The Broken Ones (3 page)

Lunch time is a sandwich at my desk followed by playground duty. I quickly check my phone for messages. Erin has texted:
Mum doing well today. Ate all her lunch and is watching
Loose Women
on TV! See you later. Xoxo
. I couldn’t ask for a better nurse. She truly is a godsend.

I also have a text from Peter:
Enjoyed our coffee (Coke for me!). Hope your mum is ok. Shall we rearrange?
There’s also a missed call from him. He’s put a lot of effort in so far, although it verges on creepy. Maybe I should give him another chance. I mull it over in my mind, thinking about his attitude toward books. That could be a deal-breaker. Maybe it’s best to leave it. He seems pretty keen, though, which could result in an awkward telephone call. I cringe at the thought.

The bell goes for playtime to end, and the children start filtering back into the school. There’s one girl lagging behind the others, Chloe, a sweet but quiet girl who tends to play on her own during the break. My heart breaks when the others tease or ostracise her. She’s not quite as developed as the rest of the class. She often struggles with her reading. I watch her as she makes her way into the school. There’s something else about Chloe… something odd.

“Come on, Jessie,” Chloe says, holding her arm out as though she’s dragging someone behind her, except that there’s no one behind her. She gives her wrist a little shake as though yanking them forward. “You’re too slow! I have to get to class.”

“Hi, Chloe. Are you ready for this afternoon’s class?” I ask, trying to get her attention away from her imaginary friend. I read a little child psychology during my training as a teacher, so I know it’s normal to have an imaginary friend, but it’s odd for her to be ten and still have one,
and
for her to play with her imaginary friend at school rather than make actual friends.

“Yes,” she whispers. Her small head of blonde hair passes me, and she walks into the entrance of the school and down the hall. I frown, worrying again about the quiet children in my class, the ones who are forgotten and ignored. It’s my duty to look out for them. That’s how it works. Those of us who live through it grow up and give back because we know how hard it was.

My mind is still on Chloe as I travel home from work with a daunting stack of homework to mark. Most teachers I know hate how much homework young children are forced to endure, and how many standardised tests they’re made to sit to. We hate the stats and the OFSTED side of teaching. We want to give the children the best education we can, but the restrictions force us into becoming clones of each other, delivering clone messages to mini-clones.

I pause at my front door, expecting to hear shouting or glass breaking, but the house is quiet. When I step into the hall and shed my coat, the place is oddly serene.

“Sophie, is that you?” Erin calls out.

“Yes. Is everything all right? It seems very…” When I walk into the living room, Mum is sat on the sofa with a cup of tea. Her face is slack. No matter how often I see her like that, I’ll never get used to it. It’s like seeing only the shell of a person.

“We’re all fine,” Erin says. “You look shattered. Was Noah a nuisance?”

I laugh, but it sounds hollow. “He was an angel.”

“Yeah, yeah. Cuppa?”

“I’d love one.”

I follow Erin into the kitchen, which is our after-work ritual. I could see us as friends even after… after what? After Mum dies? That’s the only way this ends.

“I boiled the kettle a moment ago,” Erin says. “I knew you’d be home soon.”

“You’re an angel too, just like your nephew!”

She laughs, and her face lights up. Her eyes twinkle. I’m jealous then, for a moment. She gets to go home and relax with her boyfriend. She can shake off the day and forget all about my mother. I have to think about her all day, and it’s wearing me out.

“Oh, I almost forgot.” I lift my bag onto the breakfast bar and rummage through it. “I found this in the garden last night, by the back door. I think it must be yours, because it’s not mine or Mum’s.” I pass her the button.

Erin lifts it and frowns at it. “You must have the wrong person. It’s not mine. I don’t have anything in that shade, and I always wear my nurse’s uniform here, anyway.”

She passes it back to me and starts pouring the hot water over tea bags.

I turn the smooth, round button over between my fingers. If it isn’t mine, Mum’s or Erin’s, that means someone else has been in our garden.

Before I go to sleep, I tell myself that there are a dozen possible explanations as to how someone else’s button ended up in our garden. It could have been someone from the gas or electric supplier.
But why would he go to the back door?
It could have been in the neighbour’s rubbish and blown onto our property.
There hasn’t been any strong wind for weeks.
Or an animal could have been playing with it and left it in the garden. Maybe it was the tabby cat from across the road, or a fox, or even a bird. Yes, that must be it. An animal dropped it in the back garden. I drift into slumber dreaming about packs of foxes tearing our rubbish bags apart and dropping buttons everywhere.

“Get up. I said, get up. There was someone in my room.”

“What?”

Cold fingers wrap around my wrist, jerking me up before I can fully open my eyes. Fingernails dig into my skin.

“There was someone in my room.” Mum’s voice is a raspy whisper. In the gloom, her dark eyes lower towards my face, unsettling me to my core.

“You’re hurting my arm. Mum, let me go.” When she releases me, I pull back the duvet and swing my legs down to the floor. My heart is beating fast.

“There was someone in my room, but they’re gone now,” she says again.

