by K. L. Slater
‘Well anyway, I really must be going. Lots to do.’ I drain the last of my coffee and take the mug over to the sink. ‘I’ll go and have a think about how I’m going to broach the subject of starting a new school with Skye later. Wish me luck.’
‘I’m sure you’ll handle it brilliantly.’ She gives me a hug. ‘And if you get any vibes that all’s not well at the palace, give me a shout and I’ll come over. I can figure out where the Marsdens might be on the Levenson psychopathy scale. Although I could probably hazard a guess right now . . .’
She nudges me playfully.
There are very few people I can count on these days, but Brenna is one of them. We met on my first day as an administrator at the clinic – we’d both reached for the last cheese-and-ham sandwich in the café – and we’ve been friends ever since.
Brenna is also Skye’s godmother and she is the singular person I’d trust to look after my daughter if I wasn’t able to. Brenna is just one of those rare people you can count on to watch your back in life.
Skye and I often go over to Brenna’s house for one of Viv’s legendary Hungarian stews with sour cream and homemade bread. Divine.
When my marriage broke up eighteen months ago, before the terrible events that followed, I realised too late that most of my friends were Lewis’s, too, and they were his before mine.
So, when he left, most of them went with him, and the few friends I had made disappeared like wisps of smoke within weeks.
Moving around with foster families from a young age, I never really got a chance to make any lifelong school friends like lots of people do. I guess a natural distrust of people, thanks to my fostering experiences, precluded me from making acquaintances as I got older.
So I’m sort of left with nobody. Except for Brenna. She stuck around.
12
You get to Grove School in good time for the children’s mid-afternoon break. You have already found the exact spot which affords you cover without appearing to skulk.
One has to be very careful these days, around schools and parks and other public places. It’s another sign of a world obsessed with correctness at the price of almost everything else.
You sit on the bench which some bright spark in the local planning department decided to situate under the canopy of a very old oak tree. The gnarled and sap-marked trunk, of some considerable girth, sits right in front of the bench, blocking the view but affording unrivalled privacy, right next to the wire-fenced playground of the school.
The package was delivered about half an hour ago. You watched as the courier took it inside and you received the emailed confirmation that it had been signed for at the front desk.
Only when you’re satisfied there is nobody else around and nobody observing you, do you take out the camera. And then you wait for a long four and a half minutes until the classes begin to emerge, one by one, from the main school building.
The children come out in twos and threes and group together in bigger numbers when they get out into the space of the school yard.
Soon there seem to be hundreds of them, although you can’t see the girl at all. Your nails are digging into your palm. Have they kept her inside for some reason, you wonder? Is she distressed?
You push away the disappointment of not being able to observe her reaction as you had hoped.
Instead, you slip on your soft gloves, reach into your bag and take out the hand-stitched journal that’s filled with Beatrice’s own thoughts. It is written in her neat and surprisingly eloquent hand, and you never tire of looking at it.
You calculate you must have read her words a thousand times, but this time feels special.
This time, everything means so much more because the woman and her child are finally here, at Adder House.
You turn back to the very beginning of Beatrice’s journal, dated June 1920, and begin to read . . .
‘Beatrice?’
As I walk down the corridor, I feel myself freeze at the sound of Dr Rosalie Rayner’s voice. The cold walls and stark floor seem to reverberate around me as every fibre of my being urges me to carry on walking as if I hadn’t heard the doctor speak.
But of course my manners stop me from doing so.
I twist my hands together before wiping my brow. I feel old-fashioned next to Rosalie with her modern look, her neat bun and small white cap.
Rosalie places her hand on my arm.
‘I wondered if you have given consideration to Professor Watson’s request, my dear?’
I feel such a heat in my cheeks. A damp spot collects in the slight dip at the bottom of my spine but I try to appear unflustered.
Professor Watson’s request has been looming large in my head. It has robbed me of sleep on a few nights, in fact.
‘I’m sure you’d agree that it is such an honour to have an eminent professional, such as Professor Watson, interested in your child. It is, without doubt, an astonishing opportunity.’
‘I – I’m very grateful for Professor Watson’s interest in my son, Rosalie, but . . . he’s a rather sensitive boy and I don’t think—’ I stammer. I can’t help it, she is so bold and insistent.
‘Why, the child has such a pleasant temperament! I’ve seen him around the hospital with others, so sociable and content.’
‘He might seem that way, but as his mother, I—’
‘Of course, Professor Watson is a very influential man. You know he sits on the hospital board and has the ear of all the decision makers? I assume you’ve heard the rumours concerning the reorganisation of the hospital’s maternity wing?’
I have indeed heard the rumour, which had begun quietly and grown with troubling speed until all the employees of the maternity wing were bracing themselves for an announcement any day.
I, together with many other people, have endured sleepless nights and fretful days, imagining what life might be like without my job. How we would survive.
My wages as a wet nurse in the maternity wing are minimal but adequate for our meagre lifestyle.
When a baby’s mother sadly dies or, for whatever reason, is unable or unwilling to feed her child, myself, or one of my colleagues, is allocated responsibility for the child.
