by A. L. Bird
Because she knows what might have provoked that letter to Psychiatrist Clare. It was Kirsten’s reply to letters she herself had received. Ian had brought the letters to her from the doormat, given them to her, shocked. She’d noticed the address. First Coventry. Then Watford. Getting closer. They’d agreed not to reply. (Ian had made all sorts of suggestions but none of them she liked – too conciliatory, and in the end ‘do nothing’ was all they could agree on.)
She’d been in two minds whether to burn the letters she received, or to keep them in case she needed to go to the police. But then she realised: she could never go to the police about her, could she? Because she, Kirsten, would be the one under arrest. She doesn’t know for what archaic crime, she’s not a lawyer. But there’ll be one.
So yes, she burnt them. Ian watched her do it. Perhaps that would have been the time to say that she’d sent a reply.
Because in that letter, Kirsten said No.
Not in a million years.
Leave me alone.
… or words to that effect.
But the point is, Kirsten has already been asked. And Kirsten has already said ‘no.’ So there’s not much scope for the nice arrangement that Ian has gone to try and broker.
Her reply didn’t seem to have helped. Because now, Croydon – she’s zoning in. Too near. Makes Kirsten think she won’t stick at letters. Or at least, letters to them. Should Kirsten even have sent Ian off there? She might be dangerous. Maybe they will have to go to the police in the end – maybe she shouldn’t have burnt the evidence.
Suddenly Harriet jumps up and starts banging frantically on the window, jolting Kirsten out of her reverie. Her heart tightens with perceived threat. She looks out the window and sees it’s that teacher, from Harriet’s school. Ms Robertson. What’s she doing, wandering past their house on a Sunday afternoon? Maybe she lives around here. Kirsten pulls up the window.
‘What are you doing in this part of town on your weekend, Ms Robertson?’ she asks.
It seems too officious, too nosy. Kirsten wants to bite it back.
But Ms Robertson smiles.
‘Please, call me Miriam. I was just meeting a colleague. We were going over our thoughts for the week, and I was walking home when I heard and saw Harriet banging on the window.’
God, Kirsten suddenly feels lazy. People do work at weekends, she knew it – she should be working now, using Ian as childcare, not sending him on false errands.
Suddenly, Harriet is taking Kirsten’s hand, of her own volition – and they’re not crossing a road, which is usually the only time it happens now.
‘Mummy, can Ms Robertson come in for tea?’ Harriet asks, her voice loud enough to carry down to the steps to Ms Robertson – sorry, Miriam.
‘I’m sure Ms Robertson has better things to do with her Sunday afternoon than have tea with us, Harriet.’
Harriet’s hand drops away from Kirsten’s again. She already understands, then, the grown-up speak for, ‘I don’t think that’s such a good idea.’
Kirsten wants that hand back. Even if just for a moment. So she pushes the bounds of Sunday afternoon decorum.
‘Miriam, if you’re not rushing off somewhere, though, it would be lovely to have you in for tea, just briefly? We could catch up on how school is going. It’s always such a rush at drop-off.’
Kirsten holds her breath. She can feel Harriet’s fingers snaking into hers again. Hallelujah.
Miriam looks at Harriet, then at her phone, then at Harriet again. Then she smiles.
‘Of course I can spare the time. I’d love to. I just need to text someone, then I’ll be right in.’
She does some lightning-speed tapping on her phone that only a millennial could manage, then she’s with them. Kirsten goes round to open the front door. As Miriam bounds up the steps into their home, Kirsten feels Harriet’s hand slide out of hers. When Miriam reaches the front door, Harriet slides her hand into her teacher’s instead. She leads her through into the living room, and Kirsten is left standing alone.
Kirsten takes a deep breath. It was she who invited the teacher in. She has to play the good host, the self-assured, non-jealous mummy.
‘What can I get you?’ she asks with forced joviality, putting her head into the living room. Harriet and Miriam are sitting next to each other on the sofa, flicking through Matilda. Kirsten has never read it. Maybe they should go and see the musical, if Harriet’s enjoying it.
‘Oh, just regular tea is fine – thank you, Mrs White.’
‘Dr,’ Kirsten says, before she can stop herself.
Miriam gives her a searching look, then smiles politely. ‘Of course, Dr White.’
