The Bad Mother (13 page)

Tessa placed the letter down on her desk, aware that her hand was shaking. She took a deep breath, trying to
identify what she felt. There was relief from uncertainty: Erin’s account of her conception was true – it had been a youthful holiday romance – and she had found her father. There was some excitement about the unknown, about having to rise to this challenge. And there was dread.

She picked up the letter again. The handwriting was distinctive, each letter clear and well-formed, the words precisely spaced and the date written in Roman numerals. She liked the apparent fastidiousness, telling herself it signalled an articulate, educated man. She noted how gracefully Roy Weaver acknowledged his offence – describing himself as undeserving – and the considerate way he suggested she might like to visit, leaving it easy for her to decline or postpone. She tried to imagine him as he must have been when he and Erin had met, the same as every generation of young men that she had watched come and go each summer, and to picture him promenading arm-in-arm with the admiring girl from the seafront boarding house, the sun shining as they went off in search of a grassy hollow at the edge of the marshes where they could be alone and private together. Unless she decided otherwise, this was the only part of his life that need concern her. And, she reminded herself, the decision was entirely hers. This thought gave her confidence: however much she could wish for a less uncomfortable father figure, Roy Weaver’s predicament unquestionably put her in control.

She did, however, freely acknowledge how disappointed she was to discover she had no siblings. She realised how
she’d seen a meeting with Roy Weaver as a chance to relive her childhood, to retrieve an alternative identity as someone else’s child, as a member of a different clan. She’d enjoyed falling asleep recently already semi-dreaming about the amazing bond that would exist between herself and a younger sister, or adventures she might share with a gang of brothers. She’d hoped to be introduced to a version of herself she had never known, to slip into a new constellation, another galaxy, another solar system. It was a compelling notion, and she let go of it now with regret. But, recalling Declan’s harsh realism, at least Roy would be free to welcome her into his life without fear of awkward complications with an existing family. And she consoled herself that his childlessness would allow their relationship to take centre stage.

As Tessa began to compose various possible replies in her mind, feeling her way into what action she might take, she was interrupted by the office door opening. It was Carol, with a brightly patterned make-up bag in her hands. ‘The guests in number four left this behind,’ she announced.

Pushing Roy’s letter out of sight under some other papers on her desk, Tessa took it from her. ‘Thanks. No doubt they’ll realise once they get home again.’

Tessa reached over to put it on top of the filing cabinet, then glanced at her computer screen, hoping that Carol wouldn’t want to stay and chat.

‘Got a bit more time to yourself now the kids are back at school,’ Carol observed from the doorway.

‘Yes. A lot to catch up on though.’

‘I saw Mitch made friends with Tamsin Crawford in the holidays,’ Carol went on. ‘They walk the Crawfords’ spotty dog together.’

‘Really?’

‘Did you not know?’

Tessa caught a glint of satisfaction in Carol’s eye and laughed. ‘Mitch is seventeen. I don’t keep tabs on him any more!’

‘Have you met Mr Crawford?’

‘No, not yet.’

‘You know I’m friends with Sonia Beeston, who works for him?’

‘Of course.’

‘He’s a generous employer, but she says there’s all sorts goes on at the house.’ Carol paused significantly. ‘Drugs and stuff.’

‘Well, I doubt the dog’s involved,’ Tessa observed lightly.

‘Cocaine, apparently,’ Carol persisted. ‘Sonia says they don’t even bother trying to hide it.’

‘Mitch and I have talked about drugs,’ said Tessa firmly. ‘He’s very sensible.’

Carol nodded. ‘All the same, you know what those people are like. If anything happens, a man like Mr Crawford won’t rush to blame himself.’

‘Thanks, Carol.’ Tessa tried to hide her irritation. Carol had watched Mitch and Lauren grow up and was undoubtedly fond of them, but all the same Tessa didn’t want to sanction Sonia’s gossip against her employer in case Carol
reciprocated by running to Sonia with tales of her own. ‘I appreciate your concern.’ She turned back to her desk. ‘Call me if you want a hand turning the mattress in number three.’

