When your solicitor’s threats didn’t work, you began to work on them, didn’t you? Insisting on taking them for half the week and spending the entire time auto-suggesting that I’m a piece of crap who’s off her rocker. Laura told me Daddy asked her if Mummy talks to herself. You gave them both emergency phone numbers to call if they didn’t feel safe.
You knew that you had no chance of getting legal custody of them, so you bided your time. Eventually, after several months, long enough to have built up evidence, you went to the family courts with a claim that I wasn’t coping. I opposed it, naturally, citing that you were about to leave the country on a year-long contract. There was no big courtroom drama like you would imagine it to be. It wasn’t even a custody hearing. The hearing was held round a table in chambers.
I was so stressed that I was crying and, despite my own counsel telling me to pull myself together, I couldn’t. You had put me under unbearable pressure. Broken me down little by little. And all I could imagine was that I was going to lose. That you would weave a wider web of lies and catch my children in it. My solicitor had told me that you stood no chance as you were working abroad and had conceded the marital home, and the children would be awarded to the parent who was most reliable.
What I hadn’t banked on was your mother. We’ve had an up-and-down relationship, with her classic ‘you’re not good enough for my son’ attitude mixed with a ‘you’re my confidante’ when she wanted something from me or needed to get to you through me. She had always assumed that when Charlie and Laura came along I would give up work and stay at home. Like she did. When that didn’t happen, she subjected me to a tight-lipped tirade of underhand comments, all designed to dent any self-esteem I had left after you had done your worst.
Halfway through the hearing she was called to give evidence. I knew at that point that I had lost my children. You sat there, hair tousled and face affable, but long-suffering. She, at pains to show she was über-sympathetic, tore me to shreds. She told them that I’d always had a tendency to ‘go into a world of my own’; asked if she thought I was dangerous, she’d theatrically looked at the table, her knuckles white, until she dramatically raised her head and nodded.
Everyone looked surprised as I let out a wail and sobbed heavily. I couldn’t understand how they couldn’t see through this. How they could even consider her evidence. How, as she sat down lightly, rearranging her designer dress, the judge was asking her if she would be providing residence for my children until ‘Caroline’s mental health improves’. She knew how much I love my children. How she could, without even looking at me, nod and smile and whisper: ‘Of course. Anything to help.’
That was a year ago. What was actually granted was a joint care arrangement with me having them half the time when I was ‘feeling better’ – which actually meant after an assessment by social services. Naturally, I thought every day about just going to get them back, but how would I explain the state of the house? I’d told myself that next week I would hire a skip and sort it out, but I just ordered more and more stuff. There never seemed to be a right time to contact social services. The truth is that I was scared.
I saw them at first, but it was awkward. They both eyed me suspiciously and after three months of stilted silence sitting in your mother’s lounge with her watching me like a hawk, I took them to McDonald’s. I was checking my phone in the queue and I asked Charlie to grab the tray. He stood very still, looking at me. Those brown eyes. Your eyes, Jack. He was beautiful. Tears sprung up and I went to hold his hand, but he pulled it away. In a split second I saw that he was clutching a piece of paper tightly.
I admit that I grabbed his arm. I was probably shouting too. Something like: ‘Give me that, Charlie. Give me that paper!’
It looked worse than what it was on the McDonald’s CCTV. I’d prised his fingers from around the paper and opened it up. Straight away I recognised your handwriting.
If Mummy starts to act strangely call this number. If there is no phone, ask a nearby adult.
Charlie was crying, running away, and I chased him. Out onto the road, leaving six-year-old Laura crying in a fast-food restaurant. On the CCTV outside I could see myself crying and shouting after him as he ran as fast as he could. Afterwards, he said that I was shouting swearwords, but anyone could see from the CCTV that I was shouting, ‘I love you, Charlie.’ I love you.
It took the police two hours to find him. He was hiding behind a skip at the end of the road that led to your mother’s house. Naturally, social services were involved and I attended on automatic pilot, because by then I knew it was a lost cause. You told them that Charlie said he had seen me drinking. That I had a bottle in my handbag and was pouring it into my McDonald’s Coke.
The gap between Charlie and Laura and me was widening with a joint effort of nastiness from you and your mother. It was the last bastion of normality for me, a kind of metric that I would measure each day against. The children. I had to be OK for the children.
You knew that. I could see it in your eyes. At the final hearing, when you flew back from Argentina and turned up with your bent lawyer, even though it was an informal, civil matter, I knew that you knew that it was the final crack that shattered me. Everyone said how sorry they were that I couldn’t be trusted to see my own children unsupervised, and they hoped that I would get help for my drinking.
The social worker didn’t look entirely convinced, and I hung my hope on her until the very last second. The options were that either I could see Charlie and Laura supervised by social services or I shouldn’t be allowed to see them until it had been decided they were ready and I had sought help.
My department head, Professor Linda Cox, had written a letter in my support and it was this that flashed a beacon of hope. My not seeing the children was discounted as I had three character references that told the truth about me. That I loved my kids and this blip was because things had been rough. That I would be helped and supported. That I was still doing my job well.
