Little Disasters Read online

  ‘Look we know you are only worried for the children,’ he begins. ‘But is it really necessary to have Martha staying here? I’m here if there are any real concerns about my wife’s parenting.’

  ‘We need to have another adult, an approved adult, here because your family is the subject of a police investigation,’ Lucy explains in the gentle tone she might use for a child. She pauses but what she says next shifts the balance of power so emphatically that any hopes of Ed dissuading her vanish. ‘If you aren’t happy with the idea of this then the other option is for us to apply for an order for the children to be placed in foster care.’

  The room is suddenly hot, as if one of the boys has spun the dial on the thermostat without Jess noticing. Heat creeps up her face, flushing her cheeks, and her throat is dry. She wants to plead with this girl, but the words are stuck because this has always been one of her biggest anxieties: the thing that taps into her belief she is a hopelessly inadequate mother, incapable of looking after her babies. The children could be taken away from us.

  ‘You’re saying that if we object to Martha coming here you would do that?’ Ed’s jaw juts a little. Perhaps without realising it, he has put weight on his front foot, as if poised to strike.

  ‘Yes.’ Lucy swallows. Fear creeps up Jess’s spine like the point of a knife. She can feel each prick, each nudge; a gentle, inescapable pressure that could fillet her flesh and that is pushing her towards a total meltdown where she risks losing all sense of her self and succumbing to her bleakest fears.

  She clears her throat. She must say something. Must acknowledge what Lucy has said to prevent things getting even worse than they are at the moment. Because, just as her thoughts can spiral at the slightest provocation, so the act of taking Betsey to hospital has caused her life to spiral out of control.

  ‘And Martha’s agreed to this?’ she asks.

  ‘Yes. Do you remember we discussed the possibility of asking her on Saturday?’

  Jess doesn’t. Saturday was dominated by her fear for Frankie, as he was taken to a specialist police suite to be interviewed, and her terror of what was happening to Betsey. It was Ed who provided Martha’s details and discussed the possibility of her helping while Jess busied herself with getting the children ready to stay with Mel.

  ‘She’s been very supportive,’ adds Lucy. ‘She’s keen to help in any way she can.’

  ‘Well, we’re very grateful,’ Ed says. ‘Of course we are.’ Jess nods. They should be grateful, shouldn’t they? Relieved that she’s prepared to be so selfless, and yet, much as she loves her sister, she doesn’t want anyone taking her place – or even living in their home.

  For a moment, she imagines her sister spreading out in the place; sees Martha’s disregard for her sense of order. The way in which she injects colour and clutter – bags spilling open, scarves dropped, mugs leaving damp coffee rings.

  And then she imagines the children, and Frankie in particular, uprooted and living at Martha’s, Mel’s, or some unknown foster carer’s. Wrenched from the place where, despite her failings, she has always tried to make them feel safe.

  They have no option. She knows this, though every part of her wants to rail against it.

  ‘If Martha’s really willing to do this for us,’ she says, ‘then of course we would love to have her here.’

  *

  ‘Bloody hell.’ Ed paces the kitchen once Lucy has gone. Nervous energy radiates from him like static. When he finally comes to a halt, he sits, head buried in his hands, fingers pressed into his eye sockets as if by exerting pressure he will find the answer there.

  Jess doesn’t know what to say.

  Her husband can barely look at her. Ever since she woke yesterday, he’s been assessing her whenever he thinks she’s not looking, but now he won’t risk eye contact. She wants to touch him: to remind him that she is still his Jess. But he doesn’t know her now, he said that on Thursday; and things have only worsened since that argument. Nothing will ever be the same again.

  It doesn’t help that he’s spending as much time as possible at the hospital: sleeping there last night after staying there all of yesterday; keeping a vigil by Betsey’s bedside – perfectly understandable since he has to work this week. Betsey needs a parent there, but it’s hard not to feel he’s also avoiding being with her as much as possible. That he suspects her in some way.

  If he looks up and smiles, even slightly, then perhaps he doesn’t suspect her? She waits. Nothing happens. That was a false bargain: she must think of something else. Or make it the best of three. And still she doesn’t risk going to him because what would it mean if he failed to respond? Even worse, what would it mean if he shrugged her away?

