Blue Blooded

by Emma Jameson

  Even if Kate and Tony prevailed in adopting Henry over Maura’s wishes, she would still be permitted into Henry’s life. The courts would never deny her visitation unless she relapsed back into drugs and alcohol. Even then, visitation would only be suspended even if she was arrested, sectioned, and re-incarcerated. As long as Maura took her meds, saw her psychiatrist, and checked in with her social worker, the law would permit her to see her son.

  Kate thought that made about as much sense as allowing a bank robber to work as a security guard, so long as he kept his uniform razor-creased and didn’t nick any chained pens. Why did the law favor the birth mum no matter what? It wasn’t like Maura was an unknown quantity. Why didn’t Kate’s testimony on Maura’s maternal fitness count for anything?

  Maura had never intended to get pregnant. At the time, she’d been alcoholic, often coked-up, and on the game, which meant Henry’s unknown father was quite likely one of her clients. The pregnancy had progressed because she’d been in denial until around the sixth month. Then she’d decided it would be easier to go forward with motherhood than to try and arrange an adoption. Immediately after the birth, she’d elected for surgical sterilization, telling Kate, then a twenty-five-year-old police constable, “One nipper is already one too many.”

  As far as Kate was concerned, Henry had survived his infancy only because she and her mother took an interest. Louise, who’d given up drugs but would never throw over her one true love, gin, had watched the baby by day. Kate had looked after him on nights and weekends, as her schedule permitted. She hardly slept, but time with baby Henry was its own reward. And in her mid-twenties, she didn’t need much sleep. At least not compared to how much she needed it now.

  While Louise and Kate changed nappies, washed bottles, oversaw vaccinations, and bought clothes, Maura got on with her life: booze, coke, men. Sometimes she cooed over Henry, sometimes she seemed to forget he existed. When he was four, she cleaned up, moved into her own tiny Council flat, freaked out, and disappeared, leaving him alone for days.

  That was the nadir of Kate and Maura’s relationship. Kate, by then a trainee detective, had worked forty-eight hours straight on the assumption that Louise would drop in. But Louise had run off to Manchester with a boyfriend on the assumption that Maura was “cured” and taking responsibility at long last. When Kate, exhausted, daunted by the rigors of becoming a detective, and eager for a personal life outside the Met, discovered the truth—Henry had been abandoned in a filthy apartment to scream himself hoarse—she’d wanted to strangle Maura. Instead, she’d made a snap decision: to take Henry in.

  Sometimes people assumed she’d done it to be a martyr. To pass herself off as a modern-day saint, the one good Wakefield. After all, she’d already brought her elder brother Ritchie into her home, an act that required both personal sacrifice and lots of help from the NHS like paid carers. Taking in Henry was supposed to be temporary. But six years had deepened their bond to something very like mother and son.

  Over that time, Kate had gradually kindled some sympathy for Maura. She should have been diagnosed with schizophrenia around twenty-two, but in those days she’d been considered a bad apple; just another brawling, light-fingered East End slag. She’d treated her paranoia with alcohol; she’d drowned out the voices with a variety of street drugs. Ironically, sobering up was what forced the crisis that led to her abandoning her son. After five years in state custody, she was ready to have another go at life.

  She was dealt a bum hand. But there ought to be some consideration for my feelings. Why should Maura be allowed to treat Henry like a baby doll she dropped behind the bed, then turn up when he’s nine and take over as his mum? Why do I have to prove myself to the court after looking after for him for so long?

  Kate glanced at her phone. Half-five and no apologies. Not even an excuse re: crowded tube stations or clogged roads. Right. It wasn’t as if she had anything better to do. Tony would be home soon. He’d been on his first real PI case for three days. This was her first chance to discuss it with him. Paul Bhar would be joining them for dinner, partly to hear about Tony’s case, and partly to make some announcement he’d been hinting at all week. She suspected it had to do with his complicated love life. Maybe he was throwing over brunette Kyla, whom Kate had never liked, and settling down with blonde Emmeline at long last?

  And though she looked forward to an evening with her husband and colleague, that didn’t mean she wasn’t knackered from work and longing for some Kate-time. Ideally, a long soak in the tub with lit candles and soft music. Instead, she was stuck in One-oh-One’s lobby, listening to stale electronica and waiting on someone who always left her holding the bag.

