by Julia Green
She sat down next to the window and looked around. A few old dossers sleeping in chairs. A woman with three kids, one of them crying on her lap. A man holding his finger in a wodge of tissues. Sunlight streamed through the tall window and lit up the fur of dust on the sill and the floor. You’d expect a hospital to be clean, but this one wasn’t. Mia watched the blue sky through the windows, and the way the squares of sunlight moved across the floor. People came and went; phones rang. An ambulance arrived, sirens squealing, and for a moment the whole hospital seemed to come alive with people in white coats running with clipboards and machines.
Finally it was her turn. A male nurse took her to a small room and told her to take off her shoes and lie on the high couch. He smiled at the mud on her trainers. ‘What’ve you been up to then?’
Mia tried to smile back. ‘I’m living on a boat.’
He listened while she told him about the fire. ‘The doctor’ll be here in a minute. She’ll sort you out. Don’t worry.’ His voice was kind.
Mia lay on the couch. The nurse went out into the corridor. She heard feet tap tapping along the corridor, and then low voices. She supposed he was telling the doctor about her. The cubicle door opened and the nurse came back in with a young woman, short dark hair.
She held her hand out and smiled at Mia. ‘I’m Dr Sabir.’
She felt Mia’s tummy and asked questions. Mia lied when she asked her age. Said she was sixteen. You could leave home at sixteen. Have sex. Get married even, if you were that stupid.
‘How many weeks? Twelve or thirteen? It’s quite normal to have little bleeds like this in pregnancy. Sometimes around the time you would have been having a period. But we’ll get the portable scanner in here to check the baby out and reassure you. And you’ve been through quite a hard time, Mia, so I think we should check you out too.’ It was a relief to be spoken to as if she was an intelligent human being after all.
They left her for a while, to drink a whole jug of water. A full bladder made it possible for the ultrasound to create images of the baby in her womb.
Back on the couch, Mia lay anxiously while the doctor rubbed a jelly-like substance over her tummy. ‘Sorry it’s a bit cold. They normally warm it up if you have a scan in Antenatal. OK, Mia? Try to relax.’
She felt the firm circular movements as the doctor moved the transducer over her belly, pressing down too hard over her bladder so she squeaked.
‘Sorry.’
Mia watched the doctor’s face, searching for signs. She frowned, and Mia’s mouth tightened. She held her breath. Her heart pounded. The doctor seemed to go over and over the same place, pushing at her abdomen until it felt almost sore. Mia’s fists clenched at her side, and she felt the nurse reach out and uncurl one hand, holding it in his. What could they see? Why didn’t they say something? For a wild moment Mia wondered if there was perhaps nothing at all. An empty womb. Or a shrivelled-up foetus, died long ago, a hard walnut of blackened tissue.
‘OK,’ the doctor said. ‘Everything’s fine. Want to see?’
The doctor swivelled round the small screen so Mia could see it if she strained to one side. A fuzzy black and white scrabble of lines on a screen. The doctor showed her the head. She smiled. ‘And that’s the heart. Beating fine. And something else moving. An arm, I think. Hard to see on this small machine. You’d get a better picture down on the full-sized machines in Antenatal.’
But it was enough for Mia. Tears trickled down her cheeks and pooled in her ears. She tightened her grip on the nurse’s hand. There was little bean. That blur on the screen was her baby. Alive. She’d seen her baby. Everything was all right.
They wouldn’t let her go home. They wanted to book her into the ward, let her have a shower, get cleaned up, and have a bit of a rest, they said, and they could do a few checks. Blood tests. Make sure she wasn’t anaemic. The antenatal ward was full so she would have to go up to Gynaecology. And she’d have to wait a while for a bed there. They asked her again how old she was.
Mia sat on the toilet, trying to think. Shannon’s words ran through her head like a stuck CD. ‘Once they’ve got you in the system…’
What could they do? They would phone her mum, for sure. She’d given her address at reception. So stupid. She’d have to do a runner again. Now she knew the baby was OK. And that would be the second escape from a hospital. She’d be getting into deeper trouble. Where could she go? Back to the boat? Evie’s semi-unconscious face swam before her. Shannon frowning. Better off out of here. Had it been a warning? That dream she’d had: Evie’s plan to get a baby for Shannon. Her baby.