My job is to feed and nurture my tiny charges until such a time as they are able to thrive independently. In my humble opinion, it is certainly a healthier choice than the dubious use of infant formula milk that the hospital’s doctors generally disapprove of.
It is true that I gain a great deal of job satisfaction in my work. It might not seem important to some, but my milk saves babies’ lives.
If I become a casualty of the hospital’s reorganisation, the loss will be catastrophic for me in a number of ways. I will lose both my job and my home on the hospital campus.
The consequences are unthinkable.
Still, that does not alter the churning in my stomach when I think about the nature of Professor Watson’s request.
There is something about the whole scenario I find uncomfortable that I can’t quite articulate. He is such a powerful, senior man and I am . . . well, I am nothing.
‘So can I tell him you’re pleased to accept his esteemed offer?’ Rosalie’s smile stretches across her dry, flaky lips.
Yet she knows I don’t really have a choice.
‘Very well,’ I say quietly, my heart sinking down in my chest.
Back at the house, you place the journal in its rightful place on the antique oak writing desk that belonged to your grandfather.
Next, listen to the first recording of the professor again, read by Professor Watson himself in a dated, scratchy-sounding voiceover.
1920 Johns Hopkins University Hospital, Baltimore
Extract from the confidential case study diary of Professor J. Watson
OVERVIEW
The subject is an eleven-month-old male child. For the purposes of anonymity, I will refer to the subject hereon as Little Albert.
He appears plump and of a mild, content temperament.
He exh
ibits no signs of fear or anxiety and is familiar with the hospital environment.
It has been agreed that Beatrice, the mother of the child, will remain present during the sessions.
Session one takes place in a controlled environment, the private office of myself, Professor John B. Watson. Also present is Dr Rosalie Rayner and Beatrice Barger, the subject’s mother.
STAGE ONE
The child is inquisitive and responsive to noises and visual cues around him. The initial introduction of stimuli commences and the following are presented in a relaxed manner to the subject: a white rat, a dog, a monkey, masks featuring both hair and cotton wool.
The initial reactions are as expected; Little Albert shows no fear.
On the contrary, he seems fond of the animals and appears particularly fascinated by the white rat.
STAGE TWO
Following a short break where the mother is encouraged to interact with the child, Little Albert is presented with a single stimulus: the white rat.
As he reaches for the animal, a steel bar behind him is hit with a metal rod. The noise is loud and jarring and the child visibly jumps.
This procedure is repeated twice before the session is brought to a close.
BASELINE REACTIONS:
Albert jumps and falls forward the first time the steel bar is struck. The second time, the child begins to whimper and reach nervously towards his mother.
Session one is then concluded.
Subject is returned to his mother with instructions to return in one week.
13
After coffee at Bren’s, I spend a backbreaking day unpacking boxes at Adder House.
I have a lot of stuff to throw out, too. As we moved so quickly, I had to bring absolutely everything with us.
The hours fly by, and in the afternoon, I head back to Skye’s school to collect her at the end of the day with a spring in my step.
The sky looks moody with pale-grey clouds blocking the efforts of the sun to break through. It’s on the cool side for mid-July. Still, it hasn’t been too bad this year, as far as English summers go.
I catch the first bus to the terminal where I then board the second bus, which drops me a few streets away from Skye’s school. As I walk the short distance to the gates, I reflect on how she’s been happy here at Grove Primary.
She first attended nursery at the age of three, before her first reception year in school, and has now nearly completed her time as a Year One pupil.
My daughter is bright and very capable and has done so well at Grove. Her class teacher, Miss Smith, and the headteacher, Mrs Vince, have been so supportive during our troubled times, and I’ll miss them both myself, too.
They even arranged for Skye to see a school counsellor for a few sessions, which I think really helped her begin to come to terms with what happened. Between them, they offered Skye a safe place to release her feelings without guilt or pressure.
They went out of their way to speak to me regularly, too, asking how I was doing and if there was anything else the school could help with.
A sickly feeling rises in my chest. I hope she’s in a good mood when I pick her up and open to the news I have to give her.
I’m a few minutes early getting to school and one of the first parents to reach the gates. I cross the playground and enter reception to pick up the transfer forms I’ll need to complete.
Mrs Desai, the office manager, looks up as I enter the reception area. She picks up the phone, says a few words, and replaces the receiver before sliding open the glass hatch. I smile and ask her for the necessary forms.
‘It’s very short notice, so please bring them back tomorrow fully completed,’ she says curtly and hands them over to me without smiling back.
She’s always seemed very friendly up to now, so I figure she must be just snowed under with end-of-term work, judging by the unwieldy pile of papers on her desk.
As I turn to leave, the secure inner door that leads into the school opens and Miss Smith peers apologetically around it.
‘Is there any chance I can have a quick word, Mrs Miller?’ She pushes her wispy, light-brown hair out of her eyes and exchanges a glance with Mrs Desai.
