by K. L. Slater
The only other possibility is that someone unknown to me has found out about Adder House and wants to cause trouble in some way. Even if it means causing distress to an innocent five-year-old.
Janine Harworth’s mean, pinched features instantly fill my mind. She’s the woman Lewis left us for before he died. Understandably, there is no love lost between us, and I’m sure she’d revel in the upset caused today.
But for Janine to find out such personal information would mean she’d have to have been regularly covertly watching, perhaps even following, me. And I can’t cope with a thought like that, not because it scares me but because it makes me feel so angry and also protective of Skye.
My thoughts gravitate to the figure I thought I saw watching us behind a tree in Kensington Gardens. Could it be . . .
I shake my head free of the awful puzzle. My daughter has to come first right now. ‘Want to play the “count the car colours” game?’ I say brightly as we walk up the road towards the bus stop, hand in hand. ‘I’ll take red ones and you can have your favourite, silver—’
‘No thank you, Mummy,’ she says quietly. ‘I don’t want to play that game today.’
‘Hey, guess what I’ve got us for tea? Pepperoni pizza, your favourite!’
‘I’m . . . not hungry.’ My girl, who is always ravenous after school.
She stares down at her feet as she walks. No skipping ahead or singing her favourite songs today.
Thankfully, we’re only waiting a couple of minutes before the bus arrives. We board and take our seats and still Skye is so subdued, I feel desperate to explain what must have happened to help her make sense of it.
‘It seems someone has played a nasty trick on us, sending that mean note to school.
But you know, we really mustn’t let it spoil our exciting news about moving to Adder House.’ I squeeze her hand and look down at her.
‘But why do they want to be mean to us?’ she asks, her voice flat. She doesn’t meet my eyes.
I’m trying to work out the very same thing for myself, but now isn’t the time to dwell on it and I don’t want to frighten her.
‘I don’t know,’ I say lightly. ‘Some people can get jealous when others have something exciting happening. They can tell fibs to cause trouble. And having a pretty confetti tree outside your bedroom window is certainly exciting . . . have you thought of a name for it yet?’
‘Petra wouldn’t talk to me after Miss Smith read out the note. She said Martha Fox is going to be her new best friend now.’ She looks up at me, her eyes shining with renewed hope. ‘But it’s not true I have to move schools, is it, Mummy? The jealous person was just telling fibs.’
I smile tightly and pat Skye’s hand, pointing out things from the window I hope might distract her.
The bus trundles on and passes the bottom of our old street. I can’t help myself; I glance across at the detached house on the corner.
It’s painful, even now after everything. Even though it’s all over.
I still remember the raw feeling inside when Lewis first left us to live in that house. It belongs to Janine. I spent so many hours imagining them both entwined in that upstairs bedroom. It used to torture me to the point that I couldn’t sleep.
Someone moving in the front bay window draws my gaze. At least I think that’s what I saw. I crane my neck, but it’s so hard to see anything from this angle because the light is reflecting off the glass, rendering it opaque.
I used to count Janine as a good friend. Not any more. Now, she’s forever identified in my mind as the woman who took my husband, the catalyst for every terrible thing that would ensue.
Whatever doubts I might have briefly entertained over whether moving to Adder House was the right thing for us, if I ever needed a sweetener or an extra push to leave the area, then escaping Janine Harworth and the view of her house is it.
My husband’s lover celebrated her fortieth birthday at the beginning of the year, making her seven years older than me. I’ve heard plenty of stories about men leaving their wife for someone younger, but not once have I heard of the other woman being older. Sounds silly, but at the time, it felt like an extra slap in the face. If it was possible for things to be any worse.
During the short time they were together, Janine seemed to take pleasure in constantly stirring things up between me and my husband, often over the smallest issues. Like when he insisted on bringing Skye back home on a Sunday at 8 p.m. instead of 7.30 p.m. as I’d asked. When he sent her home one day with a large bag of Haribo sour sweets, though he knew full well I went to great lengths to keep her away from confectionary like that.
I’d have been foolish to expect Janine to melt into oblivion when tragedy struck. Still, she managed to surprise me; came out fighting like a banshee rather than shrinking back even an inch in grief.
The focus of her belligerence was Lewis’s ‘estate’, as her lawyer grandly referred to the meagre assets my husband left behind.
It soon became apparent to Janine that the only real asset worth fighting for was Lewis’s small life-insurance policy, which she claimed he was in the process of legally changing to name her as beneficiary. He was also, apparently, in the process of starting divorce proceedings, which he’d never so much as mentioned to me.
After paying off some joint debt that passed to me when he died, I’d calculated that I had enough to last me about six months at our current level of outgoings. But the smaller Adder House rent meant I could now survive financially for longer before getting a job, giving me more time to spend with Skye while she settles in.
Janine had first confronted me in the street two weeks after Lewis’s death, and when I refused to talk to her, she shouted through the letterbox and only stopped when I threatened her with a court injunction. I didn’t want my already traumatised daughter having to witness all Janine’s crap on top of everything else.
In reality, I hadn’t got the funds to start any kind of legal action, but I must’ve given a convincing performance because she appeared to back off a bit after that.