“All right, come on, let’s check.” My arm is shaking as I gently place it behind her thin shoulders. My eyes flick around the room, scanning for some kind of weapon. What can I do if there’s a burglar in the house? I’m not exactly strong or fast. I grab my mobile phone from under my pillow and move Mum out of my bedroom. She’s probably confused. There’s no one here.

I turn on the lights in Mum’s room, then check the wardrobe and under the bed with sweat forming on my back. I’ve watched enough detective shows on TV to know that serial killers always hide under the bed.

“There’s no one here, Mum,” I say, beginning to relax.

“Check the house,” she insists.

We take the stairs together, two scrawny women in their nightgowns. My heart still patters beneath my skin, pumping blood up to my ears. Mum grips the banister so hard her knuckles are white. We don’t speak.

The house is quiet. That means there’s little likelihood that someone is actually in the house. If a burglar had broken in, they’d be making noise trying to steal our TV or computer. I hurry through every room, turning on all the lights and checking every corner. I grip my phone, ready to call 999 at even the slightest sound. There’s nothing. I check the doors and windows. Everything is locked.

“It’s okay, Mum. There’s no one here. Let’s go back to bed.” I check the time on my phone. It’s 4am. I groan.

“There was someone in my room,” she says again.

“They’ve gone now, Mum. Everything is safe,” I say.

Her eyes are narrowed, lethal. The hairs on the back of my arms stand on end. Her lips purse together.

“You’re a disappointment,” she says in a hiss.

I can’t help it; tears prick at the back of my eyes. I take a moment to breathe, composing myself, then I direct her back to bed.

*

At 6am, I press snooze. At 6:05, I hear the sound of my mother’s feet moving around the house and I’m up in an instant. I hurry downstairs to find her standing triumphantly in the middle of the kitchen, waving her keys in the air.

“I found them!” she says. “They were dropped behind the kitchen bin.”

“That’s great,” I reply, trying to force some cheer into my voice. There’s only so much cheer to be found after broken sleep. “Let’s get you dressed. Aren’t you tired? We were up half the night.”

“No, we weren’t,” she says. “What are you talking about?”

“You thought someone was in your room, remember?” In my exhausted state, I forget to pander to her. I snap at her instead, and she appears taken aback by my sharp tongue.

“You think I’m stupid.” She slams the keys down on the counter and squares her shoulders. “Well, I’m not stupid. You’re the idiot. You always have been.”

“Yes, yes, I know. Come on. We need to get ready before Erin arrives.”

“Who’s Erin?”

My shoulders sag. I’m not sure I can do this today. It’s hard enough when I’ve had a restful night. Luckily, Mum is distracted by moving up the stairs. She forgets all about Erin and the keys and whatever else has been on her mind. I manage to get her into her room.

“I can do it,” Mum says, snatching her arm away from me.

“Fine.” I pass her the clothes and walk out.

Space. That’s what I need. A few moments to compose myself, to rid my mind of its crippling stresses. Two minutes alone. My bedroom is filled with comforting silence until my mobile phone begins to buzz. I retrieve it from underneath the pillow to find another missed call from Peter. That makes over half a dozen missed calls from him over the last few days, and a fair few unanswered text messages. I’m not a dating expert, but so many attempts to contact me are making me uncomfortable. I’m going to have to call him back and put a stop to this. You’d think he would have got the message already, but clearly not, and I don’t want to lead him on.

My bedroom door opens and Mum stands in the doorway in a smart dress, a pair of heeled court shoes and a cashmere cardigan. There’s a neat slick of lipstick on her lips and some powder on her cheeks. “What are you doing in here? Where’s my breakfast?”

It takes me a minute to know what to say. There are moments through watching this awful disease disassemble my mother that she is so like the woman I used to know that it knocks all the wind out of me and I’m at an absolute loss for words. All I can do is follow her down to the kitchen and pour cereal into bowls.

“Yoo-hoo, anybody home?” Erin breezes into the house and relieves the tension in the air. “Oh, wow, Mrs. Howland, you’re looking
fantastic
today. I love that outfit. Can I borrow it?”

“Not likely,” Mum says. “You’ll stretch it out.”

Erin bites her lip to stop herself from laughing. I suppose mean old people are pretty hilarious. Unless they’re your parent, that is.

“Time for a cuppa?” Erin asks.

I glance at my phone. “I’d better shower and get ready for work.”

“Are you all right this morning? You don’t seem yourself.”

“Mum woke up in the night and thought someone was in her room.” Saying it out loud brings the fear back, making me almost spill milk as I pass Mum her cereal bowl. “There was no one there, of course. But it meant I didn’t get much sleep.”

“I bet.” Erin chews on her bottom lip and tilts her head to one side sympathetically. “She’s getting to be a bit of a handful, isn’t she? How are you coping with it all?”

“I have good days and bad days.” Mostly bad. And apparently I look awful, because everyone keeps telling me that. “I should probably get ready.” I flash her a smile and scurry out of the room, glad to be away from them both.

