Losing Me (25 page)

They hadn’t been to her house in ages. And now that the weather wasn’t quite so bitter, Atticus and Cleo could kick a ball around in the garden. Jess gave in.

Inviting Rose hadn’t been easy. But in the end Barbara managed to put her emotions to one side and picked up the phone. Rose said that she’d been overdoing it and her ankle had puffed up again. If Barbara didn’t mind, she would give tea a miss. It occurred to her that Rose was refusing to come because she was angry with Barbara for raising issues that she would have preferred not to confront. “Mum—about the other day. Are you OK? I really didn’t mean to upset you. And if I did, I’m sorry.”

“Apology accepted,” Rose said briskly. “Now, can we please let the subject drop?”

“I just wanted to check you’re all right. That’s all.”

“Apart from my ankle, I’m fine. Now, then, how’s Cleo doing? Is she completely recovered now?”

Rose had shut down the conversation for a second time. Barbara had no plans to reopen it.

•   •   •

Jess and the children arrived without Matt. He’d organized somebody to cover for him at the deli, but they’d let him down at the last minute. Cleo, bright-eyed and back to her old self, was carrying a large plate. On it was a wonkily iced cake, festooned with candles. She held the plate out in front of her as if it were a velvet cushion bearing a precious jewel. “Me and Atticus iced it,” she said. Barbara took in the neon-pink icing and marveled at how far natural food colorings had come.

“We were going to write ‘happy birthday,’” Atticus said, “but then there wouldn’t have been room for the candles. There’s exactly fifty-nine. We counted them out to make sure. Fifty-nine’s very old, isn’t it?”

“Not if you’re a tree,” Barbara said, relieving Cleo of the cake. “Did you know they live for hundreds of years?” She thanked Cleo and Atticus for all their hard work and said that she couldn’t wait to taste the cake.

“Do you want to see my inhaler?” Cleo said. “It’s for when I start coughing.” She asked Jess to get it out of her bag so that she could do show-and-tell. “You put it inside your mouth, press and then you breathe in the spray really hard.” She offered it to Barbara to try.

“I’ll have a go,” Ben said. “So what sort of a hit do you get?”

“Oh, most amusing,” Jess said. She relieved her brother of the inhaler and put it back in her bag.

The kids also presented Barbara with homemade cards. Atticus had drawn Spider-Man, who was meant to be rescuing Barbara from a blazing building. Cleo’s picture was of a person lying in bed. “It’s that old dead lady from the hospital. Do you think she’s in heaven now?”

Barbara figured that if the old lady on the trolley hadn’t been dead, she was looking none too well.

“I think she might well be,” Barbara said. At the same time she thought it odd that Cleo had decided a picture of a dying old lady would make a nice birthday card for her grandma. Kids were odd creatures.

She asked the children if they would mind going into the kitchen to fetch the paper napkins. Ben went with them to find matches for the candles. He was back a few moments later.

“So, Jess,” he said, “did you hear about the bloke who forgot to take his homeopathic medicine and died of an overdose?”

“Mum, tell him to give me a break. I’ve had Matt going at me. I don’t need Ben as well.”

“Your sister’s right. Apologize for teasing her.”

“It was a joke.”

“I said apologize.”

“What am I? Eight?”

“Ben, for the last time. Do as you’re told.”

“OK . . . Sorry.”

“Whatever,” Jess said, glaring at her brother. “You smell.”

“So do you.” Then: “Ouch! What was that? Did you just pinch me?. . . Mum, Jess just pinched me.”

“Good.”

Cleo and Atticus laid Father Christmas napkins—the only ones they could find—beside each plate.

“Now can we do presents, Grandma?”

There was posh body lotion from the children. Jess, Matt and Ben had bought Barbara a bottle of champagne and a long silk scarf. Splodges of vivid orange, lilac and fuchsia blended and bled into one another like an expressionist painting. Barbara adored it and insisted on wearing it while she served tea.

After they’d all sung “Happy Birthday,” the children put on their coats and went outside in search of spiders. They were pining for Cyril, who had expired before he could be rehomed. The grown-ups sat at the table finishing the champagne.

“Thank you again for my fabulous scarf,” Barbara said. She got up and kissed her children in turn.