Kirsten shakes her head. ‘Sorry, force of habit. Please, call me Kirsten. Harriet, what can I get for you? Some juice?’
Harriet tilts up her head and looks thoughtful. Kirsten sees a little mischievous grin she’s never noticed before. She wonders if she can get her iPhone quickly enough to capture it – but no, that would be weird. She’ll just have to use her memory, like in the olden days.
‘Mm, I’d like some hot chocolate and whipped cream and a scone.’
Of course she would.
‘Not sure about that, sweetie. I’ll see what I can do.’
‘Hot chocolate, whipped cream and a scone!’ The mischief has gone now. There’s an anger, and she’s bouncing up and down on the sofa with her bottom. She goes on repeating herself, getting red in the face. Kirsten feels herself blushing.
‘Harriet, none of that, or you won’t get anything!’ Kirsten’s voice is too stern. Harriet starts to cry. Kirsten wants to cry a little bit too, forced by Miriam’s presence actively to ‘parent’. What would she usually do if Miriam wasn’t here? Probably give Harriet a great big hug then come back with whatever she could find to make her daughter happy.
‘Harriet, tears won’t help,’ Kirsten says.
Harriet flings herself, inconsolable, into Miriam’s arms.
‘Sorry about this,’ Kirsten says to Miriam. ‘I think she’s just a bit overexcited.’ She goes to detach the two of them, finding where Harriet’s arms have taken root.
‘It’s all right, don’t worry,’ says Miriam, gently nudging Kirsten away. ‘It’s OK, isn’t it, hey, Harriet? Shh …’
And Miriam buries her face in Harriet’s hair, like Kirsten does. She rubs Harriet’s back, and keeps shushing her until the crying stops. Standing there, Kirsten feels like an intruder.
‘I’ll go and get the tea things, then,’ she says, and she leaves.
In the kitchen, there might be a bit more slamming of cupboards than is strictly necessary. Stupid teacher, coming to their house at the weekend. The kettle, roughly filled, gradually builds up steam. What was she thinking, accepting the invitation? The obvious thing for her to do was politely decline and carry on her merry way. But no, she comes into the house, makes Harriet cry, and spoils the rare alone time the two of them have together.
Kirsten opens the fridge and inspects the milk situation. Best before yesterday, the open carton. She does the sniff test. Definitely on the turn. She’s half-tempted to give it to Miriam, serve her right. But no, if she’s ill, there’ll be no breakfast club tomorrow. And Kirsten can’t bear to imagine that wrinkled upturned nose, the teacup put ‘politely’ to one side. Fresh milk it is then. Don’t know if she takes sugar. Maybe. Or maybe she’s saccharine enough without it.
Right. Now for Harriet. They do, as it happens, have hot chocolate. And some whipped cream. Plus, actually, some scones. An observant child, then. Unless Ian has spoilt her while Kirsten’s back has been turned.
Kirsten sees her hand shake as she pours the milk into Harriet’s hot chocolate. Spoilt. Such an ugly word. Kirsten can only think of one thing that would spoil Harriet for her. She suddenly needs to see Harriet urgently, so she bungs everything onto a tray, and carries it hastily through. A bit of spillage, maybe, but nothing she can’t correct.
‘Tea’s up,’ Kirsten says, brightly, plonking the tray down o
n the coffee table. There she is, there’s her Harriet. Sitting snugly side by side with Miriam. ‘And yes,’ Kirsten says, as if Harriet is paying any attention to her, ‘there’s also hot chocolate and whipped cream and a scone for you, Harriet.’
Kirsten cuts Harriet’s scone up and hands it to her. Harriet accepts it, but goes on reading her book with Miriam.
Kirsten will not be an observer in her own living room.
‘So this is nice,’ she says. ‘Something a bit different. Miriam, is your tea OK for you?’
‘Yes, it’s lovely, thanks, Kirsten.’ She gives Kirsten a smile. Kirsten sees her look around, eyes sweeping over the high ceilings, the Farrow & Ball wallpaper edging up neatly to the plaster cornice. ‘You’ve got a gorgeous home here,’ Miriam tells her. Kirsten starts to relax a little. Maybe it’s not so bad, having her here.
‘Thank you,’ she says. ‘We try our best. Hence all those breakfast clubs!’
Miriam gives a kind smile and looks into her tea.
‘So, tell me – how is it going at St Anthony’s?’ Kirsten asks her.