How did the teacher know I was here, in reception? The classroom window overlooks the inner courtyard so she can’t have seen me coming into school. Then I remember the office manager’s discreet little phone call as I arrived . . . she must have tipped her off that I had arrived. But why?
‘Yes, of course.’ My heart thumps a little faster as I walk towards her. ‘Is everything alright?’
‘You can come through now, if that’s OK.’
Miss Smith holds the door open and I slip through, following her down the corridor that’s just starting to fill with children searching for their lunchboxes and coats. Her small heels sound officious as they clip the scuffed wooden floor as we walk, adding to the unsettled feeling that’s growing rapidly in my stomach.
‘My teaching assistant has kindly agreed to dismiss the class, so we can speak privately in here. She’s going to hold on to Skye for a few minutes when the end-of-school bell sounds, so no need to worry where she is.’ She opens the door of a room barely bigger than a large cupboard, which contains only a single desk and a couple of pupil-sized chairs.
‘Is there something wrong?’ I ask when she indicates for me to sit down. I remain standing, waiting with bated breath for an explanation.
Miss Smith presses her lips together regretfully. ‘Mrs Miller, I thought it was important to let you know that Skye has been rather upset in class this afternoon.’ She pre-empts my next comment. ‘The office did try unsuccessfully to call and text you several times to come in, but in the end, I’m afraid they had to leave a voicemail.’
One hand fruitlessly scrabbles around in my bag and I inwardly curse when I realise I must have left my phone at home in my rush to leave the apartment.
‘Is Skye OK? Is she ill or—’
‘Skye is fine physically,’ she interrupts. ‘But it was the sweets, Mrs Miller . . . and your note. I think if you had let me know what to expect today, I could have handled it better and avoided—’
‘Sorry,’ I interrupt, placing the tips of my fingers lightly on the desk. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. Sweets . . . and a note, you say?’
‘Yes, they arrived in reception at two o’clock with instructions for them to be brought directly to class. The gift basket was wrapped so beautifully in cellophane and ribbons and addressed to Rowan Class. As you can imagine, the children were excited when Mrs Desai brought them through.’ She hesitates. ‘But I’m afraid it all turned rather sour when I read out your note.’
I feel like I’m inhaling fog.
‘Sorry, I need to stop you right there. I haven’t sent a package to school today,’ I say a little breathlessly.
‘Oh, I see.’ Her hand drifts up to her mouth as she considers the implications of this. ‘Let’s sit down a moment.’
The child-size chair feels insubstantial beneath me. ‘What . . . did the note say?’ I manage.
She opens the exercise book she’s carrying and hands me a small lined piece of paper. I read it aloud, in disbelief.
To all my friends in Rowan Class,
Me and Mummy have just moved into our new house, and I will be leaving Grove Primary to start a brand new school a long way from here.
It’s too far to visit so I will miss you all, especially my best friend, Petra. Enjoy the sweeties!
Love, Skye Miller
‘This is crazy,’ I tell Miss Smith as firmly as I’m able to, crossing my ankles under the small chair to steady my legs. ‘I didn’t send this to class. I haven’t even told Skye she’s leaving this school yet.’
‘That explains her reaction,’ Miss Smith says, watching me carefully.
‘I just can’t imagine how this has happened.’ I listen to myself, realising how terribly thin and unconvincing my voice and words must sound to her.
But it’s true. Li
terally nobody knows this information. With the exception of Brenna that is, and – I start at the sound of a sharp knock.
The door opens and Tana, Rowan Class’s teaching assistant, steps inside, holding Skye’s hand.
My daughter’s cheeks look swollen and damp, and her usually vivid blue eyes are cast with a dull light.
I jump out of my seat and envelop her in my arms as the two women look on.
‘I’m so sorry this has happened, darling,’ I whisper in my daughter’s ear. ‘I want you to know that Mummy didn’t send the gift basket or the note.’
When she pulls away from me, her eyes wide and tinged with fear, I realise I’ve made a mistake in saying so.
‘But if you didn’t send it, Mummy,’ she says, sniffing back tears, ‘then who did?’
14
Thankfully, by the time I finish talking to Skye’s teacher and we leave the school building, the other parents and children outside the gates have mostly dispersed.
I really don’t fancy bumping into Kat, and having to explain everything to her in front of an already traumatised Skye. No doubt little Petra is really upset too; the pair of them have been inseparable since their first day at nursery school here.
I make a mental note to give Kat a call later.
For once, Skye allows me to carry her Frozen-themed backpack. She usually has to be surgically separated from it, but today she willingly lets go and holds my hand limply.
My mind is full, whirring with disturbing thoughts about the candy delivery and vicious note someone sent to Skye’s class. Whoever did it must have known it would upset Skye, or why bother in the first place?
I’ve racked my brains, and I’m certain the only people who knew I’m planning to move Skye to St Benjamin Monks are the Marsdens and, obviously, Brenna after my impromptu visit for coffee this morning. None of them have reason to upset us like this. The Marsdens have a vested interest in keeping us happy in our move to Adder House, and Brenna is our dear, loyal friend who would detest the thought of Skye being hurt.