“I just want you to know how much I love you both. Now you’re all grown up, I don’t say it often enough.”

“Mum’s had too much to drink,” Ben said to his sister. “Now she’s older, it goes to her head more easily.”

“Stop it. Can’t a mother tell her children she loves them without being accused of senile drunkenness?”

Cleo appeared in the doorway, trainers caked in mud, her head tilted to one side.

“Grandma, is there a spell to make yourself into a mermaid?”

Chapter 10

L
ater that week, Jack Dolan called to say that the family had received the report on Freddie from the dyslexia clinic. To his surprise, it was all pretty straightforward and didn’t need any translation. As Barbara had suspected, Freddie was mildly dyslexic.

“Which means,” Jack said, “that he won’t need any more coaching for a posh senior school.”

Barbara asked if he thought that Sally and Jeremy might like her to carry on giving him extra help anyway.

“I’m not sure he’s feeling up to it just now.”

He explained that although Sally and Jeremy were slowly coming round to the idea that their son was dyslexic, Freddie hadn’t taken the news at all well.

“He was upset before the assessment, but now he’s in a real state, poor chap. He’s decided he’s a dunce. Only kids don’t use that word these days. He refers to himself as a ‘retard.’ I keep telling him that they think Einstein and Leonardo da Vinci were dyslexic, but he’s not interested. Sally and his dad are really worried about him. I’m on my own with him at the moment. Usually we get along like a house on fire, but he’s even lashing out at me because he’s so angry.”

“I am so sorry. It can’t be easy. Is there anything I can do?”

“To be honest, I could do with some advice. I’m not sure I’m handling the situation very well. I have to admit that I’ve lost my temper with him a couple of times. I was wondering if you and I could meet up for a spot of lunch and a chat.”

Barbara said she would be glad to offer what advice she could. She also had a couple of ideas about suitable schools. They arranged to meet the following day at the Baker’s Arms in Islington.

“Sorry to ask you to come to me,” Jack said. “But I have to pick Freddie up from school at three.”

•   •   •

Barbara had intended to leave home around midday. Even in traffic, the journey wouldn’t take more than an hour. Instead she left at ten thirty. While she was having her early-morning coffee, she realized that she wanted—or rather needed—to take a detour . . . to Jubilee Primary. She had no desire to go inside, much less speak to any of the staff. Despite mutual promises to stay in touch, she’d barely spoken to any of them since she left. It was her fault. She hadn’t made the effort. She supposed that deep down she resented them all for having jobs. She suspected that for their part, having found out from Sandra that she’d had some—albeit not severe—mental-health problems, they weren’t sure what to say to her.

All she wanted to do was sit outside in her car for a few minutes. She was losing her connection with the place and she couldn’t bear it. The sane part of her knew that her proposed pilgrimage would only make her more miserable, but she was determined to go.

She sat in the silence—the car windows misting up—staring into the playground, hoping nobody would see her. All she needed was people thinking she’d turned into some psycho ex-employee with a grudge.

The rational part of her had been right. Being at the school only reignited her gut-wrenching feelings of loss, her anger at being cast aside. She knew she should drive away. But again, she couldn’t. Instead, she got out of the car. Before she knew it, she was crossing the busy main road and walking into the Orchard Farm Estate. She found herself heading for the bench in the playground—the one she’d come upon that day in the rain—the day she got fired. What was she doing to herself? Was this some kind of Magical Misery Tour?

As she sat down, she noticed that the bench was covered in the same graffiti. Stacey was still a slag. Everything about the place was the same. The litter. The dog shit. The wind, which still felt like it was blowing in directly from the Russian Steppes.

As usual, the playground was empty. Barbara wondered why. Save for the wind, it was an OK enough day. Parental lethargy was the all-too-likely answer. But she suspected it was a lethargy born of despondency and depression. She imagined all these babies and toddlers stuck in smoke-filled flats day after day, filling up on junk, the TV blaring.

Her gaze shifted from the playground to the boarded-up community center a few yards away: a gray, stained-concrete lump spray-painted with fuzzy penises. Even in its short-lived heyday the place hadn’t been up to much. Inside, if Barbara remembered rightly, there had been a hall—just about big enough for a couple of table tennis tables—and a couple of toilets.