  I ought to chug it, Kate thought, contemplating her weak martini. Instead she limited herself to a sip. The cocktail had to look enticing when Maura arrived. Yes, tempting a newly-sober person was cruel and inappropriate. That was the point. For those keeping score at home, Kate trailed her big sis in “Cruel and Inappropriate” plays by double digits.

  The lobby, always full of chatter, quieted suddenly. Men in pinstriped suits stopped barking into their mobiles. A group of business women networking amongst the ficus trees paused to stare at One Hundred and One Leadenhall’s grand entrance. There, a woman in a grotty old donkey jacket and high-waisted jeans was having words with the doorman. Her gray hair was loose and wild. Her hands gripped overstuffed Tesco bags.

  “I don’t need help, mate. I need to crack on,” Maura said in her loud East End bray. “Sorry I don’t look the part. Forgot my Chanel coat and Manolo Blancs. But I’m here with this here young man. He lives—bloody hell. Where’d the little eel slip off to?”

  She looked left. Looked right. Spun in a circle and boomed at the top of her lungs, “Henry! Get back here! These tossers want to arrest me for breathing their air.”

  The doorman, handsome and impeccably groomed, must have had enough. He lifted a white-gloved hand—index finger up, as if summoning a waiter. Instantly, that shift’s Impressive Concierge, a Frenchman with flared nostrils, sprang into action. Out of the cupboard under his computer came a sandwich in a plastic clamshell and a little bottle of orange juice. Kate hopped off her barstool.

  “Put that away,” she said, intercepting him. “That woman’s not a vagrant. She’s my sister. Here to drop off my nephew. He lives with me in 4400.”

  The concierge regarded Kate as if she’d materialized from a dimension where everything smelled like dirty socks. It would have been infuriating, except he looked that way all the time.

  “Madam, is there a problem with your cocktail? Shall I direct a server to assist?”

  This misunderstanding of her statement would also have been infuriating, except the French concierge misunderstood every sentence directed to him the first time around. If asked, “Which floor for your tea room?” he might respond, “The tea room of the Marriott near the Houses of Parliament comes highly recommended, I think you’ll find.” If told, “I need the number of a good optometrist,” he might say, “Apparently, the National Health has a useful website.” Because of his thick accent, Kate had initially believed his command of English was subpar. Now she suspected it was pure passive aggression.

  “You heard me,” Kate bawled, every bit as loud as Maura. In moments like these, her Received Pronunciation disappeared altogether. “She’s my big sis, innit? And look, there he is, the man of the hour. My nephew, Henry, who I just mentioned. Hey? Remember our Henry? The boy who says hello to you or mentions it’s a lovely day while you stare back like one of them potted trees piped up?”

  “Of course.” The concierge cleared his throat. “I apologize, madam, for your misinterpretation of my innocent query. I am always pleased to exchange greetings with small children. That is the privilege of my position, to mix with all sorts. But I see no vagrant,” he insisted. “I intended these refreshments for a colleague. Did you imagine it was charity for the lady at the door? Never mind. It’s easy to jump to conclusions.”

  His tone,
one of narrowly-suppressed rage, delighted Kate. She plucked the prepackaged sandwich and bottled orange juice from his grasp. “Cheers. Bit peckish, I am.”

  As the concierge retreated to the safety of his enclosed box, Maura and Henry reached Kate at last. Henry was scowling like he didn’t want to be seen with either of them. Maura was huffing and puffing like she’d been training for a 5K.

  “What the bloody hell is that you’ve got there? Late lunch?”

  “Never mind. Why are you breathless?”

  “Why aren’t I breathless? This kiddie had me at sixes and sevens all day.” Maura grinned down at Henry. He rolled his eyes.

  “He wanted to visit the Museum of Natural History. I said all right, thinking it would be like Madame Tussaud’s. Or the London Dungeon—bit of trivia, bit of fun, exit through the gift shop and get on with your life,” Maura said. “Hah! It’s big as bloody Heathrow in there. Lord, I never knew there was so much of it. Not just the museum. History. My brain is full. I came out feeling stupider than I did going in.”

