A Good Enough Mother

by Bev Thomas

  ‘Here comes the little man,’ Julie says. And then he scoots past Frank towards me. It would be a lie to say I’m not delighted. My heart swells with joy that he comes to me. He stops by my legs and pulls himself up to my knees. He comes to me.

  He puts his hands up. I reach down and lift him high into the air.

  ‘Happy Birthday, lovely boy!’ I say, pressing my cheeks to his, then I stretch my arms out. He laughs as I fly him through the air. Perhaps I am showing off. Perhaps, under the watchful eye of Frank, I am glorying in my moment. Marking my territory. Look at me, I’m saying. He knows me. I matter.

  He waves his hands in the air when I go to put him down. So, I do it all over again. And again. And again. And there we are, locked together as I hold him in the air above my head. His face chuckling with joy.

  When the party games start, my head is throbbing. It’s time to go home.

  ‘I’ll leave you all to it,’ I say.

  Julie protests at first – then reaches in to hug me. Frank nods. He doesn’t try to dissuade me. As I walk out of the park towards the tube, I check my phone. Three missed calls from John Grantham. I never get calls on my mobile from the Chief Executive of the Trust. And on my day off? My heart lurches. Then his text comes in. Please call me asap. On my way, I also see there are two missed calls from Paula. I feel a growing sense of unease, as I push through the ticket barrier down to the Northern Line.

  On train, I text John back. I’ll call in twenty minutes.

  I ring through to his office as I step out of the station. He picks up straight away.

  ‘Can you come in now?’ he says, and in the beat before I answer, I realise it’s not a question.

  Twenty

  The accident wasn’t Tom’s fault. No one suggested it was. Not even the boy’s mother, who, as it transpired, had clearly overestimated her son Jack’s swimming ability on the waiver form. It was one of the weekend activity camps for the scouts and Tom had done everything by the book, checking each child off against the life jackets, as they came off the water. Once the area was cleared, he washed down the deck, put all the jackets in the troughs, turned on the hose and went to get changed. If anyone was to blame, it was the Scoutmaster who was supervising the changing rooms. No one saw Jack run out through the café. No one saw him searching for something, then slip on the wet decking into the water. It was only when Tom stepped out to turn off the tap that he heard the cries for help. He found him, clinging to the leg of the jetty, and pulled him out.

  Tom was more shaken up than the boy. After the call, I drove out to meet him and as soon as I got there I could see his hunched body. That dark hooded look. He was sitting on the bench, staring out over the water. ‘The kids are my responsibility,’ he said heavily. ‘I let him down,’ and no matter what I said, he was convinced of his negligence. Of not doing his job properly. He shook his head in defeat, ‘He could have died.’ Before we left, I spoke to Geoff, the centre manager, and he was impressed by Tom’s quick thinking. ‘We have someone out on the jetty with the younger kids,’ he explained, ‘but we’ve never needed to for the over-twelves. The Scoutmaster should have spotted him leaving. We’ll have a review of the policy.’ He told us there’d be an incident report, but Tom had nothing to worry about. ‘Jack’s fine,’ he said, ‘still more bothered about the scout badge he’s lost.’

  I drove us home, burdened with dread. I knew the blame wouldn’t need to come from outside. That Tom would be serving it up all by himself. In spite of all the reassurances, I knew that none of my words would stick, that nothing anyone could say would make the slightest difference. ‘It was me,’ he despaired, ‘I left him outside.’ It reminded me of his small anxious face, poring over the Tom Rabbit book. The soft toy left out in the rain. I reasoned with him. I repeated what Geoff had said. I couldn’t bear it.

  ‘Just stop it,’ I said eventually.

  That evening he was jittery. Then Julie rang, and he went out for the rest of the evening, returning later that night. In the morning he seemed worse. He had a panic attack after breakfast and was anxious for the rest of the day. Then he had a call from Geoff, which he asked me to take. I explained to him that Tom might not be in for a while. When I talked to Tom later, I mentioned Julie. He was evasive and irritable. ‘What about Julie?’ he shrugged. ‘She’s just a friend from work.’