She walked slowly towards the exit. Think of little bean. The voices chattered in her head, confusing her. She hesitated, turned, saw the male nurse watching her from the end of the corridor. She looked right at him and he looked directly at her. He shook his head slightly, sadly. But what did he know? He’d soon forget her. She was one of thousands. He’d shrug, move on to the next case. They couldn’t make her stay in hospital. She was sixteen, wasn’t she? – as far as they were concerned anyway. Old enough to make her own choices.
Mia turned away and kept on walking. She already knew what she wanted to do.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
A gang of boys skateboarded past Mia as she stood on the pavement in the crowded bus station, wondering which way to go. One young boy deliberately shoved into Mia as he went by and knocked her bag off her shoulder. Her purse spilled out of the half-zipped top and coins rolled into the gutter.
‘Slag!’
The other boys laughed as Mia huddled over, gathering up the scattered coins.
‘Are you all right, dear?’ An elderly woman in a grey coat tutted and patted Mia’s arm kindly.
‘I’m OK, thanks.’
Only a few months ago and she would have shouted back at boys like that. Stupid prats. They couldn’t be more than twelve or thirteen. She would have been rude to the old lady too. For speaking to her. For interfering. For noticing.
Now, she was just grateful for the tiny bit of kindness in this desolate place. ‘Do you know where I can find out –’ Mia started asking the woman, but she’d already walked on out of earshot.
Mia made her way towards the concrete buildings in the centre of the bus-station concourse. From a seedy cafe wafted the smell of hot fat, chips, coffee. Eventually she found a departures board nailed to a wall next to the toilets. Lists of buses going to places she’d never heard of. Finally she managed to work out where to go. Two changes, a long wait in the middle. But she should get there before dark.
She was dying for a pee. Just enough time.
The floor was wet and stank of disinfectant. Only a couple of the toilets were working. Neither had seats or paper. A used syringe and a blood-stained roll of tissue poked out of the bin.
Mia stared at her own face in the chipped mirror above the handbasin as she rinsed her hands under the cold tap. She hardly recognized it: the dark shadows, uncombed hair.
Over the shoulder of her reflection a second pale face peered into the mirror.
‘Spare any change? So I can get into the night shelter? I need a couple of quid.’ The voice was slurred.
Mia dropped her gaze, embarrassed. ‘I’m sorry. I’ve only just got enough to get home myself.’
Her voice sounded too posh. She wanted the girl to know it’s true, I really haven’t. The girl seemed to crumple down on to the wet floor and started to rock back and forth, mumbling under her breath. Her eyes were wild, crazy. But what could Mia do? She edged out of the loos again.
As she came back out she noticed the ticket inspector near the departures board. Perhaps he could help the girl? The man was trying without success to calm down an angry woman who’d waited nearly an hour for a bus. He waved his hands in despair. ‘What can I do? So many drivers off sick.’
‘Excuse me,’ Mia interrupted, ‘but there’s a young girl in the loos, collapsed on the floor. I think she needs help.’
He looked at her uncomprehendingly. S
he repeated her words. He looked more closely at her then, as if she were the one who needed help. But not with pity or compassion. A sort of contempt crawled over his mouth.
‘What’s new? She’s always in there. What do you expect me to do?’ He shrugged. ‘I’ve got a job to do and it’s not cleaning filth out of toilets.’ He turned his back on her and she shrank back, shocked at his outburst.
Mia felt utterly exhausted. It was too much, all this on top of the horror of the fire and then the hospital. All she wanted was to be somewhere safe, and kind, where she could sleep without looking over her shoulder. She’d uncovered too much – this dark underbelly of life; kids without hope, or dignity, or anything; adults grey with disappointment, numbed out and without heart. Whitecross might be boring, and school a dreary, soul-destroying waste of time, but this – this half life, underground life, was much, much worse. She suddenly longed to be back home. She’d had enough of the greyness, the cold and dirt, the hopelessness, the loneliness of it all. The thought of hot water, clean clothes, a kitchen with food in the cupboard – Dad.
