by Sam Hayes
We’re here, her hands announced cheerily, and she bowled from the car to greet Milo in the yard. He was muddy and shaking and hardly had the energy to welcome us.
‘Milo,’ I said. ‘What’s wrong, boy?’ Then I saw the animal muck spread across the usually spotless cobbles; the two loose goats scoffing whatever winter herbs and greenery they could find in Mum’s pots. The washing line had come down at one end and several sheets dragged on the ground, while the chickens clucked at the goats’ feet.
This wasn’t the picture of rural perfection that Northmire usually boasted. Not Mum’s farm. Not Mum’s way.
I banged on the back door but didn’t wait for a reply. I shovelled my key from my bag and we went straight in. The kitchen fire was out and that was strange in itself. From September to March, the grate glowed with orange coals. It heated the entire house.
‘Mum?’ I called. ‘We’re here.’ My stomach cramped.
‘Where’s Gran gone?’ Alex asked. None of us took off our coats.
‘Mum!’ I pushed open the door to the inner hallway and called through all the doors of the house. ‘Mum, it’s us. Are you here?’
I half expected the two new foster kids to come charging through the house, excited that people had arrived for the day. I’d not met them at that point; knew nothing about this brother and sister recently delivered for Mum to shelter. But there was nothing except the sound of our own breathing and Milo’s claws clicking on the flagstones.
‘Kids, wait in the kitchen. Keep Milo with you for company. He looks like he could use some love.’ I signed as I spoke for Flora’s benefit, my hands shaking, causing my little girl’s face to crumple with worry.
I went upstairs first. She probably has ’flu, I remember thinking, or a stomach bug and has gone to bed. I tried to recall the last time we had spoken – always once a week – and with our Christmas Day visit approaching, our last conversation had been only four or five days ago. She’d seemed fine, cheerful about the festivities even, although she never once agreed to come and spend the day at our place. She was bound to Northmire Farm, mind and body. It was where she felt safe.
‘Are you home, Mum?’ I stopped shouting, trying to sound upbeat in case I discovered her perfectly fine, reading a book by the bedroom fire, tucked up with hot soup and a box of tissues. ‘Mum?’
I zig-zagged a path between all five bedrooms and then checked out the converted attic rooms above the barn, which were always kept for the foster kids.
‘Oh, hi,’ I said as cheerily as I could when two pale faces stared at me from the gloom. ‘I’m Julia. Have you seen Mary?’ Mum always insisted the kids call her by her first name.
They shrugged. A boy and a girl, somewhere in their teens. By all accounts, Mum had taken on a bit of a handful this time. ‘Have you even seen her today?’ I noticed wrapping paper on the floor, as if they’d been given presents.
‘Yeah,’ the girl said. ‘She’s around somewhere. Hasn’t said much, though. Not even happy Christmas.’
‘Well. Happy Christmas to you both. We can get to know each other later.’
Back downstairs, I poked my head around the study door, the dining room, the snug and finally the drawing room, which honestly, I can’t ever remember using since Grandad’s funeral. Generations of Marshalls have lived in this house.
‘Mum,’ I said, sighing with relief when I saw her small frame propped in the blue velvet chair. ‘I was worried. Are you OK?’ She faced the unlit fireplace. The house was so cold I could see the fog of my breath. I stepped in front of her, crouched down and froze.
Was she dead?
‘Mum!’ I screamed. Her eyes flickered open. ‘What’s wrong, Mum? Talk to me, for God’s sake.’ I touched her arm, tugged her sleeve and brushed the back of my hand down her cheek. There was some warmth beneath the cool powder of her skin, but her eyes were staring vacantly ahead.
‘Just tell me you’re OK. Nod or something. Have you been hurt? Are you ill?’
‘Grandma!’ Alex said and skidded across the room, closely followed by a more cautious Flora. ‘Happy Christmas!’
I put up my hand to prevent them leaping on to their grandmother. Looking at her, she would have crumbled under their weight. ‘Alex, go and get a glass of water.’
Flora ignored me and plopped on to Grandma’s small lap. Happy Christmas, Gran, she signed. I got a Barbie horse and this dress is new. Flora smoothed out the satin folds of a plum-coloured dress she had fallen in love with back in November.