Carol pursed her lips but accepted her dismissal. Relieved, Tessa waited until she heard her ascending footsteps before withdrawing Roy’s letter from its concealment. She looked again at the neat architectural handwriting, her
father’s
handwriting, a father thrilled to meet his daughter for the first time. Of course she would go! Ready for a life outside the petty, gossipy confines of Felixham, she dialled the number printed on the Visiting Order.

NINETEEN

HMP Wayleigh Heath was, like Whitemoor, a modern prison, set in an equally featureless stretch of countryside. Tessa parked and looked around. She’d been too flustered to ask for information when she’d phoned to book the visit, and was now unsure where she was supposed to go. The high concrete walls dominated the view, but off to one side was a single-storey building with large windows, all the woodwork painted red, green and blue like the forced cheerfulness of a primary school. Noticing an elderly couple leave their car and walk towards it, she decided to follow.

Inside was one large room with fixed rows of chairs. No one looked up when Tessa entered. Most of those already seated were young women, some keeping watch on a small play area where three or four toddlers eyed each other warily; the older people waited silently, as if both resigned and disappointed at having to be here. Tessa joined a small queue behind the couple from the car park in front of a desk where a man in a short-sleeved white uniform shirt sat before a computer terminal.

When it was her turn, the officer took her Visiting Order and asked for some ID, taking meticulous note of the details of her driver’s licence. ‘Do you want some tokens?’ he asked.

‘Tokens? I’m sorry. I’ve not been before.’

He looked at her without curiosity. ‘You can’t take money in, but you can exchange cash for tokens to buy tea and biscuits. You can take in reading glasses, tissues and essential medication. Everything else goes in a locker.’ He nodded towards the back wall, where she now noticed rows of grey metal doors.

‘I brought some photographs. Can I take those?’

She started to take the envelope out of her bag, but he looked at her wearily. ‘You can hand them in.’

‘Will I get them back?’

‘Ask the prisoner to return them on your next visit.’

‘Ok.’

‘You want to hand them in?’

Tessa thought quickly. She had told no one about having written to Roy, let alone visiting him, so had been forced to dissemble when asking Pamela for photos of Erin as a girl. Since Averil had never owned a camera, Pamela had only been able to produce half a dozen snaps, half of those annual school photos, and Tessa wasn’t ready to part with them. But equally she had to be sure that Roy remembered Erin, that he
was
her father. Impulsively, she handed the envelope over, signed where the officer asked her to, and exchanged a few coins for some bent cardboard tokens. The officer wrote a number on her VO and gave it back
to her, then looked past her to the next person in the queue.

‘Sorry, but what do I do now?’

‘Wait for your number to be called.’ He was already reaching past her for another set of paperwork.

Tessa moved aside and found herself an unoccupied seat beside a restless little boy who was evidently with his grandmother. She felt bad about parting so recklessly with the photos. It had been terrible deceiving Pamela, especially when she’d seemed so pleased by Tessa’s interest in Erin. But Tessa had bolstered herself with the idea that she needed a little longer to explore the sensation of living with withheld knowledge, to taste the corrosive power offered by the possession of a secret and to match their silences with her own. She fortified herself now with the idea that Pamela and Hugo must have felt similarly empowered by not telling
her
the truth. If her secret was creating a rift between them, then it was they who must find a way to mend it.

The little boy kept kicking his chair, jolting hers, but she didn’t like to move elsewhere. In an attempt to distract herself, she took a proper look around. The walls were festooned with posters and welfare notices about help with drugs, alcohol, debt and housing, or other legal advice, many repeated in different languages. Covertly observing her fellow visitors, Tessa was guiltily aware of her great good fortune in being decently nourished and provided for. She chose not to think about what would have become of her if Hugo and Pamela had abandoned her to the Care
system; the endless possibilities of the other adoptive parents and families she might have had were dizzying and pushed her sense of disloyalty to disquieting levels.

Beside her, the boy set his sights on the play area and struggled to free himself from his grandmother’s grip. Catching Tessa’s eye, the grandmother winked then turned to the boy. ‘If you don’t do as you’re told,’ she said, ‘that nice officer over there will take you away and lock you up with a great big key.’