It wasn’t running back, was it? Whatever Evie and Shannon had said. Not a giving up of anything? Mia half remembered something Mum had written in that letter. Something about spreading wings, flying free. There was nothing free about this life on the streets, on the move. Not really. And she had to think of a baby now, not just herself. Little bean needed somewhere safe and warm and loving. Not this sort of no-man’s land she’d wandered into. You could get lost in this and never find a way out.
Mia put her hand into her fleece pocket and her fingers closed around a small pebble. Will had picked it up on the beach at Whitecross. ‘Look… Mottled blue, just like a blackbird’s egg.’ His gift to her. She cradled the pebble in her palm and felt the smooth surface begin to warm.
When the bus drew into Bay Fourteen Mia stepped on.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
‘What have you been doing today, Mia?’
‘We did drawings and Mrs Harrison read us a story.’
‘What did you draw, love?’
‘We all did a bird, we had to choose one from the book and we’re going to stick them up on the wall.’
‘And what bird did you choose?’
‘A house martin.’
‘Why did you choose that?’
‘Because I liked the colours. Blue and green. It had to be a bird that goes away and comes back.’
‘A migrating bird.’
‘Yes.’
‘I can show you the house martins that come back to the barn each year. They come back to the same nests where they were born. We can walk up there together one evening.’
‘Will Mum come too?’
‘You know she won’t, Mia. She’s not going to be here like that any more.’
‘She’s not going to come back, is she, Daddy?’
‘No, sweetheart. Well, she’ll visit us sometimes maybe. But not back to stay.’
‘Why not?’
‘Oh, Mia, not again. Please.’
‘How do the house martins know where to come back?’
‘I don’t know, sweetheart. A sort of homing instinct. Back to the same place where they were born.’
‘But what if they get lost?’
‘Well, maybe some do. Things happen. But most of them come back.’
The bus rumbled on. Mia drifted in and out of memories, thoughts, dreams, half asleep, lulled by the movement, the backcloth of voices as people greeted one another getting on and off. The bus travelled through small villages, back lanes, farms. Once she glimpsed the canal – a shining silver strip between willow trees.
The fields had changed into tarmacked streets, new estates, then the edges of a town. A load of schoolchildren got on, filled the seats at the back of the bus around Mia. Fragments of conversation floated in and out of Mia’s head. ‘Homework… Mr Briggs… did you see?’
The bus emptied out again, re-filled. Then they were in another town. Time to change buses. Three quarters of an hour to wait.
More roads, houses, fields, the river: nearly at Ashton, at last. The bridge. Mia peered through the steamed-up window. That was where she’d first seen Lainey. She hoped she was somewhere warmer, safer, than the precarious parapet or the lonely streets this cold night.
She’d missed the last bus to Whitecross: she’d have to get one as far as Stonegate and walk from there. Lights on in the bus. A ribbon of road stretching ahead. Sky getting darker, too early for sunset. Grey clouds like a blanket. A flock of seagulls flying in from the sea, settling on the dark ploughed fields. Raw cold. Wind hissing in the edges of the window flaps. Condensation misting the glass.
‘Cold enough for snow,’ someone said.
Mia rubbed a hole with her sleeve to see through. A circle of field, hedge, stone wall. As it got darker outside, the people on the bus seemed to pull closer together. There was more chatter, laughter. No one Mia recognized: the Whitecross people would have got the bus that went straight through, all the way.
The thought of the walk ahead made her feel tired, even though she’d slept most of the journey. Dad might be home, she could ring him. But no, she didn’t want her homecoming to be like that. She’d imagined it already: walking up the lane, into the garden. The lights would be on, but the curtains still undrawn so she’d see into the kitchen, and Dad at the table, probably, with a mug of tea. And she’d ring the bell, even though she had a key, and he would open the door and hold out his arms.