  “What about you? Learn anything?” Kate asked Henry.

  “What do you think?” he huffed.

  “I think you’d better mind your manners. Especially if you hope to lay a finger on your Xbox anytime soon,” she snapped. “I’ve been sitting here awaiting your pleasure. No call, no text, not a word. Just me parked in this fishbowl, bone-tired, feet aching, while you trundle up in your own good time. Then I ask a civil question and get a snotty answer. Not fair, is it?”

  Henry, a moon-faced boy with owlish specs, pale skin, and medium brown hair, did that thing with his mouth. The particular twist of his lips that indicated he was poised equidistant between shouting and weeping.

  Kate didn’t care. She had no problem with Henry challenging her on a factual basis. She had a very large problem with ungrateful backtalk after a Saturday spent catering to his interests.

  “I said, not fair, is it?”

  He looked at his feet and muttered something.

  “Louder.”

  “If I had a mobile, I could’ve texted you that we were running late.”

  “Really? The mobile again?”

  “Actually….” Maura said, but Kate held up a hand.

  “Look. I accept you’re his mother. You make recommendations. But I’m his guardian. I make decisions. Nine-year-olds don’t need mobiles. It’s madness.”

  “It’s modern life,” Maura countered. “I know he doesn’t need any more screens. And I don’t want to see him spoilt. But you don’t have to buy him a smart phone. What about a burner? No-frills. Just for safety.”

  “I can’t—” Kate began.

  “You can! You can afford it,” Henry roared. “You have money now. Stop pretending you don’t!”

  Human sounds in the lobby ceased. For three excruciating seconds, Kate felt all eyes on her. The canned beat emanating from Archie’s went on. Behind the concierge desk, the Frenchman smiled.

  “Henry. Straight up to your room. Sharpish,” Kate said.

  “But it’s true!” Henry cried, turning red. “You could buy me a mobile. You could buy Mum a mobile. Hers is rubbish! The screen is cracked. Its texts won’t go through. Have you seen where she lives? The roof leaks. She flushes the bog with a bucket. You have everything and Mum has nothing.”

  Mum?

  Kate sucked in her breath. The substance of Henry’s tirade didn’t shock her. It had been building for a while, ever since he came back from his first visit to Maura’s bleak bedsit in Norbiton. He was the kind of kid who shared freely—lunch, toys, and opinions. At nine years old, he was a veteran of public housing: unresponsive Councils, leaking pipes, and rats in the walls. Now he enjoyed the kind of luxury he’d once assumed existed only on telly. With only a vague idea of Maura’s history and track record, it was natural for him to want to help.

  But he called her Mum, Kate thought. That three-letter word pricked her all out of proportion, like a sliver of glass underfoot. Henry had long been in the habit of calling Kate by her Christian name and Maura by hers. In conversation outside the family, he referred to Maura as “my mum” for simplicity’s sake. But in her presence he never accorded her that title. Kate had been patiently-impatiently waiting for him to bestow it on her.

  “I said, straight up to your room,” she said stiffly. “No Xbox. No computer. I’ll be up when I’m up. If I catch you on either, you’ll regret it.”

  “Don’t change the subject.” Henry’s eyes shone with tears of rage. “You have money now. You could solve all Mum’s problems by writing a check.”

  “Henry, love. That’s enough, innit,” Maura said. “Kate doesn’t owe me a payoff. And this isn’t the time or place for a family throw-down. Do as you’re told. I’ll give you a ring tomorrow.” She tried to kiss his cheek, but Henry wasn’t having it.

  “It’s no use hoping, Mum. Tony says if you want something, you have to ask for it straight out. Tell Kate what you told me. Tell her you need—”

  “Never mind,” Maura cut across him. “We had a lovely day out. Don’t wreck it at the end. Go up to your room. Don’t forget these,” she added, handing him the overfilled Tesco bags.

  “What is all that?” Kate asked. The insufferable French concierge wanted to know, too, judging by his intent stare.

  “Marvel Infinity War sheets. Mum bought them for me. She’s generous,” Henry added. “They’re my favorite now. I hate the sheets you bought me after the fire. So Mum let me take these off the cot and bring them here.”

  “Fine. I don’t care. Just take them up to your room and stay there,” Kate said. “No computer. No Xbox.”

