The Woman Before Me (23 page)

Then I collapsed.

I only fainted for a few seconds, but when I came to Emma was cradling my head on her knee, fending off bystanders. I opened my eyes. She was still there. She helped me to my feet, steadying me with one arm.

“Rose, I think we should find somewhere for you to sit.”

After helping me through checkout she said, “how do you feel?”

“Woozy. I don’t think I can drive.”

“We’ll go back to my house. You can have a rest and I’ll make you something to eat. I’ll drive you back to get your car later.”

As she drove I stared out of the window, trying to resist the urge to turn and peek a look at Luke. Her home wasn’t far from the shop. It was a big house in the centre of a strip of Middle England. If I were to describe it in one word, it would be ‘safe’. But of course you know that, Jason. You’d already been there, hadn’t you?

I watched as she unfastened the baby car seat, adjusted his hat so it covered all his head. Luke was now awake and starting to mewl. Emma talked to him wearily, struggling with the straps and buckles on the seat.

Inside the front door the warmth enveloped me like the stifling heat of the hospital ward. Luke needed changing and she carried him hurriedly up the stairs. I wanted to follow, to see the bedroom where you had fucked her, but I didn’t trust my emotions. I waited in the hall.

“Rose, go and sit in the back lounge,” Emma called down. The room was pleasant, a comfortable size, with pictures and tasteful pieces of china. By a glass door leading to a raised deck outside, was a blue bouncy chair with red kites pictured on the fabric. I’d bought a similar one, which was still wrapped in its cellophane. This one was already stained with milk, sick, probably wee. It looked like it could do with a good wash.

When Emma returned, she was holding Luke. “What would you like to drink?”

“I’d love a cup of tea.”

I could see her wondering if she should hand Luke to me. Was she asking herself if a grieving mother could cope with holding a baby? Instead, she fixed him into the chair and disappeared into the kitchen. He grizzled at being put down, hands clenching the air until a massive yawn overtook Luke and his eyelids dropped slowly. He was so much bigger than when I last saw him.

Once Emma had placed the cups on the table she sat on the sofa next to me. I braced myself for questions about how I was feeling, how I was coping, but she didn’t ask them. Instead, she bowed her head to my shoulder and started to cry.

“I’m so sorry, Rose. So sorry about Joel.”

My eyes stung, and I swept her hair out of my face.

Eventually she pulled away. “Before I left the hospital I went to your room to say goodbye. It was empty, but that nurse saw me standing there, the nice one, Nurse Hall. She was packing your bag and told me what had happened. Nurse Hall knew we’d become friends and, though she said she shouldn’t, she gave me your telephone number. She thought I could help you. And I took your number, Rose.” The tears came again.

Luke started to cry and Emma looked at him, exhausted and weepy. “Oh shut up, please!” she begged. She heaved herself to her feet and picked him up from the chair, joggling him awkwardly, not even looking. I ached to show her how to hold and soothe him. She stuffed a dummy in his mouth and flopped back down beside me.

“But I just couldn’t do it. I was too scared to call you, scared that I wouldn’t know what to say, Rose, or that you would hate me, with Luke being the same age as Joel. I didn’t think I’d ever see you again, but I’ve thought of you every day.”

We didn’t say much more, just sat drinking tea, watching Luke fall asleep.

“Can I hold him?” I asked, longing to feel the weight of a baby again.

I saw her hesitate, then smile quickly. “Of course.”

I remember it so clearly. His warm body felt surprisingly heavy. As I held him in my arms he stared at me like he knew everything. His head lolled to one side and Luke’s eyes regarded me intently, with the wisdom of an old man. I would never have another child, would never have a baby like him. I pulled his hat from his head, and saw those red-gold curls. If I closed my eyes, I could have been holding Joel.

I didn’t close my eyes.

36

The officer’s canteen was getting busy, a line of uniformed staff and some teachers pushed wooden trays along a silver counter, taking plates of food from the inmates serving up the dish of the day. As Cate took her plate of meatballs and gravy she spied Rose working in the kitchen. Perhaps sensing her looking, Rose looked up. For a moment both women stared, then Cate nodded a greeting and moved towards the till where Paul was paying for his meal.

