Looking for JJ (23 page)

Jennifer put the paper down after she’d read every line about herself. She was surprised to see Patricia Coffey still sitting at the other end of the settee, her hands clasped, looking nervous. Jennifer didn’t speak. She was too full of hurt and fury. If she opened her mouth it might pour out like vomit.

Her mother, the model. The visits stopped. Jennifer didn’t want them any more.

 

Alice was dressed. She picked up her holdall which Rosie had repacked for her. Rosie was hovering, brushing dust off the sleeves of her suit. She had pulled her hair back severely and for once had no jewellery on at all. It looked as though she was in mourning.

Jill spoke, crisply:

“I am going to go out to the reporters and tell them I’ve got a statement for them. I’ll walk down to my car and distract them for a few moments. You must slip out then and go to the end of the road. My husband’s in a black saloon car there and he’s waiting for you. Don’t do anything dramatic like covering your face, you’ll only draw attention to yourself. Put some dark glasses on. That’ll be enough. If you’re quick they won’t be able to catch you up.”

“How long do I have to stay away?” Alice said, clutching her holdall.

“I don’t know. We’ll have to discuss it later. I’ll come and see you tonight when I’ve spoken to a few people.”

Rosie was at her side, quietly fiddling with her earlobe. Alice saw something in her face that she couldn’t quite grasp, an expression she’d never seen before. It was the suit, probably, the lack of any make-up, the stress of it all.

“Let’s go.”

Jill said it with an encouraging smile. They walked down the stairs one behind the other. Jill went out first, leaving the front door ajar. The reporters followed her up the street to where her car was and started to talk to them about Alice. Rosie and Alice walked quietly out and turned in the opposite direction. Nobody, none of the reporters noticed them. In moments they were at the corner and saw the black Ford car waiting, its engine idling. They got in. Jill’s husband said hello as he looked around, reversing back so that they could pull out and get away.

Alice, breathless, sat behind him and peered nervously out of the window, expecting to see the reporters turning the corner and running at the car. There was nothing, though. She focused on the indicator light that was blinking on and off. They were waiting to move out but a car was coming. It slowed as it approached them, intending to turn into Rosie’s road. They would have to wait for it to pass before moving out themselves.

When it drew level Alice looked in, her eyes drawn to the back seat where a woman was smoking a cigarette, her arm casually resting on the open window, flicking the ash on to the road. The woman’s face turned towards her.

It was her mother.

The hair was shorter and stiffer, the face a little fuller. Carol Jones put the cigarette between her dark red lips and sucked on it.
When had she started to smoke?
Alice couldn’t know. She laid her head on the glass, a pain across her chest, her ribs tightening like a vice. She pulled her dark glasses off and caught her mother’s eye. It was brief, just a flicker of acknowledgement; one back-seat passenger to another. Then her mother turned away, oblivious, and continued talking to the person next to her.

The car turned into Rosie’s street, and then Jill’s husband pulled out and the black Ford sped away unnoticed by anyone. In the back seat were two women. Only one would return later that day.

 

 

 

The safe house was in Hampshire. It was the home of another probation officer and Alice was only to spend the night there. The woman, an old friend of Jill’s, was called Margaret, and she greeted them holding a sleeping baby over one shoulder. Jill’s husband left them there and Margaret told them to come in in a hushed voice. Alice felt awkward walking into a messy living room, a baby carrier on the coffee table and bits of baby paraphernalia scattered everywhere. Rosie immediately began to talk to Margaret about the baby, its habits, its feeding and its weight. Alice sat on a chair, tongue-tied, still clutching her holdall. She felt like she had landed in another world.

Margaret laid the baby in its carrier.

“This is Emmie,” she said.

Then she made some tea and they sat down around a small kitchen table and talked about Alice’s degree course; what subject she was going to study, where she was going, whether she was going to stay in halls or rent a flat. It was all nice chitchat and it made time pass. When it was over and Margaret was washing and drying the mugs Alice started to cry. The ordinariness of the room suddenly distressed her: the teapot, the messy kitchen table, the washed baby’s bottle upside down on the draining board. These were the important things of everyday life and yet Alice had no right to them. The upset came suddenly with no warning. Her jaw began to tremble and in a single blink she felt her eyes blur and then the tears ran in hot beads down her face. Rosie didn’t notice immediately. It was Margaret who stopped drying a mug and looked at her with concern.

“Oh, Alice,” Rosie said, getting up and standing beside her.

Alice stood up and pushed her head into Rosie’s chest. It felt odd, not so warm or soft as usual. It was the suit. The one she wore to go to court. The material was hard and dark and seemed, to Alice, like some sort of armour. After a few moments Rosie led her into the living room and she found a space to sit on the sofa. Margaret followed them in, carrying Emmie over her arm as if she was in a shopping basket.

“Alice, I don’t know you, but Jill tells me you’re a really good person and you’ll get through this,” she said.

Pat Coffey, Jill, Rosie, now Margaret. They all thought she was a good person. Maybe she was.

“You could watch television, but I might as well warn you that it’s bound to be on the news.”