You didn’t like that. Just when you thought you had destroyed me completely, someone was sticking up for me. And for your mother it had become a battle. A battle to make sure that her martyrdom reached new heights at any cost. I saw you exchange glances with her and my heart sank as I watched her shift into the familiar attack stance.
She leaned slightly forward, chin out, and set her mouth into a thin smile. To anyone else it would look for all the world like she was some kind of saint, taking on the burdens of the world with good humour. But I know her. She coughed to get attention, then began the onslaught.
‘Well, I was just thinking, if it would help, I could supervise Caroline and the children. I mean, I don’t want to interfere but it does seem practical as they will be staying with me for the time being ...’
I saw you brighten. You knew then that I would never see Charlie and Laura again. You knew that your mother would control the situation with a rod of steel. You’d be able to see them whenever you deemed it necessary to pop home from your round-the-world jolly, but I wouldn’t be allowed. It wasn’t legal custody, but you’d found a way to keep me out of your life completely. She would make every excuse possible to avoid me seeing them. It would all seem like she was very busy and it was a terrible coincidence that the only time she was free was when I was working. It would save you the job of having to look after them and of keeping them away from me. A double whammy.
Everyone was nodding their approval and suddenly chairs began to scrape and everyone left. Except me. I sat there in stunned silence. No doubt to the rest of the world it looked like the perfect arrangement – and one that would work in everyone’s favour. But they didn’t know these people. Not really. They hadn’t lived my life and got to know the egos and the motivations.
Not that it mattered now. What mattered was that my children had been taken away from me and that I had to somehow find a way to get them back. Or carry on with my life without them. Or not. I admit that for a brief moment I considered ending it all, but then
they would hurt more and it would prove that Daddy and Grandma were right and Mummy was very, very ill and dangerous.
It’s hard to explain now, but sitting there in that room, completely alone in the world, missing my children and wanting to die, I somehow still had a spark in me. It was there, deep down, a knowledge that one day this would all come right. Even if it was when Charlie and Laura were adults and could decide for themselves. I had to be there. I had to survive. For them. I had to find a way to put this right. I had to fight for them. I had to.
Chapter Nine
I did survive. Just. For the first few weeks I didn’t go to work. I didn’t have a shower for weeks and I hardly ate. I was in breakdown mode, but I knew deep down that it couldn’t go on. In the end it was a work colleague who pulled me from the mire of pain I had almost drowned in.
Fiona knocked on the door and when I didn’t answer, she knocked again. She is one of those friends who you feel like you’ve known for ever and they stick by you through anything. She works in my department. She knocked and knocked. Then she shouted through the letterbox. Like now, I was sitting with my back against the door, willing her to go away. I wanted Charlie and Laura, not someone from work. Instead of going away, she waited and waited until I opened the door. Telling me I was needed at work. That there was a project starting and I was on the collaboration list. It couldn’t start without me, apparently.
Even though I thought it was all bullshit specifically designed to get me to answer the door, it turned out that, in one area of life, I was valued after all. There was a project and they did need me. They’d been waiting for my sick note to run out and when it did and I still didn’t come back they sent Fiona.
‘So when are you coming back, Caroline?’
By this time she was sitting in my foul-smelling kitchen amongst a build-up of half-eaten takeaways, smoking a cigarette. I stared at her. Didn’t she know what had happened? Didn’t she?
‘Of course, I know what’s happened. It’s awful. It is. But we want to support you. I’m your friend. I want to support you. Not feel sorry for you or patronise you. Honestly, Caroline, you’ve got to get out there. We need you.’
I hadn’t spoken to anyone for weeks and I remember being surprised by the sound of my own voice.
‘Give me another week.’
It was weak and small, but it was me. I was still there. Much as I had wished myself away, I was still there.
So I went back to work after a week. Fiona was my friend and she was there for me. I didn’t see it at the time, but she ignored my disgusting house, my breakdown-vagueness and red eyes, and she sat with me as I drank coffee in the cafeteria. We didn’t talk about it. It was round about that time that I realised that I’d never actually articulated what had fully happened to another person. It was all living inside me, festering into my soul until I felt like I was bursting.
I could have told Fiona anytime, she was there for me, but I was scared. Scared she wouldn’t believe me. Scared she would think I had made it up. It had worked. Your plan had worked. I’d been treated badly and now I didn’t even bother mentioning it because who would believe me? Fiona talked to me about her partner and her dog and her drug-addict brother and her work and generally anything but me. I said hardly anything. But sometimes no words are needed.
I was thinner and I actually looked better than I had for ages. I smiled my way through the back-to-work interview and assured everyone that I was OK, I had just needed a rest and, yes, of course I was fighting to get my children back. Yes, it had all been a big mistake. Yes, Jack’s mother was looking after them. Yes, the best possible scenario.
I nodded and agreed and realised that I would have to hold it down at work. I would have to keep this make-believe world where life went on separate from my catastrophic personal life. Luckily for me, I loved my job. I loved research and I loved the money it gave me to use as a buffer against the world.
It looked like things had improved, but they really, really hadn’t. Almost immediately I stopped going into Charlie and Laura’s rooms; I haven’t been in either room since. It was as if going in would break all the good work I was doing; making myself strong for when the day came that I was able to pick up the phone and ask your mother if I could see them.