  She turns aside, her thoughts shifting to Betsey, who she will see later, at a prescribed time with Lucy. Her chest aches at the thought of her baby alone in that institutional cot in the paediatric ward, confused, in pain, with no one to comfort her, and she forces the thought away. Better to do something practical like preparing for Martha. Sluggish, as if wading through deep water, she trudges upstairs.

  *

  The fear, the pure, body-quaking fear, comes as she dusts the spare bedroom, arranges flowers, checks that the clean sheets don’t need re-ironing. It’s a beautiful room; the walls a muted Farrow & Ball grey. She lights a candle, hoping the winter jasmine will create an air of serenity, and re-plumps the white towels so they resemble fat pillows. Rechecks that the crisp white sheets are smoothed; that the basin in the en suite bathroom really is without a smear and there are no stray hairs curled behind the cistern; that there’s no fuzz of dust coating the skirting boards behind the bed.

  She had taken her rings off to clean but now she puts them on and begins to fiddle, to spin them round her fingers. One, two, three. One, two, three, she aligns the tiny gems. And then, suddenly: wham. Her hands are shaking so badly she cannot get it right. One, two, three; one, two, three; one, two, three. It’s just not neat enough. She tries but fails to resist the ritual. She must do it again, until they’re perfectly neat, and her fingers jab as she becomes more frantic. One, two, three. One, two, three.

  She is a child on a beach, smashing up stones to excavate fossils. The bone-white pebbles are hot; her toes dry with salt as she pushes down against them, adjusting her weight as she squats, tilting from hip to hip. She probes with the chisel blade. She mustn’t shave the layers away too fast, mustn’t force it as she prises open the rock in her desire to find a fossilised spiral. An Echioceras. One, two, three: tap; one, two, three: tap. It’s not working, and the rhythm grows faster and more frenetic. One, two, three, tap; one, two, three, tap; one two three.

  And as she probes, the strikes increasingly quick and careless, her thoughts run in a riff of anxiety. If she can only excavate this ammonite then the never-ending spiral of invasive thoughts can be contained. If she can extricate it perfectly, everything will be OK. Her mother might spare her some attention, and her father might not rage. (And here she remembers the ugly look on her father’s face as he turned on her mother the previous night; his words spat out in a voice so warped with hatred, it was a growl.)

  The chisel skids and skitters. And the ammonite, hidden and preserved for two hundred million years, is damaged as the rock falls away.

  She thinks of this now, as she sits with her back to the wall, arms wrapped around her knees, hands clasped, her body packed up tight as if she is trying to take up the least space. The impotence that consumed her on that beach grips her like a vice. She can’t control this situation. She isn’t even allowed to mother her own children.

  And yet perhaps it’s only what she deserves.

  They all doubt her:

  Her sister, who must feel some suspicion, will believe the authorities wouldn’t investigate without reason.

  Ed, who can no longer look at her.

  Liz, who suspected her from the start and helped usher in this social worker and the police.

  And maybe they are right to do so.

 
Because she did something terrible, didn’t she?

  LIZ

  Monday 22 January, 5.45 p.m.

  Thirteen

  I’m going to be on time to pick up my children from after-school club. In fact, I should be early. That may not seem a cause for jubilation but today it feels like a major triumph.

  I managed to leave the hospital on time. Nick has his staff meeting and I’ve incurred the wrath of the childcare workers too many times to risk arriving late. Besides, the children hate me not getting there by six – ‘It’s so embarrassing,’ Rosa said on a previous occasion when they were the last to leave, while Sam’s large eyes filled with pained disappointment. So I was assertive: told Neil that I had to leave at five, and did. It feels strangely liberating, as if I’m playing truant.

  I quicken my pace. With any luck I’ll be there by ten to six: time to watch Rosa in the last few minutes of her netball match. (She does netball club on Mondays.) I imagine how thrilled she’ll be: her surprise, and her smile of delight. All too often she compares me to mummies who help on school trips, or with baking or reading. Mummies like Jess – or Jess before she had a third child. Why can’t you be at school more, Mummy? is a frequent refrain. Because I have to work and help other children, I reply, with a smile I work hard on not letting slip. Well, I’m going to be that sort of mummy today.