They sat at a table in the corner, next to a group of officers from D wing who were just finishing. A few of them nudged each other and laughed, Paul waited until they had left. “Well, sweetheart, you’ve certainly got yourself noticed.”

“Hey?” Cate speared a meatball and looked up at Paul.

“Word on the landings is that you and Mark Burgess are the new Posh and Becks of Bishop’s Hill.”

“Give me a break,” Cate groaned, swallowing the meatball whole. It was warm and solid and she realised how hungry she was, having skipped breakfast.

Paul lifted his own spoon and tapped her wrist. “Tell me then! I saw you leave my party with Mark in tow, and you were both pretty drunk.”

“Don’t remind me.”

“So?” He leaned forward eagerly. Cate sighed, wiped her mouth with a napkin and pushed her plate away.

“So. I couldn’t drive home in that state so I went back to his. He lives with his Mum, by the way. When I got there I started to throw up, but that didn’t stop him thinking he’d struck lucky. It ended up with him on the floor covered in puke.”

“Yuck!” Paul raised his hands in horror.

Cate sipped her drink. “I’m an idiot. I’m not ready to be let lose on men again. I should join a nunnery.”

“Frankly, sweetheart, I’m not sure they’d have you. Not after you vomited on that poor boy.”

“Paul!”

“Sorry, love.” He chewed thoughtfully. “Seriously, though. It doesn’t matter. Prison gossip will soon move on to something juicier.”

“I know. It’s not just that.”

“What then?” He reached forward and rubbed her hand. “You’re doing okay you know.”

“Am I? God, Paul, I want to get things right but this morning I visited Jason Clarke and it ended badly. Rose Wilks has got under my skin.”

“I warned you…”

“I know. And I know you’re trying to help but she was a mother and her child died. She can’t ever have another.” Cate looked around, to make sure no-one was listening. She could see Rose from where she was sitting. “She swears she never did anything to cause Luke’s death and when she says it I believe her.”

“But she was convicted and the jury is always right. You know that, babe.”

“Even when it’s wrong?”

“Even then.”

37

Black Book Entry

We all feel vulnerable when naked. As if cotton and polyester can protect us like armour. Maybe it’s because we’re born that way, totally dependant. Whatever the reason, shower rooms in prison are feared by all the inmates. No-one spends longer than necessary, standing with other bare women, eyes averted, quickly washing their hair. It’s like showers after P.E. at school. I remember dipping my arms and legs under the spray, hoping to fool the teacher that I was clean of pubescent sweat. But that trick wouldn’t work in here, where the smell lingers in your pores. I fantasise about deep baths in warm bubbled water, and no-one watching.

I’ve been cooking in the officers’ canteen and I’m back late on the landing. Everyone else is banged up. Officer Burgess is watching the wing. It’s not shift-change time yet, and whoever else is on duty with him will be taking the food trolley back to the kitchens. He has his feet up on the desk, and is reading some men and motors mag, safe in the knowledge that the cons are locked away.

“Officer?”

He jumps, not expecting me. He swings round, feet on the floor, and tries to hide the magazine behind a stack of files. “Bang up time, Wilks. Off you go.”

“Could I have a shower, please? I had to work because the governor’s got guests from the Home Office, but I stink of garlic and onions. I haven’t showered in two days.”

I see him weighing up the hassle of having to fetch a female officer to supervise me, against the accusation of his ignoring my human rights. It’s marked on our files when we inmates have showers, and he wouldn’t want an inspector to see he’d refused a request.

“Make it snappy then.” He goes to unlock the shower room as I fetch my shower gel and thin towel.

I can hear him outside the shower room door, clearing his throat. I quickly clean myself without thinking, a routine procedure, each part of my flesh soaped in the usual order, slowing slightly as I rub a hand over my caesarean scar. It’s white now, and surprisingly smooth. The only sign that I’m a mother. I can’t say this in the past tense; I will always be a mother.

I switch off the shower and grab my towel, too small and threadbare to dry myself properly. When I’m released from this place I’ve promised myself a bath sheet in thick Egyptian cotton like we used to have at The Grand. I rub my arms and legs, and then I notice that I can’t hear Burgess shuffling and clinking his keys. The corridor is silent. I’m immediately wary and start to gather my clothes. Without a guard, I’m vulnerable and when I hear footsteps coming down the hall I freeze.