I’d need all my strength because I knew she’d refuse and I’d have to repeat it, make a record of it, save it all up for my solicitor. Take it back to the social worker. Hadn’t I carried on working? Hadn’t I had supervision and counselling? Hadn’t I kept my side of the bargain and tried to see them, but hadn’t she obstructed me? I had it all planned.
Eventually I did phone. I was breezy and bright on the surface but anxiety was seething inside me as I heard the ringtone.
‘Melissa Atkinson.’
I listened to the background for them. For Laura’s sweet voice. Charlie’s laugh.
‘Melissa, it’s Caroline. I was wondering if I could pick the children up on Saturday?’
Be nice, Caroline. Play her game. Silence. Then she was chirpy.
‘Yes, of course. I’ll bring them to you. Shall we say ten o’clock?’
I couldn’t believe it. I choked up.
‘Oh, thank you, Melissa. Ten is just fine.’
I was already baking scones in my head. Little sandwiches and the lime jelly that Laura loves.
‘I’ll see you then.’
She was gone and I started to prepare. I cleaned and baked and hid the boxes – there weren’t so many of them back then – and it felt like a new beginning.
At ten o’clock on Saturday, I stood at the window at the top of the stairs and waited for her car. She arrived exactly on time, but without the children. She glided to the front door and knocked, checking her phone as she did so. I raced downstairs and opened it.
‘Where are they?’
She walked past me and stood at the kitchen table, looking at the food I had made.
‘You really are stupid, aren’t you?’
My pulse was banging in my ears and I nearly went for her. But I knew somehow that that was what she wanted – more reasons.
‘I have a right to see them. Jack wasn’t awarded custody. And neither were you.’
‘No. No, I wasn’t. But you’re a mess. Not fit to look after them.’
I moved closer to her.
‘I am fit to look after them. But you’re right. I am a mess. Your son has done this. And you’ve turned a blind fucking eye.’
She flinched. But then she turned suddenly and grabbed my arm.
‘You come anywhere near me and I’ll make sure you are charged with harassment. Come anywhere near those children and I’ll have you arrested for assaulting me. You can’t win this, Caroline, so leave it.’
I faced it out.
‘I’ll never leave it. I’ll never leave my children.’
She let me go heavily and I fell backward against the table.
‘Well, it’s stalemate, then. But the problem is you’re already disadvantaged. Let’s see what else you have. Let’s see it, Caroline.’
She left and slammed the door.
But I still haven’t been in those rooms a year later. Because I thought I had the strength, but when I phoned her again she wouldn’t speak to me. I hadn’t included that in my plan. I almost kept ringing over and over again but realised just in time that it was what she wanted. Harassment. Anything she could bring to discredit me. If she wouldn’t speak to me, we couldn’t make an arrangement so I couldn’t say she had broken it.
Naturally, I called social services and asked them to intervene but they just said that they thought we could ‘sort it out’ amongst ourselves and made appointments that were constantly cancelled because Melissa and Jack couldn’t make it.
So on and on it went until I no longer picked up the phone. I planned more and drank more and soon I had a plan but was too pissed to carry it out. I’ve just been reeling from being so drunk that I’ve only a vague recollection of what I’ve done to produce a brilliant piece of work
for my department.
I’d love to say that I’m a high-functioning alcoholic, but I’m not. It’s much more complex. When Christmas came I was here alone and I’d been sober for weeks. Then, the day before Christmas Eve, I realised what was going to happen. How I would be trapped here, in my own home, with my memories.
I opened a bottle of prosecco that someone at work had given me as a present and the next thing I remember was Boxing Day. I was lying on the kitchen floor. The long kitchen table was cleared of boxes and laid with three full Christmas dinners, with all the trimmings. Cold and congealed. My head hurt and I spotted several booze bottles in the sink. There was more food laid out on the kitchen sides. I’d cooked enough for about eight people.
Then it struck me. Where had the food come from? I had no food in before Christmas. Therefore, I must have been out. I rushed through the box towers to the front window and my car was parked askew in the road. I knew in the back of my mind what had made me do it. Christmas without my children. No escape except the in-between. But I also knew that, equally, I couldn’t stop it.
There are periods, though, when I’m so completely engrossed in my job that I don’t drink and don’t order things online. That I don’t go to Premier Inn and pick up strange men. During that time I don’t crave alcohol. It’s when I’m in my own home – our home – and I’m suddenly confronted by a closed bedroom door or a sock behind a radiator. By my own children and the unfairness of what happened.
Which brings me to now again. I hear next door’s dog barking. It never fucking shuts up, like some kind of frantic burglar alarm that goes off when someone even tiptoes anywhere near it, regular as clockwork. Your mother’s round the back of my house, peering through my kitchen window. I duck out of sight behind a pile of shoeboxes. She stays there for a while, then she gets her phone out and takes a picture of the kitchen. Then she disappears and I hear her footsteps click-click-clicking up the path. They stop on the front step again and there’s an almost indiscernible thud as she leans against the front door.
Perfect Ten Page 7