Alex returned with the water. ‘Thanks, love,’ I said while sizing up Mum’s face. Her mouth was pursed and her fine eyebrows – always shaped into perfect thin arcs – pulled together in a cruel frown. Mum just didn’t seem to be inside.
Grandma, Flora signed. Say Happy Christmas to me. She slid off her knee, suddenly fearful of her usually jolly grandmother. My mother remained blank, moving only by default as Flora escaped.
‘What’s Grandma doing?’ Alex asked. He thumbed his Nintendo frantically, not looking up as he spoke.
‘She’s perhaps a bit tired,’ I suggested. ‘A bit too tired for Christmas.
‘Come on, Mum,’ I said, taking her hand. She was freezing. ‘Let’s go in the kitchen and stoke the range. We can have some tea and chat.’ I pulled gently on her hand and to my relief she stood up. Her knees were bent and her back formed the shape of the chair, but she was upright and showing some degree of comprehension and willingness.
‘That’s it,’ I crooned. ‘Let’s go and get warm.’
But still she didn’t speak.
David is coming again today. I suggested tentatively, not meaning it, that he shouldn’t put himself out. He wouldn’t hear of it. Even though he only saw Mum last night, he wanted to check up on her. He said he’d like to see me again too. I can’t help but feel flattered.
Alex runs to answer the door, thinking perhaps it’s his father, but I beat him to it. Today, it is slightly warmer and the wind has dropped. Everything outside looks weary, fed up, spent. I am reminded of myself.
‘Hi,’ I say and pull the door wide. Alex hovers behind me, ignoring David’s friendly greeting – a ruffle of his hair. My son skulks away. David bends forward and leaves a kiss on my cheek.
‘Hi,’ he says back without stifling his grin. He takes off his long overcoat. He’s wearing jeans and a V-necked pullover that shows me his shoulders are broad yet slim. His stomach reveals no sign of overeating this Christmas.
‘This looks new,’ I say, then feel embarrassed as I take the coat.
‘A bargain in the sales,’ he replies, amused by my interest. ‘I admit, I’m not one for shopping, but I lent my old one to . . .’ He stops, looks me up and down and says, completely forgetting the coat, ‘I’m worried about you, Julia.You’ve lost weight these last few days.’ The grin drops away and is replaced by a frown. I’m touched that he’s noticed. He reaches out and lays his hands on my shoulders.
‘I’m fine. Really.’ I can feel myself blushing and quickly change the subject. ‘Mum’s stopped hyperventilating but her heart is still racing. Shouldn’t the medication have settled it?’
His eyes narrow, concerned yet inquisitive, and for a second, I’m convinced he knows what I’m thinking. ‘Come on then, where’s the patient?’ He picks up his doctor’s bag and walks ahead of me, assuming that Mum is still in bed. I follow him upstairs.
‘Mary,’ he says fondly, as if he has known her all his life. He stands at my mother’s bedside. ‘How are you feeling today? Have the tablets helped?’ He doesn’t wait for a reply because he knows he isn’t going to get one. He lifts her limp wrist off the bedspread – exactly the same place where he left it last night – and measures the tick of her pulse. I swallow, watching him deal with my mother. He is so kind and patient, I know she is in safe hands.
‘Normal?’ I ask when he’s finished.
‘Pretty much.’ He removes a stethoscope from his bag and listens to her chest through her nightdress.
‘And?’
‘Fine,’ David replies. Then he takes Mum’s temperature, and again it’s normal.
‘But she’s not normal, is she?’ I say. Seeing my mother lying ghost-like in bed and not being able to do a thing to help her is agony. ‘I’m sorry,’ I add to cover the shake that takes hold of my hands. ‘I haven’t been sleeping well.’ Haven’t been sleeping at all, I should have said. Because of Mum. Because of Grace. Because of Murray.
‘Come.’ David puts his hand on my elbow and guides me out on to the landing, clicking the bedroom door shut behind us. Suddenly I feel warm, secure, childlike, as I know Flora does when Murray scoops her up in his arms. At the window, we look out across the fields, across the meadow of mud and stubby grass picked to the root by the few goats and sheep Mum keeps. I’m doing my best to keep everything going.