  The next morning he was up early, and, when I came down to the kitchen, there was a faint smell of wood smoke, like a bonfire. I was immediately distracted by the sight of him. He’d hacked off his hair. His raw shaved head looked brutal and punishing and I collected up the spirals of curls he’d left in the bathroom sink. In the ensuing days, he was unable to go to his course. There was something childlike about his terror. As if he was once again the five-year-old who needed to hold onto my purse in order to leave the house. I worried it would set him back after his improvements over the summer, so with his permission, I set up a session with Dr Hanley. Perhaps I was overly reassured by his agreement, his readiness to go. Perhaps, again, I only saw what I wanted to see.

  Two days later, on the day of his appointment, the house was eerily quiet when I returned from work. Given the almost involuntary thud in my chest in the face of a silent empty house, it was a sheer act of will not to rush upstairs too quickly. I had to focus all my attention on keeping the urgency from my voice as I called out to him. Similarly, to keep calm, I made myself walk slowly up the stairs to check his bedroom and the bathroom, saying his name with a nonchalance I didn’t feel. ‘Tom?’ I said. He wasn’t home.

  I made coffee, and I looked out the back, expecting perhaps to see him in the garden. I called his phone, which went straight to voicemail. I rang off without leaving a message. Then I tried again, a little later, leaving a message to see whether he’d be home for supper. My voice was calm, even. ‘I’m making roast chicken,’ I said. Supper came and went, and I rang again. This time, when I called, I was walking on the landing, and heard the distant hum of his phone. In his room, I found it on silent, on the floor by the bed, vibrating as I rang. It was then I felt a cold and creeping sense of dread.

  Afterwards, I would scan back over our conversations in those days after the accident. Wondering if my lightness, my reassuring comments that were intended to minimise Tom’s worries had the opposite effect. ‘It could have happened to anyone,’ I said. ‘And anyway, the Scoutmaster was responsible for the boys after they left the front deck.’ Perhaps all this simply meant that he felt unheard. Not listened to. That I’d underestimated the strength of his feelings of responsibility.

  I rang David. He was in Los Angeles. I didn’t factor in the jet lag and when he picked up, he sounded groggy.

  ‘Have you heard from Tom?’ My voice was breathless.

  There was the briefest of pauses. And then a mocking voice. ‘Hello David. How are you? How was your flight? Good luck at the conference today. Sorry for waking you. You’re probably trying to catch up on some sleep before your big day.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, ‘but I’m worried about Tom.’

  David didn’t need to tell me what he was thinking.

  ‘I know,’ I said, ‘but this time – it feels different. He hasn’t come back for supper. He’s not home,’ and as I was speaking, I heard my voice speeding up, ‘and he left his phone. Then I found it. Here – by his bed.’ By now my voice was shrill.

  I can’t remember how we ended the call. Short and curt, I expect. A great cavernous divide widening between us. Whether there were any words of comfort. Of connection. Of endearment. Probably not. Later, I remember I walked from room to room, listening to the silence of the house. I remember how I picked up the paper, a magazine, then flicked through the TV channels, but all the while, I couldn’t concentrate. There was something, just on the edge of my vision, like the thread of a dream that fades before it can be properly realised. I rang Dr Hanley, but of course, it was out of hours and the call went straight to voicemail. On instinct, I picked up Tom’s phone and scrolled through.
I played a voicemail on his phone. It was from Dr Hanley’s secretary. Tom hadn’t gone for his appointment. She asked him to ring for another. I thought about Mark Webster and his last jaunty session with me. I saw the dark tunnel. The whoosh of the train. His shiny black shoes as he stepped off the platform. Anxiety swelled in my chest. I was having difficulty formulating my thoughts and staying calm. It was then I called the police.

  I don’t remember much about the call. It was by now 10.30 p.m. I must have been panicky and agitated on the phone. ‘My son is missing,’ I remember saying with urgency. And it must have been this that led to the confusion.

  Within ten minutes of my call, there were two officers on my doorstep. A female officer and a man in his late fifties; tall, solid, with a bristly beard and salt-and-pepper hair.