The boy subsided immediately. Avoiding further eye contact with the grandmother Tessa made her way to the toilets, remembering that she wanted to freshen her lipstick before locking away her bag.

On every cubicle door and over the mirror and hand-dryers were more notices, this time about domestic violence and the penalties for smuggling drugs into the prison. Tessa dug in her bag for a comb. She’d had her hair cut the week before and it fell into neat layers, framing her face. She applied lipstick, then stared at herself in the mirror, examining her bone structure, the colour of her eyes, the shape of her mouth: would the man she was about to meet look anything like this? She was horribly nervous. She had lain awake the night before, rehearsing what to say, fearful that, once they met Roy Weaver would dismiss her story or think her stupid. Even if he did accept that he was her father, she was unsure what more she really wanted from him. She looked again at her face, but the endless notices about drugs and violence reflected in the mirror bore down on her like the special
effects in some old Hollywood film where the actor fears they are going mad. This was not her world, she did not belong here, yet she remained certain that she had to meet this man. What would her father think of her? Would he like her? To want a prison inmate to be proud of her was ridiculous and yet mattered desperately to her.

The door opened and a young woman with a fierce, pinched face, her thin bare legs mottled as if with cold but wearing little but a skimpy vest and a short skirt, slid into a cubicle and bolted the door. Tessa pulled herself together and went out. She locked away her bag and went back to her seat, relieved when a moment later the little boy and his grandmother had their number called and left to go across to the prison. Visits had begun at two o’clock, and although she had arrived ten minutes or so before, it now dawned on her how many other people ahead of her were still waiting. There were some tattered magazines and a discarded tabloid on a side table, and she despised herself for not wanting to touch them. She took a deep breath, resolving to imagine that she was at an airport waiting to be called for a holiday flight.

It was another forty minutes before her number was called. She followed the elderly couple the hundred yards or so across to an open door beside the massive main gate. Inside was a hive of activity as jackets, shoes and baby equipment were passed through an X-ray machine. Tessa took her turn walking through the metal detector and stood with her arms obediently outspread as an officer passed a wand around her body. She then took her place
on a small plinth while a female officer patted her down, checking inside the waistband of her jeans and the neckline of her sweater before asking her to open her mouth and squinting inside. Tessa put her shoes back on and, following the example of the elderly couple, held out her hand to be stamped with a fluorescent dye. Her group was then marshalled into a transparent holding pen; the door behind them swooshed shut electronically and, watching themselves in the surveillance monitor bolted high in one corner, they waited until the door in front was opened to allow access to the secure area of the prison.

So far, Tessa told herself, it had all been as courteously impersonal as her experiences of airport security; but now, escorted by two officers with thick key chains attached to their belts, and pausing frequently for grilled gates to be opened and refastened, she began to feel as if she were being led deep into the heart of some mythical kingdom, as if all this security were designed as much to keep out the ordinary world as to contain those inside. Seldom claustrophobic, she felt the reality of incarceration press in upon her.

The visits room was like a huge warehouse, with numbered tables fixed to the floor. There was a colourful play area, a tea counter set into the wall, and a raised platform from which several seated officers kept watch. The elderly couple headed joyfully towards a middle-aged man wearing a fluorescent tabard, who got to his feet to greet them. Glancing above him, Tessa noticed that small cameras suspended from the ceiling were trained on each
table. She looked around. There were several tables at which similarly dressed men sat waiting, and, although she had stared at the computer image of the grainy newspaper photo of Roy Weaver from twelve years ago, she wasn’t certain she’d be able to pick him out. She turned to the officers seated above her.

‘I’m here to see Roy Weaver. I’ve not met him before.’

An officer pointed. ‘That’s him.’

If the officer was curious, he did not show it. Tessa looked in the direction he indicated and saw a slight, distinguished-looking older man with a full head of short grey hair sitting alone at a table. He wore his tabard over a striped grey shirt and tidy jeans. She walked over to him, and he glanced up. His expression changed so rapidly to one of interest and welcome that she did not quite catch what his face had revealed before, although some odd quality about it registered with her. Then he was on his feet, arms by his side. She moved closer, holding out her hand. He hesitated before taking it, his smile seeming to indicate his appreciation of the gesture.