  Five forty-five p.m. My breath mists the cold air, my bag slips from my shoulder and bangs against my hip as I race along, imagining my daughter’s beam and Sam’s fierce hug. I’m winning at the juggle: being there for my children, and staying on top of a challenging job. Work was manic today: a flurry of admissions requiring calm, decisive thinking and quick action – the most potentially worrying, a six-year-old suffering from severe asthma. We treated her with nebulisers and intravenous steroids; corrected her potassium level – which had dropped dangerously low on the multiple infusions she needed – and then escalated her to high-flow oxygen before getting a space in ICU. Asthma sufferers come in daily but we’re never complacent. Tonight, I feel the quiet satisfaction of knowing we acted swiftly, and did the very best for this little girl.

  My phone buzzes: a text message from Mel. ‘Five mins away. Cd u hang on 2 mine if netball’s finished?’ Normally it’s me calling in the favours and I’m pleased she’s asked me, particularly since I didn’t return her call on Saturday. There’s no kiss, though, kisses being her trademark payoff, and no ‘please’, again atypical.

  ‘Of course, xxx’ I text back, thinking of her torrent of unbridled anger. What was it she said? You will stop this straight away, won’t you? It’s completely crazy. It’s the first time I’ve been to school since Betsey was admitted and I’m apprehensive. Of the babies in our original antenatal group, three – Rosa, Mel’s Mollie and Charlotte’s George – play netball, and so I’m going to have to brave their mothers for the first time since Bets was admitted.

  It’s Charlotte who sees me first.

  ‘Can I have a word?’ she says, once I’ve picked up Sam and Mel’s son Connor from after-school club and arrived at the netball court. St Matthew’s have just beaten another team and the children are triumphant, George trying to jostle between Rosa and Mollie, who ignore him with a contempt due to having known him their entire lives.

  Charlotte watches, biting her lower lip. She’s keen George gets as much female company as possible before he goes to a boys’ public school for secondary. But despite him being athletic – a good footballer and competent at netball – the girls are increasingly dismissive. As Charlotte says now, somewhat sadly: ‘They’re leaving him behind.’

  ‘Oh – it’s just a stage,’ I try to reassure her, although I wonder whether we’ll all stay in touch once he forges new friendships.

  ‘I’m not so sure.’ She looks unsettled. Then her mood switches as she looks at me directly. It’s an unnerving gaze. She’s physically striking, with her strong brows and nose and those dark eyes that seem to penetrate. I do like her – she’s been particularly supportive when I’ve done exams; she’s generous; and has a dark, sardonic humour – but I wish she were a smidgeon warmer. Irrationally, I feel as if she’s a head teacher and I, a problematic child.

  ‘Can we talk about Jess?’

  ‘I can’t,’ I say between clenched teeth, as I start to cross the playground. Sam and Connor have raced ahead to join their sisters. We are briefly childless, but that doesn’t mean I can discuss this here.

  ‘I’m not asking you to tell me what’s happening with the case,’ she says, stopping still.

  ‘It’s impossible. I’m not involved in any way. Betsey’s no longer my patient. It would be highly unprofessional, not to mention unethical, for me to discuss it.’ I continue walking, hoping this fellow professional who knows all about client confidentiality will get the message. But she’s taller than me, and her strides longer: before I know it, she has engineered it so that she is blocking my path.

  ‘It’s just that I’m concerned.’ She puts one hand on my forearm and her voice softens, so that she manages the curious trick of sounding both mellifluous and assertive. ‘There’s something that’s worrying away at me and I wonder-’ and here she drops her voice so I have to come close. ‘Well obviously I don’t want Ed to think Andrew and I are anything but supportive – but I wonder if it’s something I should tell the officer handling the case, or something you should hear?’