Alice nodded. She might as well see the worst. She picked up the remote and switched to a news channel. After fifteen minutes or so there was an item on her. The newscaster giving brief details of the Berwick Waters story. In the corner of the screen was the photo of ten-year-old Jennifer Jones. The scene changed then to the street outside Rosie’s house. There, amid a group of reporters, was her mother. There was no cigarette at her lips, just a bunched-up white tissue that she was holding, like a wilted flower. Someone had just asked her how she felt about not seeing her daughter for so long. Her mum took a deep breath as if it was taking every ounce of strength she had to say a word.

Alice turned it off. She didn’t want to hear the answer.

Margaret picked Emmie out of the carrier.

“Would you hold her for me while I get her lunch stuff?”

Alice sat back as Margaret placed the tiny baby on her lap. She seemed to weigh almost nothing and was struggling, moving her legs and arms, her eyes half shut and her mouth turning towards Alice’s breast. Rosie was sitting beside her whispering endearments. The sound of the telephone stopped her and she looked round.

“Rosie, it’s Jill,” Margaret shouted.

“I’ll be back,” Rosie said.

Margaret appeared with a bottle of feed. She took Emmie from Alice’s lap and sat on the other chair with her. The baby sucked hungrily at the teat and Alice watched as her hands seemed to pause in mid-air, her tiny fingers open, her body still and heavy with contentment.

While the baby was feeding Alice tried to listen to what Rosie was saying from out in the hallway. Pushing her thumbnail against her teeth she wondered what Jill had planned for her. The tone of Rosie’s voice was even, there were no exclamations or protestations. That was a good sign. There were long silences though, as if Jill had lots to say, masses of information to get across. Occasionally Rosie’s voice sounded businesslike.
Absolutely! As soon as I get off the phone! Right away!
It made Alice think of Rosie in court with one of her social-work cases. Wearing her special suit and sounding efficient and in charge. It made Alice smile. How different Rosie was at home. How simple it was to get round her; how easy it was for Kathy to boss her.

The call ended and Rosie came back into the living room. Alice looked closely at her face trying to read what was there. Rosie’s mouth was turned up in a half-smile, her eyebrows raised slightly, expectantly. Alice tried to catch her eye but she couldn’t. It gave her a bad feeling.

Margaret got up, cradling the baby.

“This always happens! She falls asleep before she’s finished the bottle. I’ll take her upstairs for a nap. Give you two a bit of space.”

The room felt empty when Margaret and the baby had gone. She was there and Rosie was there but there was something big missing. The baby’s things looked awkward, at angles; a rattle had rolled under the seat opposite and looked forlorn, as if it would never be found.

“Alice.”

Rosie’s voice broke into her thoughts.

“What did she say?” Alice said, knowing full well that it was going to be bad.

“Nobody got any pictures of you this morning. Jill is really pleased about that. It makes her job much easier.”

Alice had become Jill’s
job
. Maybe she always had been. Not for Rosie, though. She and Rosie had something more, something Jill with her painted nails and her smart glasses couldn’t have.

“Jill is organizing a new placement. It will mean a change of location. A new name. Everything else is just the same, though. You’ll still go to uni. In time, if there are no leaks, the newspapers will forget you and you can live a normal life.”

“I won’t be going to Sussex?” she said, a fleeting picture of Frankie passing through her head.

“No. Some other uni. They all do History degrees.”

“We’ll have to move,” Alice said, under her breath, her hand clutching on to Rosie’s arm.

Rosie was very still, her eyes on the carpet.

“You have to do this on your own, Alice,” she said.

There was a moment’s silence. Alice’s chest seemed to swell up like a balloon. She pushed her bottom into the seat in case she rose up and floated away.

“But
you’ll
be coming with me?”

Rosie shook her head, her lips closed together in a tight line.

“Why not?”

Rosie didn’t answer.

“But you could!” Alice gushed. “You’re a social worker, you could work anywhere. We could both change our names. You could buy a new house. You’re always saying that the flat is too small. We could look for one together. It would be fun. . .”

Rosie was shaking her head.

“Why not?” Alice asked, the words floating up from somewhere deep down in her chest.

“Alice, I’d do anything to help you. You’re such a sweet lovely girl and you’ve had such an awful time, but. . .”

“Why?”

“I can’t leave my home, my job, my friends. I can’t leave my mum!”

Her mum. Rosie loved her mum. Alice thought of Kathy with her smart clothes and her stiff lacquered hair. She was so different to what Alice had expected. She’d thought Rosie’s mum would be an older version of her: plump, grey hair, good cook, always searching round charity shops for clothes. But Kathy had burst through the flat door with her red hair and matching coordinates. She was always trying to persuade Rosie to go to Majorca when really Rosie wanted to go round the world. Why should Alice have thought they would be similar? Look at her own mum. She was nothing like her.

“We could go on a long holiday.” Alice’s words hiccuped out, her hands trembling.

Rosie shook her head. She seemed unable to speak.

“I’d go anywhere for you, Rosie. Why won’t you come with me?”

“I can’t. I have my life here,” Rosie whispered, brushing down the dark hard material of her suit skirt.

Alice sat perfectly still, on the settee, among the baby clothes and jars of cream. She was looking at her reflection in the television screen. A small girl tucked into the side of a settee. At the other end a big woman with a life of her own. From above she could hear Margaret’s footsteps, the boards creaking with fatigue.

“I’ve checked with Jill. We can still see each other. I can come and visit you, in your new uni. We can still be friends,” Rosie said.

Alice didn’t look around.

“Course we can,” she said, even though she knew it wasn’t true.