*

First I tell myself I’ll call Peter on the way to work. Then I say I’ll do it during the first break. Before I know it, lunch time is almost here and I still haven’t called him. If he hadn’t called me so many times, I’d feel a lot better about it. It’s not particularly
normal
to call someone over and over like that. And then there’s the text messages, which started off friendly and ended up needy:
Hi Sophie, just checking in about our second date. Get back to me!
And then the latest one:
Ok, I just want to know you’re all right. Get in touch. Pleaaase xx
. We hardly know each other. We had five minutes of conversation. Why does he care so much about my welfare?

There’s a big red flag waving over Peter’s head right now, and I’m not sure what to do. If there’s a way to make this situation worse, there’s a good chance I’ll find it. That’s the way the world works, right?

“Miss! Miss!”

The pink palm waving in front of my face alerts me to the fact that I’ve been staring at my phone for several minutes.

“Can we go to lunch now? The bell rang.”

“It did?”

The entire class choruses, “Duh!”

I wave my hand at them. “Go on, then. Get gone!”

As the children filter out of the room, my phone begins to vibrate. The sound is amplified by the hard surface of my desk, and every one of my muscles clench. I snatch the phone up and stare at the screen. When I see that it’s Erin calling, I’m at first relieved, and then nervous. I answer.

“Is everything okay?”

“I’m so sorry, Sophie,” she says. “But I think you need to come home. Your mum won’t settle today.”

I can hear that Erin is on the brink of tears. “Has she hit you?”

“No… well… she’s been very difficult and won’t eat at all. She tried to leave the house, and I had to stop her. She tried to steal my car keys. She kept muttering about the house not feeling safe. She’s seems frightened, but I don’t know why.”

“All right. I’m going to come home early. I won’t be long.”

I hang up the phone and hurry out to the playground where I know Alisha is on duty. When she sees me, she frowns.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, but I have to go home. The nurse is having trouble with Mum, and I need to be there. Can my class go in with yours after the break?”

“Of course,” she says. “What are you going to do about Moira, though?”

“Thank you. I’ll have to square it with her on my way home.”

Alisha’s concerned gaze follows me as I hurry back into the school. Moira—our pocket-sized monster of a head teacher—won’t be happy, but there’s nothing I can do. Sometimes, family takes priority over work and that’s all there is to it.

I knock on the door to the head teacher’s office. Then I wait. Her secretary is on her lunch break, so I have to wait for Moira herself.

“Come in.”

I enter the room and am face to face with Moira’s ice-blue eyes, always shocking beneath her sharp cut of black hair. She sits stiffly, with her hands placed on the desk in front of her. There’s no trace of a smile, and I immediately feel as though I’m a child again.

Despite Moira’s reputation as a battle-axe with the school board, and her zero tolerance for staff members who don’t pull their weight, Moira MacIntosh is a favourite with the children. They call her Mac, and she tells irreverent jokes to the kids in assembly, throwing in pop culture references and commanding their attention like no one else can in the entire school.

“I’m so sorry. I have to go home this afternoon. It’s my mum.”

“Is everything all right?” she asks.

“Yes… well, no… she’s deteriorating fast. The nurse is having problems with her. I’m so sorry. This won’t be a habit, I promise. Alisha has room for my children in her class.”

She nods her head once. “Okay. That should be fine this once.” There’s the smallest flash of a smile before her gaze is redirected to the work on her desk.

I back out of the room feeling a little put out by such a curt dismissal. My neck warms with embarrassment. I went in expecting reassurance and was given none. It could be my imagination, but did she chastise me with her little smile and laconic words?
That should be fine
this once. I certainly have that hot sensation of being chastised. My palms are sweaty as I walk through the corridors feeling as though everyone is turning to stare at me. At least, it was certainly a reminder that this can’t happen again. This is the first time I’ve ever gone home early from work.

As I hurry to the carpark, I try to put those thoughts behind me. Getting home is my concern right now. I’m running on adrenaline and caffeine as I drive home. I’m floating along on fumes, getting ready to self-destruct. At least I manage to get home without hurting myself or anyone else.

My heels scrape along the path as I rush to the door. It’s locked, so I have to fumble with my keys and then push through into the hall. I turn and lock the door again. Erin must have locked it for a reason. Probably to stop my mother rushing out.

“Erin? Mum?”

The sound of raised voices comes from the living room.
Something… something…
you’re not welcome here. Something… out of my house
. Then there’s a sob.

When I enter, I find Erin cowering behind the sofa cushion with Mum holding the heavy candlestick we use for church candles above her head. I approach slowly, shocked at the scene before me.

“Mum, put the candlestick down.”

She turns to me, and her mouth falls open. “This woman is in my house, and she won’t let me drive. I want to go for a drive.”

“If you give me the candlestick, we can go for a drive.”

Her eyes flash with anger for a moment and I take a step back, anxious about what she’ll do. Then her arms lower and she blinks. “I’m not sure I want to go for a drive after all. I think I want to go to bed.”

“That’s okay, Mum. Let’s put you to bed.”

“I… I think I need to go—”

“I’m so sorry, Erin. You get off. I can cope here.”