She nods happily. ‘Really well, thank you. I’ve got brilliant pupils—’ she breaks off to ruffle Harriet’s hair ‘—and it’s so nice to be doing the breakfast club. I know how much it means to the mums, and dads. Plus it puts me in kind of a pastoral care role, you know? Checking the kids are OK.’
‘Are some of them not?’ Kirsten asks, surprised. St Anthony’s is hardly that kind of school, after all.
‘There are some I have my doubts about,’ Miriam says. God, she can’t mean them, can she? Kirsten picks up some crumbs of scone from the floor. ‘Some I want to keep my eye on, more than others,’ Miriam adds.
‘Well, we don’t need to worry about Harriet!’ Kirsten says, her tone bluff. It’s the voice she uses for patients when the little growth they are worrying about is plainly benign, or they are merrily taking their folic acid and right on track for a happy birth.
Miriam doesn’t answer directly. Instead, she ruffles Harriet’s hair again (does she suspect lice?). After a pause, she says, ‘Is Harriet happy at home?’
Kirsten hates it when people do this – speak like children can’t hear. Like certain words are coated in inaudibility, and will waft harmlessly over kids’ ears. Kirsten is guilty of this too, sometimes, she realises, but it still rankles. You’d think a teacher would know better.
‘Of course she’s happy,’ Kirsten says. Then she adds: ‘Aren’t you, Harriet?’ But it’s not a question, it’s a rhetorical demand for support.
Harriet nods happily and eats more scone. Good. Kirsten knows the way to her child’s heart.
Miriam scrunches her face up a bit, then looks at Kirsten again, like she knows the secret of the food bribes. Well, it’s not her secret, it’s the secret of all mothers, isn’t it? Surely Miriam’s not suggesting Harriet’s unhappy? Particularly when she’s basically barged into their house one Sunday afternoon?
‘I’m sorry, Dr White,’ Miriam says, carrying on. She must see Kirsten’s Unimpressed Face developing. ‘I’ll get out of teacher mode, back into weekend mode. We’re trained always to look for the worst – I forget that at this school, I’m with the best.’
‘Well, I’ll take that as a compliment. Now, can I pour you some more tea, or do you have to get on?’
‘Don’t go! Have another cup. I’ll pour it,’ says Harriet.
Kirsten sighs, internally (she hopes). ‘Let’s pour it together, Harriet. I don’t want a Sunday in A&E with you burning yourself!’ Imagine – that perfect skin, blistered. Kirsten couldn’t stand the guilt.
Kirsten holds the teapot, and Harriet holds her hand and ‘together’ they pour tea, very carefully and neatly, no accidents.
‘Lovely, thank you,’ says Miriam, smiling at them both. Suddenly, Kirsten feels every inch the proper mummy.
She drains her tea, ready to pour a new cup, and think of some new conversational topics. Ah! That’s it.
‘So, do you think you’ll ever have your own children?’ Kirsten asks Miriam.
Kirsten watches as Miriam smiles, stirring her new tea, evidently concocting some clever answer. She feels like telling her not to worry, she won’t report her to the headmistress!
Kirsten moves the conversation on, in case she’s embarrassed her. ‘I wish we could have another. I had a sister – well, I still have.’ Kirsten laughs too loudly at her own joke. Wants to share the sadness of two sisters not speaking, but can’t without admitting why. ‘So I know how close siblings can be. But Harriet’s our only one.’ Kirsten ruffles Harriet’s hair. The only one. After the baby that didn’t … work out.
‘Yes, me too,’ ventures Miriam. ‘About the sister, I mean. Amazing how close that blood bond can be, isn’t it?’
There’s something about the way Miriam says blood that makes Kirsten shiver. But she looks up at Miriam and sees only a smile. Maybe Kirsten just needs to put the heating on.
‘Anyway, I’d better be going,’ Miriam says. ‘I’ll see you at parents’ evening.’
It sounds like a threat. Or maybe that’s just Kirsten’s interpretation of it. Because it’s never just the children who are under scrutiny at those things, is it? It’s the parents. What more could they be doing? How many more times a day should they be reading with their children? Why have they not got a maths tutor yet? Don’t they know their child needs to have fun in the evenings, not just do the aforementioned reading and maths – a combination that can only be achieved in a time warp. Not in a busy working life.