It’s not Burgess’ heavy shoes. It’s a woman. I think of all the inmates who would risk a go at me – a child killer – for the kudos it would bring them. Like that woman at Highpoint. I grab my knickers, bending low to put them on. The steps come close, splashing on wet tiles. I see shiny boots. Navy trousers. A prison uniform.

“You still look dirty to me.”

I right myself, and come face to face with Officer Deborah Holley. I know what she did to Susan Thomas in the shower room, how Susan looked afterwards.

“Switch the water back on.” Her voice echoes off the hard tiles.

“I’ve already showered, Miss.”

I don’t move. She could attack me and no-one would hear. She takes a step forward, threatening. I back away, the chrome tap against my spine.

“I said, switch the fucking water on.”

It’s slow, so slow how she speaks. Everything is half-speed. I daren’t turn my back to her so I reach blindly for the tap and turn it once. The icy shot of water falls on my head, and Officer Holley steps back, her eyes mocking me.

“Haven’t you forgotten something, Wilks?”

And with her hand she reaches forward, into the water, and grabs my knickers.

“Take them off.”

I don’t know if she means to humiliate me, or worse, but I’ve no option. Standing as upright as I’m able, I untangle my legs from my only layer of protection. I hold my knickers in my hand, standing naked in front of Officer Holley, who looks me up and down with such disdain.

She comes closer, watching the water on my face, the hair sodden on my cheeks.

“You are a filthy nonce, Wilks.”

That word again. I can’t have her saying that.

“I’m finished with my shower.” I stand tall, and make to walk out of the room. She knocks me back with the heel of her palm.

“Are you disobeying me, nonce?”

I look at her, water dripping down my face, pooling around my bare feet. “Don’t call me nonce.” I’m surprised at the strength and assurance in my voice.

Her eyes narrow and a smile plays on her thin lips, “But that’s what you are Wilks. A nonce. And I’ll call you whatever I like. What are you going to do about it? ”

And reaching behind me to the tap, she swings it the other way, full-force, turning her back on me as the hot water scalds my skin. When she punches me my head collides with the tile wall. The pain is no more than I deserve.

38

Black Book Entry

I got into the habit of calling at Emma’s home almost every day.

One time I visited her, Emma took a long time to open the door and once she had it unlatched, she started back up the stairs, calling over her shoulder, “come up. I’m just doing some sorting out.”

I followed her upstairs, then along the hall to her bedroom, at the front of the house, where a black iron bed dominated a burgundy room, and a massive mahogany chest of drawers blocked half the window.

“Ghastly, isn’t it? Dominic just loves antiques but they’re damn heavy. And they make the room so dark.”

On the bed was a mound of baby clothes. They were tiny – almost doll-size – and I reached for one, holding it up reading the label. It said ‘newborn’.

“He’s been getting mad at me,” she explained, “I’m useless at throwing stuff away. And every time he goes to dress Luke he pulls out something that’s too small. So I’m putting all the stuff he’s outgrown away. I can’t believe how big he is. This used to swamp him.”

I took the blue snowsuit from her, touching the teddy-like ears on the hood. It looked brand new.

“He wore this when we left hospital.”

She was wistful until she saw my face, then flushed. I was still holding the newborn bodysuit, and I folded it, placed it in the bag where she had neatly stacked the items.

“Let me help you.”

We folded the trousers and tops, tiny hats and scratch mitts into plastic bags.

“Are you keeping them for the next one, Emma?” I hardly know how I managed to ask the question.

She had the grace to be bashful. “Well, most of it’s blue, so it wouldn’t be any good for a girl. But it would be a shame to get rid of it. Especially if I had another boy.”

So, even though her cup of good fortune overflowed, she still wasn’t satisfied. I was a sore wound, raw to her insensitivity.

“Are you pregnant?” I almost choked on the question. I thought she wouldn’t answer me, that she would realise what it meant to someone who couldn’t have any children. But I was wrong; she was only concerned with her own feelings.

“Not yet.” She looked up, a shy smile, and confided in me. “But I am trying. Dominic thinks it’ll be too much for me but I’m sure two can’t be much harder than one. Besides, it’d be nice for the children to be close.”