  ‘Seventeen?’ he repeated, frowning with confusion.

  I nodded, launching in with my story. The words tumbled out. ‘The accident at work … his mood … not in a good space,’ I said.

  He stared back at me, then as he consulted his phone, he said the message they’d received was of a missing seven-year-old. He sat forwards. He had a wide buff face. His jaw hardened.

  ‘You said your son was seven. Now you’re telling us he’s seventeen. Practically an adult?’

  There was an edge to his voice. The other officer, the female one, took over.

  ‘There must be some confusion,’ she explained, in a soothing voice. ‘I’m sorry. It may well be that the confusion was at our end. On the switchboard. I can see you’re very distressed. Why don’t we come in and you can tell us what’s happened?’

  We sat at the kitchen table and as I spoke, she listened intently. I wondered if she had children. I fought the urge to ask.

  ‘So, when were you expecting to see him?’

  ‘Around six or seven o’clock,’ I said.

  As I was speaking, the man suppressed a yawn, and glanced at his watch.

  ‘So perhaps he’s stayed out a bit later?’ she asked. ‘Have you called his friends?’

  I blinked back at her.

  ‘I think he’s in trouble,’ I said.

  ‘What sort of trouble?’ she said, opening her notepad.

  ‘There was an accident – at the canoe club where he works,’ and I gave them the details.

  As I spoke, I pictured Tom at the end of the day. Hard working. Diligent. Rinsing and hanging up the life jackets. ‘It was a small metal badge,’ I said. I told them the boy had taken it on the boat, in his pocket, but couldn’t find it afterwards. ‘He slipped on the jetty. It was Tom who fished him out.’

  I knew I was telling them too many details. As if I were trying to get it straight in my head, looking for something I might have missed. ‘The centre manager – Geoff,’ I said, ‘he told me Tom was a great asset. A good worker. Good with the kids. Geoff told him it would be fine. But Tom just shook his head, “It was my fault” was what he said.’

  Fleetingly, I thought back to the times I’d worried in the past. Things I’d been able to bandage up and repair, and mend. How much easier it was when he was seven.

  ‘So, the kid that fell,’ asked the policeman, ‘he was fine?’

  I nodded.

  ‘No charges? Nothing?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So – your son is not in any trouble?’

  ‘No. But he felt the weight of responsibility,’ I said. ‘He felt it was his fault – even though it wasn’t.’

  There was a silence.

  ‘And he left his phone here,’ I said triumphantly, as though playing my trump card.

  The policeman looked back at me, his face impassive. He was still smarting over the misunderstanding. There was an accusatory tone in his voice. A hint of blame. As if it was somehow my fault that my son was missing.

  ‘Do you work, Mrs Hartland?’

  ‘Dr Hartland,’ I corrected him unnecessarily. ‘Yes. I’m a therapist – the director of a trauma unit.’

  ‘Ah,’ he said, as this provided the answer to all his questions.

  I felt the pull of exasperation.

  ‘This thing at the canoe club,’ I said, ‘he won’t be able to bear it.’ I twisted my hands in my lap, I could hardly bring myself to say the words. ‘He – he tried to kill himself. Over a year ago. He was in hospital,’ and the tears came, sliding down my cheeks.

  The man made some notes on his pad, and gently and wordlessly, the policewoman took over. She sat forwards. I felt ashamed of my tears. The tears that made the woman sit forwards, and the man sit back. The woman had short dark hair, neatly cropped with flecks of grey. She looked efficient, organised. She spoke calmly. Immediately, I felt in safe hands. Her voice was quiet, low. I felt reassured.

  She asked about the preceding year. His mental health. Whether he was still having any treatment. ‘We need to assess the level of risk,’ she said. There were forms to fill in. They wanted a description and recent photos.

  She asked more questions and I duly offered up the information she requested. I decided to wait for her to finish, to hear her out, before I posed the question I most wanted to ask.

  There was a brief pause. Finally, it was my turn.

  ‘So, when do you think you will find him?’

  There was a slight twitch in her face, and again, the policeman took a less than surreptitious glance at his watch.