When the community center closed, Barbara remembered Sandra going on about how it failed only because the council refused to move with the times and get some commercial backing. This would, she said, have paid for decent equipment, a full-time manager on a proper salary and competent, enthusiastic staff. In her opinion, the local council should have appointed somebody to go out and woo the banks and big businesses. But it hadn’t happened. “They couldn’t be bothered to get off their backsides. Nobody cared. Shame on the whole bloody lot of them.” It wasn’t often that Barbara agreed with her boss, but she had on this occasion.

Sandra—in a rare moment of derring-do—had written a letter to the council begging them to reopen the center. Some low-level functionary had written back pleading poverty:
Sadly no monies are available to ourselves to reopen said building at this present moment in time.

Barbara stared at a spiky scrotum and wondered if it was worth contacting the council again to see if they would be prepared to renovate the building and reopen the center. Maybe she could set up a committee of local do-gooders and get a petition going. Lord knows she had the time, and after all the years she’d spent doing battle with social services, the idea of taking on the council didn’t remotely faze her.

She got up and ambled over to the concrete lump. Only now did she notice that the asphalt roof had pretty much collapsed. One of the boarded-up windows had been bashed in, so she was able to peer inside. It was dark, but she could make out enough to see that floor was a lake of water. The place stank of rot and wet and urban fox spray. She could make out a couple of car tires lying on the floor, along with an overturned supermarket trolley and great chunks of what she took to be collapsed roof.

Barbara was no expert, but it seemed to her that the building was beyond repair. What it needed was bulldozing and replacing. A new community center that was more than just a brutalist concrete hall with a Coke machine would cost, what? A million? Maybe more. Because of cuts in central government funding, the council had even less money now than it had when they shut down the center. The situation was so dire that they were closing nursery schools and drop-in centers for the elderly. There was no point approaching them about the community center. The idea was laughable.

The sky had clouded over. Thinking it might be about to rain, Barbara decided to head back to her car. She’d reacquainted herself with the school and the neighborhood—for what it was worth. Now it was time to go.

She’d walked a dozen paces or so when her phone rang. It was Sandra. She sounded as if she was on the verge of tears.

“Sandra, what on earth’s the matter?”

“I just got a call from Maureen at social services. Troy’s mum is in hospital. The boyfriend came back in the middle of the night and went for her with a hammer.”

“Jesus.” Barbara should have been shocked, but she wasn’t. Instead all she felt was rage. “That poor girl. I knew he’d come back. I just knew it.”

“He was high on drink and drugs apparently. The police found him on her bed, semiconscious, with a needle in his arm. She’s in the hospital with serious head injuries. They’ve put her on a ventilator. They’re not sure if she’s going to make it.”

Barbara’s fury and fear over Tiffany turned to panic. “What about the kids? Are they OK?”

“Troy and Lacie are at the hospital being checked out. Apparently Troy tried to get away on his bike, but he fell off and hurt his shoulder. Otherwise he and Lacie appear to be fine—physically at least. I don’t know how much Troy saw of what happened. Maureen’s with them at the hospital. She wanted me to call you because Troy is really distressed and asking for you.”

“Me? But doesn’t he have family? Grandparents, aunts, uncles?”

“Apparently there’s nobody.”

She was right. Barbara remembered Tiffany telling her that her family was either dead or locked up.

•   •   •

The receptionist at the ER remembered Troy and Lacie coming in with a social worker. “Police dropped them off. Both in their pajamas, poor little mites. The boy was covered in mud. He didn’t say a word. Apparently, the mother’s in the ICU. So what happened?”

“The thing is, I’m in a bit of a hurry,” Barbara said. “Do you happen to know where they are?”

She seemed annoyed that Barbara wasn’t about to furnish her with all the gory details. Nevertheless, she directed her to X-ray. Troy was having his shoulder checked out. The attack had happened in the small hours. Why was he only now going to X-ray? Surely they hadn’t kept him waiting all this time. Then it occurred to her that the police would have needed to take a statement from him. Troy would have been in shock. It had probably taken forever to get anything out of him.

Barbara got there just as Troy was being taken into the X-ray room. The radiographer was telling the woman with him—Maureen, she assumed—that she would have to wait outside. The door closed.

“Maureen? Hi, I’m Barbara Stirling—Troy’s teacher. We spoke on the phone.”

