at Bradeley, I can see from Emma’s expression that it’s a far cry from Primrose Hill. Michael once took me to Staffordshire on the anni­versary of his parents’ death. We spent hours in their local pub: The Bradeley on Stratheden Road. Emma parks her car outside the large estate-style pub which is on the main road behind Smallthorne. I am not familiar with the area as we haven’t been back for years. It’s warm and full of atmo­sphere. It looks and feels like a good English pub should: not a restaurant-cum-gastropub with which I am more famil­iar. We order soft drinks and food at the bar. We’re given a number on a stick and place this on the table for two. We take turns to use the loo. I pop into the Gents just in case Michael is in there. He isn’t. I walk around the pub; check the snooker table; the huge beer garden (where there are several children playing “it”) and can’t see him. We eat lunch: baked potatoes with tuna and cheese. It’s comfort-food which we need.

  We revive a little and I pluck up the courage to ask the bar staff and the landlord whether they have seen Michael. I show them the “Missing” poster which is on my WhatsApp. I don’t have a hardcopy, unfortunately. The landlord, Bill, asks me to email him the poster. He will print it off and ask his son, who is also behind the bar, to put them up in all the key places. Bill is old enough to remember the fatal car accident that killed Michael’s parents. Most of the older locals do too. He hasn’t been in the pub but they will be ready to pounce on him if he does. I am overwhelmed by people’s kindness and sympathy. Bill refuses to take any money from us, saying that lunch is on the house. We drop a few pound coins into the charity box instead.

  We walk for a few minutes, straight down the Stratheden Road until we find Michael’s former family home. It’s a three-bedroom bungalow with a pretty front garden and a generous driveway. There’s a rail leading up to the door; I think it’s new as the previous owners were a young family. They must have moved on. An elderly lady answers the door but keeps the latch on. She looks frail and I am concerned that we have frightened her. I explain who we are ask her if we may come in. She’s a little nervous but acquiesces to our request.

  We sit down in her overheated but otherwise comfortable lounge. As we talk, I admire her ornaments and her photo­graphs. There’s one of her late husband dressed in full mili­tary uniform. And a f
ew of her daughter and grandchildren baking and gardening. We talk for about an hour. As we sit there, I can see a man wandering in the grassy field behind the back garden. I rush to the window and try to open it but it’s locked and the key is nowhere to be found. I say I think it could be him; it’s hard to tell because I don’t recognise the coat and he just looks like a speck. But the man is tall and has dark hair like Michael’s. I ask the old lady to open up the back door. Her fingers are bent with arthritis and I can see that holding and turning keys is difficult for her. I offer to open the door and do so quickly, shutting it behind me so that the heat doesn’t escape. It’s still very cold and I wonder how a homeless person can survive in it, especially in the countryside. I can see the man, stumbling across the grass behind the house. It’s not an allotment and it’s not a field. Just grass. I imagine that Michael played here when he was a boy. He often said he had more freedom than children have these days. I quicken my pace until I reach him. A scruffy old man wearing a greyish coat turns to look at me. He is so frightened that he cowers in my presence. He runs like a hare across the icy ground until he is a speck once more. There’s nothing we can do. It may be pointless but I am con­vinced that Michael is somewhere in this region.

  Emma doesn’t want to drive back in the dark, at least not the whole way, so we decide to visit the graveyard and then call it quits. We drive to Stoke Cemetery, which the locals call Hartshill. It is open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. We wander around, searching for Michael’s late par­ents’ gravestones; they were buried side by side. It’s virtually impossible. There are so many, both old and new. Some are shrouded in beautiful red poppies. Others are buried in long grass and dandelions. It is, however, a well-maintained place of rest. We continue to methodically work our way down the rows until we reach Mary and Edward Boswell. Someone has placed a bunch of flowers between the two of them. I wonder if Michael has been here. We keep looking, deter­mined to find something to reward us for our tenacity. We walk through the woodland garden of remembrance, hoping upon hope that we will find my elusive husband.