When Lewis died, I was still the legally named beneficiary on the insurance policy. Whatever she said he was in the process of doing, I was still Lewis’s wife in the eyes of the law.
Once, he had loved me with all his heart. I hung on to that fact like a lifeline. But Janine was having none of it.
‘We were planning to get married at the end of the year. He intended telling you any day.’ She’d spat out the words after rushing across the road while I fiddled with the awkward front-door lock. ‘He was with me, he’d already left you. You and your brat have no right to that money.’
At that moment, I truly understood what it must feel like to want to impulsively harm another human being in a moment of madness. I just wanted to silence her.
I met her heated glare full on and spoke calmly. ‘In the eyes of the law, I’m still his wife, Janine. And Skye is his daughter . . . his own flesh and blood. On paper, you’re simply his bit on the side and, as such, are entitled to precisely nothing.’
Thankfully, my front door had sprung open as I finished speaking, and I stepped smartly inside, shutting the door in Janine’s twisted-up face.
Once inside, I had to lean against the wall and take a few deep breaths, to avoid retching in the hallway.
During the weeks that followed, I came home to broken eggs dripping down the front door, deliveries of manure and topsoil with drivers demanding cash on receipt, and numerous communications from companies regarding the setting up of expensive funeral plans featuring biodegradable coffins of all things.
Of course I knew perfectly well who was behind it all. Who else could it be?
None of it was particularly sinister. It would take more than infantile tricks like that to scare me. I’m not easily unnerved after what I’d been through as a fostered kid. The one advantage of being passed like an unwanted package amongst foster families is that it takes a lot to rattle me.
Still, it was annoying and inconvenien
t when I was trying so hard to keep it together for my daughter’s sake.
One day, I came home to find two full wheelie bins – my own and the couple’s upstairs – upended on the front garden when there was barely any breeze outside at all. Doesn’t sound like much, but when there’s rotten food and soggy teabags and other people’s rubbish to scrape up, it’s unpleasant to say the least.
I’d had enough and got as far as calling the local police station out of pure frustration.
I explained the short history of what I saw as revenge incidents, and I told them who I thought was responsible, but they wouldn’t send an officer out because there had been ‘no wilful damage or threats’, and there was zero proof Janine was involved.
The last few months before leaving the house had been quiet. Uneventful. But I’d never been able to shake the impression that she was always watching. And waiting. For what, I didn’t know. It was just a feeling.
Somehow, during the second bus journey home, I finally manage to get Skye off the subject of attending a new school by talking about taking a tour around Kensington Palace at the weekend.
‘Can we take Petra, too?’ she says, a weak smile finally returning. ‘I’m going to watch really carefully and try and spot Prince George at the window of the palace, Mummy.’
‘I’ll give Petra’s mum a call a little later on.’ I smile. Maybe I can rescue this situation, just be honest with Kat and explain everything to her. I’m sure she’ll understand about the mix-up under the circumstances.
As for Janine Harworth, if she’s responsible for the gift-and-note dirty trick, and she thinks it will somehow scupper our move, then she’s got another think coming.
It’ll take more than her to ruin our happy new beginnings.
15
When we get back home, Skye says from the doorway, ‘Can we call Petra and her mummy, tell them that someone was telling fibs in the note? And can we tell them that I’m not leaving Grove Primary? Then she might still be my friend.’
‘One second, poppet,’ I say to buy time, even though I want to weep for her. ‘Just let me sort out this paperwork.’
I make Skye’s tea on a tray and she sits watching television, finally seeming to be a little more settled now.
I gently close the lounge door and the sound of the TV recedes.
In the narrow hallway, I tidy our shoes and bags and hang the coats on the hooks near the door. I stand there for a minute or two, leaning against the pristine magnolia-painted walls.
The apartment is so clean and cool, and as I take a few long calming breaths in and out, I massage the back of my neck and feel the taut wiry tendons give a little.
Now that I’m alone, I can admit to myself that what happened at school today shook me up a bit. The promises I’d made to myself when I was around Skye’s age always make a reappearance as a mantra in my mind at any sign of trouble.
Don’t show them you’re scared. Don’t cry. Never cry.
There had been an abusive foster carer who took me to A & E three times with broken limbs before my sixth birthday, until someone finally twigged he periodically came home drunk and threw me down the stairs.
I’d also nearly died from pneumonia when I was twelve after another foster family locked me outside in the rain for tramping mud through the house. When they eventually let me in three hours later, I was made to sleep in the wet clothes all night and keep them on the next day.
Still, I survived.
As I got a little older, I was a loner. Never had a gang of friends or even a close best friend. My nickname at school was Robot on account of my never showing any emotion or, as I saw it then, any weakness.
I liked to think I was made of sterner stuff. It took a lot to unnerve me, and I was almost never surprised by what life could throw at me.
When I met Lewis, I honestly thought those days were long behind me.
But I admit, that day he told me our marriage was over, I wasn’t expecting it. Wasn’t equipped to deal with it on top of all that existing hurt.