“Of course.” Maureen offered up a weary smile and the two women shook hands.

“So how is he? Where’s Lacie?”

Maureen explained that Lacie had been given the all clear by the doctors and was on her way to emergency foster care. Troy would join her later. “He’s in a terrible state, poor lad. He’s hardly said a word. It was a real struggle for the police to get anything out of him. But all the time, he’s kept asking for you. He says you’re his favorite teacher.”

“I guess I’ve taken him under my wing lately. . . . So, did he see the attack?”

“Apparently not, thank God. He’d escaped on his bike by then.”

Barbara looked at Maureen in her battered boots, her trench coat that wasn’t long for this world. Judging by her pallor and puffy eyes, she’d just come off a night shift. Either that or she’d been woken out of her sleep by a call from the police and had dragged herself out of bed, not knowing what horror she was going to find when she reached Tiffany’s house. Maureen was underpaid and overworked. Barbara understood all that. But it didn’t stop her being angry.

“When we spoke,” she said, “you promised me faithfully that you would look after this family.”

“We did our best.”

“I’d hate to see your worst.”

Maureen didn’t get angry. Instead she let out a slow breath. “Look . . . Wayne was off the scene. Tiffany was coping. We found a way for her to claim extra benefits to help with her bills, and the children seemed to be doing OK. There was a case conference and it was decided . . .”

“. . . to stop visiting.”

“Not entirely. But we scaled back visits, yes.”

“And this is the result. Wayne came back and beat Tiffany half to death. The woman’s on a ventilator. She might die.”

“I know. And I don’t know what to say other than I’m sorry.”

“What bloody use is
sorry
? This is a tragedy that should never have happened. Those kids might be about to lose their mother because the department—which you head up—decided to ‘scale back visits.’” Barbara was aware of balls of spit coming out of her mouth.

“Barbara, you need to calm down. Getting angry won’t do anybody any good.”

“Don’t tell me what to do. I won’t calm down. This family is just another statistic to the police and social services. You don’t care. Not really.”

“You know what?” Maureen came back, finally losing it. “You’re right, we do get hardened. And if you did my job, so would you. It’s how we survive. And given the resources we have, we do our best. I do my best. This time I made a bad call. I got it wrong and I will have to live with my mistake. Like I said, I’m sorry.” Maureen was tearing up. Barbara knew she had gone too far. Maureen wasn’t as hardened as she made out.

“You’ll make sure the children are kept together, right?” Barbara said, the accusation gone from her voice.

“Of course. We’d never let them be separated.”

“I guess that’s something. . . . Look . . . I’m sorry for losing my temper. I know your job isn’t easy. If I’m honest, it’s me I’m angry with—for not going to see Troy and checking they were all OK.”

“You can’t blame yourself,” Maureen said. “I was in charge. In my defense, I did try to get her into a women’s refuge, but she was so convinced that this Wayne character wasn’t coming back.”

“I know. I tried too.”

“And then what do you know?. . . He came back. I should have assumed he would. They always do.”

“Hindsight’s a wonderful thing,” Barbara said.

She found herself glancing at the hospital clock. It was after twelve. She remembered her lunch date with Jack. She needed to postpone it. She excused herself, went over to the drinks machine and called his number.

“Good God,” he said after she’d explained what was going on. “So, is the mother going to make it?”

“They don’t know. . . . Anyway, I was wondering if we could take a rain check on lunch.”

“Absolutely. No problem. Do what you have to do.”

•   •   •

The woman radiographer held Troy’s hand as he came out of the X-ray room. He looked so pitiful in his faded Spider-Man pajamas, which were at least two sizes too small for him and covered in dried-up mud from his fall.

Troy didn’t run sobbing into Barbara’s arms. Instead he trudged towards her. His exhausted, puffy face was streaked with muddy tears.

“Wayne hurt my mum.”

“I know, my darling.” She sat down on one of the metal chairs and lifted him onto her lap.

“He kicked the door down. I ran away to find the police. It was dark and I was scared and I didn’t want to go to the people next door ’cos he would have bashed them up, too, and then I fell off my bike and hurt my shoulder and my bike’s all bashed up and doesn’t work anymore and then the police brought me and Lacie here. . . .”