She tried another version. He stands there at the door, barring her way in. Too late. You ran off, you make your own way. You’re not my daughter any more.
And another. Through the lit window she sees Miss Blackman holding hands with Dad across the kitchen table. They lean forward, kiss. The window is open. She hears their voices. So glad it’s just us two. It couldn’t have worked with Mia around. She needed to go. It was all for the best. Now we have each other –
‘Everybody off! End of the road!’ The bus driver enjoyed turning them out on to the darkening street. There weren’t many houses in Stonegate; just a cluster of older stone buildings near the pub and the church and a sprawl of newer bungalows along the main road. Everyone getting off the bus was old, Mia noticed. Except her.
‘Where are you heading, dear?’ A woman in a headscarf turned towards Mia.
‘Whitecross.’
‘It’s a bit of a walk, dear. Nearly two miles.’
‘I know. I’m OK.’
‘Well, if you’re sure. It’s getting dark.’
‘I’m fine. Really.’
She could feel their eyes following her as she humped her bag on to her shoulder and began to walk along the main road. Imagined the gossip. What a state to get in… Did you see how dirty?… Youth… drugs… not in our day… somebody’s daughter –
The pavement went as far as the end bungalow, then petered out. There weren’t many cars, but they went too fast, whizzing past and swerving out at the last minute as they caught sight of her in the headlights. She hadn’t realized it would get dark so early. The cold lump of fear in her belly grew bigger, more leaden. Too easy for someone not to see, to hit her, not even stop.
The wind was bitter. She crossed the main road and went down a small lane that seemed to be roughly the right direction, towards where the sea must be. Then she could go along the strip of beach that ran the whole way. She wouldn’t have to go into Whitecross at all. It took her towards a farm, and then there was a footpath sign. At last. She could hear the scrape and suck of waves on shingle. The path opened out; there was the beach. It was lighter here, away from any trees; the sea reflected back the strange grey light from the clouds. Icy cold.
Mia headed into the wind and crunched along the pebbles in the direction of home. She could see the lights of Whitecross village ahead, tiny pinpricks a very long way off. She had to keep stopping to shift the weight of her bag, and to wipe her eyes where the wind stung them into tears. She hadn’t eaten anything for hours. Keep going. Head
down. No choice now. No giving up. Her and little bean, going home.
Nearly there. Up the lane. Through the open gate. First few scurries of snow driven on the wind. Mia lifted her head. Flakes, like soft white feathers, drifting down.
The house was in darkness.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Mia sank down on the front step. She’d never imagined this; an empty house. She unzipped the bag and fumbled for her purse and key with numb hands.
She staggered into the hall and collapsed on the floor. For hours, it seemed, she lay half asleep, half dreaming, half hallucinating. Over and over she dreamed she was being swept downstream, and she had to clutch on to overhanging branches that came away in her hands and were swept on with her, further towards the edge. The edge was what? She was too exhausted to care.
Eventually she woke up enough to think of getting out of her wet clothes. She dragged herself upstairs and into the bathroom and ran the shower. The hot water stung her scalp. She closed her eyes in the hot stream, let it flood over her aching body, gradually warming her back to life. When, through habit, she stretched her hand out through the shower curtain it closed on to the soft warmth of a dry towel. Still there then, waiting for her. She wrapped it round her wet hair and went to find some clean dry clothes.
Her bedroom looked just the same. The bed was still made up. She rummaged in her drawer for clean underwear. She found a jumper and old cotton jogging trousers in Laura’s wardrobe. More comfortable than her too tight jeans. Her fingers began to tingle, the warmth running along her veins, like something returning after a long absence.
Downstairs, through the open doorway into the dining room, she could see the answerphone light winking a message. She ignored it, went into the kitchen instead, turned on the light. She found a heel of bread and spread it thickly with butter. Turned on the kettle. Still eating, she wandered into the dining room. A stack of letters had been propped behind the clock. She pulled them out. Several, unopened, addressed to her. She took them back into the kitchen.