  She tips her head to one side and I feel the knots in my shoulders tighten. At this moment I think I might hate her. She’s putting me in an impossible position and she clearly doesn’t care. Of course I shouldn’t be listening to this, should direct her towards Cat Rustin if she has any real concern, but there’s something competitive about her relationship with Jess – borne of her knowing Ed before his wife, or perhaps, on some childish level, because Jess will always be cool, and Charlotte, despite her professional success and hefty salary, never will be. If she wants to talk to DC Rustin, I’d rather filter what she wants to tell her.

  ‘Go on, then,’ I say.

  ‘Well, to start with: I’m worried that she seems detached from Betsey. I haven’t seen much of them together, it’s true, but do you remember how absorbed she was with Kit? How she was almost nauseatingly child-centric?’

  ‘Charlotte . . .’ I’m reproving.

  ‘Oh, come on. You know what I mean. We all parent differently. She and I were probably at different ends of the attachment continuum but, to be honest, I always felt she was a more “natural” mother; that it came to her more instinctively. Don’t you remember how she’d get down on the floor and really play with Kit and his cars – and how I couldn’t do that? How I was too self-conscious? But I don’t think she seems that engaged now.’

  ‘I don’t know how you can know this. I’ve barely seen her properly since she’s had this baby and you must have seen her even less.’

  ‘I’m not so sure about that.’

  ‘Well, when did you last see her?’

  ‘At the Christmas production a month ago: that’s what I’m talking about. She seemed uninterested in Betsey. Don’t you remember? You noticed it, too.’

  I was late for the Key Stage 2 Nativity at which our youngest were angels. A meeting that overran and Tube delays meant I hurtled into the packed hall on the dot of 2.15 p.m. – only just in time. I caught a glimpse of Sam, then made my way to the one remaining seat, feeling the eyes of several parents sweep over me, some filled with sympathy, others with censure. ‘You made it!’ Charlotte whispered as I squeezed next to her on the end of a row. ‘Can’t see Mel but there’s Jess,’ and she nodded to a mass of curls three rows directly in front of me. Betsey’s vast red buggy was parked in the aisle at an angle, and was already quivering with boredom or rage.

  In between my children’s appearances, I was mesmerised by that pram. I could see Betsey’s legs, stuck out in front of her, and watched as she showered the floor with rice cakes. Jess didn’t seem to notice, her attention on Frankie and our boys on the stage.

 
Then Betsey began to whimper. I felt tense on Jess’s behalf, remembering my hot shame when a two-year-old Sam screamed at a similar event. Betsey’s legs were rigid, and the buggy canopy was shaking, but Jess just held an iPad out in front of her. Fair enough, I told myself. Don’t be judgemental. Anything to keep the peace.

  Because the angels were singing by then: the purity of their voices transforming the hall, with its tang of boiled mince and sweaty feet, and making my throat tighten. All around, the faces of parents softened, their bodies relaxing at the sight and sound.

  Frankie, jiggling his tinsel halo frenetically, was particularly exuberant and I glanced down the aisle at Jess, hoping she’d seen. But my friend was looking down at a smartphone, focused neither on her grumbling baby nor her boy singing his heart out but on something of far more importance on her screen.

  Charlotte, leaning across me to peer at her, raised her eyebrows, and I felt a surge of disloyalty that only intensifies now she has brought it up again.

  ‘Look,’ I say, ‘we’re all preoccupied in the Christmas rush. Perhaps it was something important: a toy she was trying to find.’

  ‘We’d been asked to switch our phones off, and she was on it all the time. How often is Frankie going to be an angel, or Kit a shepherd? The old Jess would have been taking photos or watching as if they were the centre of her world. She would never have behaved like that.’

  ‘OK. I understand your concern, but I don’t think this is anything with which to bother the police.’ I give a quick laugh to show we should dismiss this, and start walking briskly. I can’t admit that I was surprised by this change in Jess’s behaviour, too.

  ‘There’s something else.’

  Has she a list of Jess’s wrongdoings?

  ‘If it’s something along those lines then I think you’re being unfair.’

  ‘It’s not. It’s more serious. This relates to Friday night. It’s the thing I’m considering mentioning to the police.’

  ‘Go on, then,’ I say reluctantly.