‘Something must have happened to your mother to cause this.’ David flicks his glance away briefly, swallows and thinks. ‘Do you have any idea what that might be?’ He stares at me as if I should know; as if I can tell him exactly the reason my mother is not speaking.
I shrug. ‘No, I don’t,’ I answer honestly. ‘There’s nothing in Mum’s life that could have made her like this.’ I’m standing in the sunlight that’s spilling through the window and he’s staring at me as if it’s the first time he’s ever seen me. I smile and my cheeks feel hot.
‘I promise that I’ll do my best for her now, Julia.’ His words are slow and reassuring.
‘Mum’s life has always been . . . well, great. Like that.’ And I point at the farmyard below and the kitchen garden beyond. Even in winter, it still looks idyllic with the pretty fields spread around us. ‘See? Perfect. Maybe she’s upset because the washing line came down and the goats got her towels.’ I try to laugh but it doesn’t come out right.
David breathes in and sighs seriously. ‘She’s going to need a few tests, Julia. It’s time for brain scans, psychological screening, a full blood work-up. Telling your mother this is one thing, but I suspect getting her to comply will be quite another.’ He’s already got an uncannily accurate measure of her. ‘She clearly needs help and I want to give it to her. The best way I can.’
I wish I’d had such a concerned doctor when I was pregnant with Alex and Flora. Briefly, I recall the dismissive young man who completely missed the signs of pre-eclampsia. ‘Well, if she disagrees, it’s a good thing,’ I say, blocking out the disturbing memory. ‘It will mean she spoke.’ My face crumples with anguish. ‘Oh David, she’s barely eating and won’t do anything on her own. I’ve had to wash her and take her to the toilet for over a week.’What could have made her like this?
David glances down. The carpet is threadbare and I recall running barefoot over its dated pattern as a child. ‘Without the test results, I wouldn’t like to say. Maybe she’s suffered a trauma . . .’
‘An accident?’
‘There are other kinds of trauma,’ he says. ‘And it doesn’t have to be purely physical.’ He pauses and thinks. ‘Maybe a problem will show on the brain scan.’
We walk back downstairs – David’s hand sitting naturally in the small of my back. By the time we reach the hall, I feel calm again.
‘I’ve looked over your mother’s medical history and it appears perfectly normal. In the last decade, she’s only seen Dr Dale, my predecessor, a couple of times for minor things. I started practising at the medical centre in November and apart from her visit to me for her finger, she’s been as healthy as a horse.’
‘Her finger?’ We’re in the kitchen again, the heart of the old farmhouse, and David plants himself in the ancient sofa beside the fire. I like seeing him there but then I remember all the times Murray has folded himself into that sofa.
‘It was nothing serious. She had an infection around the cuticle. To be on the safe side, I prescribed antibiotics.’
I think back. Mum never mentioned an infected finger. When we last spoke, we talked about Christmas arrangements. She told me what she’d bought for Alex and Flora and I told her off because I’d wanted the surprise too. I’d promised to make the mince pies and bring them over and, finally, she’d had a quick word with each of her grandchildren. Everything had been normal.
‘She never mentioned a bad finger to me.’
‘I’ve been keeping an eye on it these last few days. It seems fine now. She must have taken enough of the antibiotics to clear it up.’
‘Could that have caused her not to speak?’
David smiles at my ignorance but then quickly stops when he sees how worried I am. ‘No, Julia. I’m afraid it’s something a lot more serious than that.’
Somehow I end up on the old sofa next to David. We sit for an hour, talking and drinking tea, and gradually find out that we have a lot in common. When our shoulders brush together, he suggests that we have dinner. He says he would like to get to know me. When I nod, when I agree, I realise I have gone my first hour without thinking about Murray.
MARY
Living alone is my favourite pastime. When I say alone, I don’t quite mean alone. To start with, the house has enough ghosts to populate an entire village. The memories within these walls keep my eyes wet with tears and my face wrinkled with laughter lines. So really, despite my attempts at solitude, I have failed miserably. I am dragged through life by snatches of happiness and admit that my knuckles are permanently white. I am a skilled tightrope-walker – holding on fiercely to a wire so taut that a breath would snap it. I have promised myself that I will never fall off. Not again.