Kirsten hovers as Ms Robertson gathers her things, hampered slightly by Harriet insisting on holding her teacher’s hand in the process. Just as Ms Robertson is finally about to leave the room, a key turns in the lock.
Ian? What’s he doing back already?
‘She wasn’t there!’ he calls out. ‘I got to the flat but—’
And then he puts his face into the room. His words freeze on his lips, as he sees they have company.
He looks like a new word is about to form on his lips, but he cuts himself short.
Chapter 21
MIRIAM, OCTOBER 2018
Look at his eyes bulging. It’s too much for him. Miriam can see him want to cry out her name, her real name: ‘Becky!’
But of course, he doesn’t. He shows more self-control than that first time. When he fathered her child.
Because dear sweet Kirsten doesn’t know who Miriam really is. Never got round to meeting her before she took her child. Harriet.
Miriam – or let’s call her Becky, now – takes the lead.
‘Hi, you must be Mr White. I’m Miriam Robertson, Harriet’s teacher. I was just passing by. Harriet spotted me and invited me in.’
‘Hi,’ Ian says, sticking out a hand. ‘Nice to meet you.’ For a former drama teacher he’s a pretty shitty actor.
‘Daddy!’ says Harriet, and jumps up off the sofa and gives him a hug.
‘Hi sweetie,’ Ian says. He pulls her up and sits down, gathering her onto his knee. Look at those hands tightly clasped around her. Now the protective daddy comes out.
‘I’m having hot chocolate and whipped cream and scones!’ says Harriet, bouncing up on his knee.
‘I can see that,’ Ian says. ‘But what else has been going on here?’
Becky would perfectly happily explain that, what’s going on, is that she’s taken a rare and unexpected opportunity to see her daughter. But Kirsten butts in. Of course she does.
‘We’ve just been chatting about how happy Harriet is,’ Kirsten tells him. Smug bitch. Of course Harriet’s happy this minute, she’s been doped with sugar. But is she really happy? No. That’s why Becky’s there.
‘Were you?’ Ian asks.
Becky gives a small, sad smile. ‘Yes, I was just saying – I keep forgetting, I’m amongst the best of mothers here.’
Becky sees that Ian has to look away. The truth is too much for him, always has been.
‘Did you have a coat or anything, Miriam?’ Ian asks.<
br />
‘Oh, is it time to go?’ Becky asks him, pointedly.
‘No, sorry, I just meant – do you want me to help you look for it?’
‘Oh, I see. That’s kind,’ Becky says. ‘No, I’m unencumbered at the moment. I’ll probably want to change that, in a few months though,’ she adds, giving a pointed look to Harriet.
‘But I wouldn’t mind using the bathroom, if you could show me where that is?’ she says. Becky can’t leave without talking to him. Really talking to him.
‘It’s just at the top of the stairs,’ says Kirsten.
‘I think we might be out of paper,’ Ian says. ‘I’ll need to get some out of the cupboard.’
And he leads Becky from the room.
‘Just up here!’ he says loudly.
Leading Becky to the stairs, he turns to her. ‘What are you doing here?’ he hisses. ‘I went over to Croydon to find you!’
‘I know,’ she whispers. ‘I texted you to say not to bother.’
‘Let’s see about that paper,’ Ian says, loudly again. Oh, he has all the little tricks of the unfaithful! Then, whispered: ‘But what are you doing here? With Kirsten? It’s mad!’
‘You’re not giving me much choice,’ she says. ‘I just want to see my daughter.’
‘Shh!’ he hisses.
‘Ian, have you found the paper yet? Do you need a hand?’ Kirsten calls out from below. Becky looks round, and sees Harriet standing at the bottom of the stairs too.
‘Yes, just got it!’ Ian says. ‘Harriet, run along, let people use the bathroom in privacy.’
And so Ian has to leave her too.
Becky grips the edge of the basin and stares into the sink. So much unsaid, as ever.
Like the morning after it all happened.
She’d woken up, a drugged blur. Seen him in bed next to her. Felt the pain in her insides. Imagined she’d been raped, feared she’d thrown herself at him.
Had merely said, ‘Morning.’
He’d done the talking. Swore something must have been slipped into his drink. Wasn’t the sort of thing he did. Would never breach a student’s trust like that. Not Ian White. Not him. And particularly not with such a good girl, like her.