I squeeze my eyes against the sting of tears and the pain of a life now lost, take a deep breath, and walk into the kitchen.
Shake it off.
It can only still hurt me if I allow myself to feel it.
I make my own tea and take it through to the lounge to sit with Skye. She’s absorbed in her television programme and doesn’t look up at me.
Kids are so resilient; I honestly think she’ll be OK about the new school. I’m pretty sure that—
My phone rings just as I finish eating my beans on toast, interrupting my thoughts. I’d forgotten to check it when I first got back in, after Miss Smith said the office had left me an answerphone message.
Skye glances up at the noise and then back to the television screen.
The ring is muffled and I realise it must have slipped down between the seat cushions, which is probably why I forgot to take it with me.
My fingers locate it and I pull it out and look at the screen. My throat feels full when I see who’s calling. It’s Kat, Petra’s mum.
I push my tray and empty plate to one side and spring up from my seat.
‘Hello?’ I walk out of the lounge and close the door behind me, go into my bedroom and sit on the edge of the bed.
‘Freya? It’s me, Kat.’ Her voice sounds sharp and to the point.
‘Hi, Kat! I was going to call you after tea, I—’
‘Is it true that you’ve moved house and Skye is leaving Grove Primary?’
I hesitate. My instinct is to be vague, stall for time, but I can’t. I have to tell her the truth.
‘Yes, it is true. I’m sorry, Kat, I should’ve told you, but things have moved so fast and—’
‘Petra’s heartbroken. She’s in pieces, but then you’ll know that because Skye would be exactly the same if we’d pulled a dirty trick like that.’ Kat’s voice sounds shaky, like she’s genuinely shocked at the news, but I need to put this into perspective.
‘It’s hardly a dirty trick!’ I exclaim. ‘It’s life, Kat. You know I had to sell the house after Lewis died and that we’d be moving.’
‘I thought you’d be staying local, and if not, that you’d at least have the decency to tell me you were moving to the other side of London, so I could have warned Petra.’ She pauses to take a breath and starts again before I can respond. ‘It’s unforgiveable, what you did today. To let her find out like that in front of the entire class.’
‘It wasn’t me who sent the note or the gift,’ I say, keeping my voice level.
‘What? Who did then? Frankly, it fits in with all the other selfish things you’ve done recently, like neglect to keep us up to speed with your major life changes.’
She’s starting to really annoy me now. Kat is secure in her nice middle-class home surrounded by an extended family that means there’s always someone to look after Petra if she and Bryn, Petra’s dad, want to plan one of their regular date nights she’s so fond of posting on Facebook . . . in the days before I closed my account.
I sigh. ‘Look. I’ve apologised for not telling you earlier, but I was only offered the apartment just over a week ago. Skye’s going to finish the summer term off at Grove, and she’d like Petra to visit our new apartment this weekend. We can make up for what’s happened with a tour around Kensington Palace. How’s that sound?’
There’s a tense silence on the end of the line for a few moments.
‘You must have lost your marbles if you think I’m going to let that happen.’ I can hear her words squeezing out between clenched teeth. ‘Petra’s still crying over the news. You might as well know I’ve already left a message on the school answerphone to see Mrs Vince in the morning to request that Petra sits next to Martha, and not Skye, in class from now on.’
‘I can’t believe you’d be that petty.’
She gasps but I can’t help myself. However angry she is, she shouldn’t take it out on Skye like that.
I hold the phone away from me, but I can still
hear her shouting. I end the call and toss the handset across the bed, lying back and staring up at the ceiling. I know Skye leaving the school hasn’t been dealt with in the best way, but I’ve had so much to do in a short space of time.
I feel myself harden inside, a metaphorical digging in of the heels.
Stuff Grove Primary and stuff Kat and her precious daughter, too. Audrey Marsden has already mentioned that as governor at the new school, she’s more than willing to help me get Skye admitted there.
Maybe, just maybe, she can help me with Skye’s transfer, too, so she doesn’t have to go back to her crummy old school at all.
16
The next morning, I sit in the lounge and stare out of the large picture window at the blue sky and fluffy white clouds beyond.
It’s a tonic to my sore insides and heavy eyelids, even though what I’d really love to do is crawl back under the covers and shut out the light completely.
When I came out of the bedroom yesterday after my call with Petra’s mum, I bumped into Skye in the hallway. Turns out she’d overheard most of the call.
‘Is Petra still coming over at the weekend?’ she’d asked fearfully, tugging at a lock of hair.
I had to tell her. Had to be honest with her about the new school.
‘So the nasty note was true?’ Her bottom lip quivered. ‘It said I was leaving Grove Primary.’
‘No! It wasn’t true, not then, anyway.’ I crouched down and pulled her close, but I could feel her resistance.
‘So I can stay at school with Petra?’
The hope in her voice broke my heart. At five years old she was tying me up in knots.
I knew I’d never have a better moment to explain, so we went back into the lounge and I turned off the television.
We sat together and I held her hand.
‘You know, sweetie, life is full of surprises. We don’t always know what’s around the corner, but sometimes it can be a good thing. Like when you won the junior art competition and you were in the local paper. Remember that?’