There are the animals of course, in varying numbers – mainly chickens and goats now, and Milo, my Labrador. He’s the man of my house and in charge around here. I once had a rare breed of sheep but it eventually died, and the half-dozen ducks waddle between the marsh in the east paddock and the village pond. There have been cats, rabbits, a Shetland pony years ago when Julia was young, and dogs galore.
Then there are the kids. Hordes of them over the years. Expect the unexpected, they said. That was twenty-five years ago when I started. A day or two training and off you go. It was a kind of medicine, although I didn’t realise that initially. As Julia was growing up, I wanted more, needed more to keep me focused, busy, purposeful. Slipped in alongside Julia and me in our content, safe, controlled existence were other people’s unwanted children. Bad children. Disturbed children. Runaway children. Frightened children. Abused children. None of them very happy children. Respite foster care, that’s what I provided, and still do. Some days I could do with a respite myself. Some days I add up all the kids in my head and realise that the total of their sum is me. They have been the answer to all my pain.
So, like I said, not quite alone.
Brenna and Gradin – it’s as if their parents dipped into the Scrabble bag and made whatever names they could – have come to stay for a couple of months. Their father has been abusing them since they could walk and their mother burned down their house three days ago. She did what she did to save her children – an eradication attempt. Take away life as they knew it and blow it all apart. I will pick up the pieces of their fragmented lives and do my best for the children. In this way, I am doing the best for myself.
Sometimes it’s hard to believe this is the east of England. Brenna and Gradin come from the serene epitome of traditional English life – Cambridge, a city steeped in education and culture, opportunity and hope. They are surrounded by glorious countryside, bracing walks, the Fenlands, interesting rivers, and we aren’t far from the coast. Yet their father saw fit to shatter their childhoods – smash up their lives from an early age for his own gratification. It is the least I can do, therefore, to provide them with a little stability, comfort and love. For me, it is a way of life; for them, it’s the key to their future. Between us, I reckon we stand a chance.
I’ve seen kids like Brenna and Gradin a thousand times before. Each time I fix one up, and gently nudge them back out into the unknown, a little part of me is healed. What worries me, though, is that there aren’t enough screwed-
up kids in the entire world to make me better.
When Brenna and Gradin arrived, I knew we were in for trouble.
I’ve just found out that thirty pounds has gone missing from the tin on the dresser. Our treats fund.
‘Where’s Brenna?’ I ask Gradin, sucking on my finger. It’s been throbbing a while now. I can see he wants to say the right thing but he is completely unable to tell the truth. Instead, he shrugs. I can smell his unwashed body.
‘Did you shower this morning?’ I squint at my finger.
He shrugs again.
‘Did you take the money?’
‘No.’
‘Did Brenna?’
‘No.’
‘That was for the weekend. You could have seen a film and had a meal out. Pizza, perhaps.’ He’s already told me it’s his favourite food.
Gradin sneers and whistles. I thought he was going to confess but he doesn’t. That would have been too soon. ‘Baby,’ he croons and turns to his sister as she comes into the kitchen. He grins at her, and even though at sixteen he is two years her senior, it could be the other way round. ‘Baby, she says we took her money.’ Gradin’s voice is rounded and childlike; his consonants without edge and his vowels wrapped in a blanket.
‘Course we didn’t. We’ve not taken it.’ Brenna, on the other hand, is as bright as a button and slips her arms on to her brother’s shoulders. ‘You probably spent it already.’ Her eyes whip a keen defence at me. I am almost knocked off balance.
‘I think not.’ I stay perfectly calm, watching them, studying every muscle twitch, every blink and breath, the way Brenna’s fingers lie flat on Gradin’s shoulders before she needles her nails between his muscle fibres. Lying is an art form.
‘Ow!’ he squeals. ‘What you do that for?’
Brenna shrugs and I make a mental note of that, too. ‘It were probably that coal delivery man who nicked it. When he came in to use the loo.’
She’s holding her own, I think. Staying cool and her actions are congruent with her words. Gradin, on the other hand, is squirming in his chair as if he’s about to be accused of all the world’s crimes. ‘That’s probably it,’ I say and turn to prepare their lunch.