  “No shit.” Henry turned toward the residents’ bank of private lifts.

  “I heard that!”

  “I hope so!”

  When he was out of sight, Kate glared at Maura. “Nice.”

  “Too right. He learnt to swear like that from you, didn’t he?”

  Maura had a point. Kate had grown up cursing freely around her mother, Louise, who could scarcely complete a sentence without at least one expletive. Kate wasn’t quite that bad, but colorful phraseology came with her chosen profession. At the Met, profanity was as much an art form as a safety valve. Only when Henry was sent home from school at age seven (for suggesting a schoolyard bully do something physically improbable) did Kate realize he really did absorb and repeat everything she said. Since then, she’d cleaned up her act, but the damage was done.

  Kate tried another line of attack. “What was that he said to you? ‘It’s no good hoping?’ Did you ask Henry to convince me to buy you a new mobile? Maybe a new place to live?”

  “No. Well. Yes. More or less,” Maura muttered. “Not my finest hour. I was upset at my sponsor. She says working the twelve steps means making amends, and that includes paying back what I nicked from Phil. You remember Phil? My boyfriend, before I was sectioned. I stole a couple of hundred from him back in the Stone Age and my sponsor says she’ll sack me if I don’t contact him with a payment plan.” She shrugged. “Recovery problems. Never mind. I shouldn’t have vented to Henry. He’s such a sympathetic soul. Sometimes I forget I’m meant to be the rock, not him.” Clearing her throat, she said, “I’m sorry.”

  Kate was too surprised to reply. Rather than lie, Maura had admitted she was wrong. Admitted she was wrong and apologized. Maybe the combination of the correct psychiatric meds, an absence of alcohol and street drugs, and her twelve-step work was doing her some good. Or maybe it was just another con.

  “We don’t have to be at each other’s throats,” Maura said earnestly, as if emboldened by something she’d glimpsed in Kate’s eyes. “I’m getting too old for it.”

  “Then drop the suit. Tony and I will adopt Henry. You’ll still get regular visitation. Everybody wins,” Kate said.

  “You know I can’t do that. I’m his mother. If I sign away my rights, I walk away from the best thing I ever done. Maybe the only thing I ever done that weren’t a crime or a delusion.” Tears welled in her
eyes. “Crikey hell. My meds have me bawling over yogurt commercials. All I mean to say is, people who are disagreeing don’t have to be disagreeable. That’s my sponsor’s motto.” Digging in her handbag, Maura produced a crumpled tissue and dabbed at her eyes. “What’s all that, then?”

  “What? Oh.” Kate had forgotten she was holding the sandwich and juice. “That bloke there,” she said, pointing at the concierge. “He reckoned you were homeless. Meant to give you some food and tell you to piss off.”

  “Oh. Well. I am a bit windblown, if I’m being honest.” Maura, an admirer of men in all their varieties, looked the Frenchman over approvingly. “Dead handsome, innit? I’m not homeless,” she called to him, waving. “Bad hair day! Not homeless.”

  “Let’s go to the bar and tuck in,” Kate said. “That’ll take the mickey.” But then she remembered her vodka martini, waiting seductively on its cocktail napkin, to tempt and torment her big sister.

  “Scratch that. There’s a better bet.” Grinning, Kate led Maura to the plush sofas and overstuffed armchairs where businesspeople were pretending to be masters of the universe via laptops and mobiles. There, they split the sandwich (chicken salad) and the orange juice (from concentrate) and soaked up the mass disapproval like a tonic.

  Back in the condo, Kate paused to check her phone for voicemails and texts before taking the lift up to Henry’s room. She was stalling. They needed to clear the air, but first Kate had to decide what she felt. Taking sides with Maura against an admittedly easy target, a crowd of upwardly mobile tossers, had brought a lot of old emotions to the surface. Once upon a time, Kate had admired her older sister, even idolized her. When they worked in tandem to embarrass a bully or regale a crowd with taboo behavior, young Kate had felt like Maura was her a soulmate.

  But then she started using. I couldn’t count on her anymore. And after that night….

  Kate pushed the memory away. She was all grown up and she knew the pattern. Maura would let her down again. She always did.