  ‘According to his assessed level of risk, a number of things will immediately be set in motion.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘You will be assigned an investigating officer. Notifications will be sent to the Missing Persons Bureau and Children’s Services—’

  ‘What does that all mean?’ I cut in; everything seemed suddenly blurry around the edges.

  ‘Because he’s under eighteen. And because of his previous suicide attempt – his risk will be categorised as high—’

  ‘High?’

  ‘Yes. There’ll be an immediate deployment of resources. He’ll be on a nationwide police alert. We’ll circulate his description and photos.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘Is that it?’

  ‘If there’s a sighting, we’ll notify you immediately. You’ll also be offered family support—’

  ‘I don’t want family support,’ I said.

  There was another pause.

  ‘There are other categories – but I don’t think he—’

  ‘What categories?’

  ‘A learning disability?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Detained under the Mental Health Act?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Likely to cause serious harm to another person?’

  I shook my head. I stared back at the two of them. ‘He’s my son. I’m worried about him,’ I whispered into my hands as I slumped forwards in my chair.

  ‘Has he taken anything with him?’

  I must have looked confused.

  ‘Money? Clothes? Passport?’

  ‘What? I – I don’t know.’

  ‘Can you please have a look?’ and her voice was soft.

  I scanned his room. Opened the wardrobe. As far as I could tell, nothing was missing.

  When I went to look for the passport in the desk drawer in the study, I remembered it wasn’t there. He’d needed it for the job.

  ‘He took it in to the centre,’ I said, ‘for the canoe job. He needed it for ID. And his CRB.’

  They exchanged a look between them.

  ‘It must still be at the centre,’ I said, sounding confused.

  A beat.

  ‘He keeps money in a tin in his room. It’s still there. Fifty-five pounds – and some change.’

  The policeman shifted in his seat, glanced up at his partner. He felt it was time to go. She didn’t look back at him. She sat still.

  I had a sudden urge to keep them there. To lock them in my house, to stop them leaving. I felt that all hope would disappear the moment they left. His radio blasted. He lowered the volume, then stood up and walked towards the patio doo
r, stood facing the garden as he spoke into the radio. He turned. She looked up and nodded. A glance exchanged between them. She rose to her feet.

  ‘The assigned investigating officer will be in touch tomorrow,’ she said. Then she opened up a folder and handed me a leaflet. ‘These are the organisations we recommend.’

  As we walked out of the lounge and into the hallway, I slowed down. I had the urge to point them up to the stairwell. To show them the walls of photographs. Or to pull the pictures from their neat wooden frames and push them into her hands. Photographs from holidays. Birthdays. Tom on the beach. Inside, I was screaming.

  Please. Please look at us. Please see us. Please help us.

  ‘Thank you for coming,’ I said at the door.

  The man was gone quickly down the path, speaking into his radio. The woman lingered on the porch. ‘I’m very sorry,’ she said. ‘I hope you hear from your son.’ She tells me that a third of all the cases reported missing are young people between sixteen and eighteen. ‘Most of these are home in forty-eight hours,’ she said. ‘Some just want some space. It scares the parents. But it shakes kids up a bit to realise how hard it is out there. They’re more than grateful to head home. Back to the comfort of their nice warm beds.’ She was trying to find a tone. Hopeful? Jokey? Reassuring? It didn’t feel any one of those things.

  Back upstairs, I searched his room for clues. It was neat. The bed was made. Clothes hung up. His bookshelf and desk were tidy. Bedside table. A clock. A pile of books. I skimmed over the titles. Then I looked again. Under the bed and along all the bookshelves. Nothing.

  ‘A book is gone,’ I said, when I rang the police station.

  ‘A book?’ There was a silence.

  ‘You asked me to call if I discovered if anything was missing. His favourite book. That’s the only thing I can see so far.’

  There was no news that night. David called later – and said he’d booked an early flight home. Carolyn was on a school hockey tour and we both agreed not to interrupt her trip. ‘She’s back on Saturday. He’ll be home by then,’ David reasoned. The investigating officer came the next morning. There were more forms. Photos and information gathering. He explained what would happen next.