by A. L. Bird
But he’d done it. And not by halves. Nine months later, Harriet.
Her Harriet.
Becky still remembers Caitlin, ashen-faced, turning up at home in the weeks before Harriet was born. The school could only hush things up so much. Couldn’t stop your old friends seeing you in the street. ‘I’m so sorry,’ Caitlin had said. ‘I never meant for this to happen. If there’s ever anything I can do to help you, ever, please let me know.’ Caitlin confessed she’d drugged both Ian and Becky’s drinks, that neither of them were in control of their actions. Becky is still thinking of suitable repayment.
And that was from a seventeen-year-old girl, who’d done a prank gone (pretty seriously) wrong. Yet, that vile woman downstairs shows not a shred of guilt at knowingly taking someone else’s daughter. How can she pretend in innocence that Harriet is her own daughter? How does she have the cheek, every day of her life, to do that? Becky should just go downstairs now, denounce their lies and pretence, and take Harriet back for her own.
But it doesn’t work like that. Becky knows. Not after so long.
Instead, she splashes cold water on her face, flushes the toilet (for show), and opens the door.
There they are at the bottom of the stairs.
Her arms around Harriet’s shoulders, and Ian’s arms round them both. Becky wants to run back into the bathroom and be sick. But she’s got to go down the stairs, towards them. She’s got to stay cool. What is Ian doing, tormenting her like this? The tears start to prickle again and she blinks them back, processing as she moves down the stairs. She feels like that walk into the school cafeteria, the first day she was sure everyone knew she was pregnant. Everyone staring. The horribly long distance to sit in an empty chair, with her sandwiches. She knew, back then, halfway through the walk, that she shouldn’t have come. She needed to get out. She needed to get out and then she could cry.
It’s the same now.
‘I need to be going,’ she says, trying to keep her voice level.
Oh, but she doesn’t want to say goodbye to her Harriet! How can he make her, standing there? How can he not give Harriet to her now, confess to his horror of a wife, make it right?
‘Harriet, darling, I’ll see you at school tomorrow, OK?’ Becky ruffles Harriet’s hair again. Does Harriet feel it too, that bond, that they are meant to be together?
She must do, because she untangles herself from ‘Mummy’ and throws herself against Becky’s legs for a long hug.
Gently, heartbreakingly, Ian draws Harriet away.
Becky gives her a final pat on the head, but Ian has her in a tight hug now. There’s no access. Becky nods at the two adults.
‘Mr White, Dr White. Thanks for having me. I’ll see you at the parents’ evening in a couple of weeks, if not before.’
Because she wants to remind them, remind Ian – this isn’t it. It’s just the beginning. That he’d sure as hell better be in touch.
But now she has to go. She gives them a nod and tries to let herself out. She’s fumbling with the latch though, so Kirsten helps her get out of the house more quickly. Of course she does. Bitch, bitch, bitch!
Becky hugs her arms around herself as she goes down the steps. She’s sure Harriet will be waving behind her, but she can’t look back. The tears are already coming down her cheeks and as she passes safely out of view, she lets them stream and stream and stream, and the sobs come.
To be in that room, in that house, with her daughter, her DAUGHTER, and that woman, that Kirsten, that horrible, horrible reason why she’s not with her Harriet. Kirsten hadn’t had the decency to meet Becky back then. She let Ian and that awful psychiatrist deal with her. And however awful, Becky trusted that psychiatrist, trusted the diagnosis – ‘at risk of severe post-natal depression and post-traumatic stress disorder due to nature of conception and young age’. Unlikely to be able to care for child safely. Recommendation – child to be put into care unless suitable alternative arrangements found. And that diagnosis came before birth. Ian arranged for Becky to have the child at home, then took the baby to the waiting car and drove home with Kirsten. Then registered the birth as if it was their own child.
And of course, it was Ian’s. But never, never has her Harriet been Kirsten’s. Suitable alternative arrangements? No. They are not. Becky had promised herself, she really had, that if Harriet was happy with Ian and Kirsten, she would leave Harriet be. She could still be close to her, with this teaching job, but she wouldn’t interfere.
But Harriet’s not happy, is she? Harriet clearly knows at some deep level that she isn’t right in that family, with its ridiculous pretentions of perfection – the long hours at work just to pay for some shitty wallpaper and all the trimmings rather than being at home with Becky’s darling, darling girl.
Is that how Maya’s parents convinced themselves it would be a good thing to send their little four-year-old daughter across the sea from Syria to England? On the basis that she would be happier here? That horrible choice, the desperate wrench of parting, to go on without your children? To decide whether it’s better to keep them with you and risk their futures, or send them away to the unknown, potentially never seeing them again? Was it made intellectually bearable by the idea that she would have a better life?
True, Becky knows, their situations are so very different – they had to let their child escape the dire situation of bombs and air strikes and starvation. Becky was told she should want to let her child escape her. Becky didn’t understand the choice she was making, back then. For both sets of parents, maybe it wasn’t presented as a choice, even though every day they must both have questioned whether it was the right one.
But they will have one luxury, if they are living, Maya’s parents: they will not be able to see their child’s trauma. Will not be able to see little Maya, by all accounts wordless, baffled by her new foreign world, bereft at being away from her parents, traumatised by past conflict.
Becky hasn’t met her yet, but she can see her. They’ll be able to see her too, her parents, in their minds, but perhaps it’s the absence of shrapnel in the background that is the main focus of their mental picture. That she must therefore be happy. They must worry and worry and worry – while they will afford themselves that comfort. But Becky can see her Harriet. Really see her. Becky knows she isn’t happy. She knows she’d be better off with her.
And even if Harriet was happy – Becky is not happy. And Becky matters. She realises that now. She’s not just some screwy seventeen-year-old, whose so-called friends got her into bed with a fit teacher (oh, yes, it’s a longer story than that, but that’s the highlight), so spiked that neither of them thought to use a condom. She’s not an inconvenient backstory that can be thrown away, thrown out by her parents (her behaviour not fitting their religious ideals, given they apparently hadn’t read the bits of the bible about Jesus’s mercy and compassion), estranged from both her sisters – one angry that she could give Harriet away, one angry about what Becky had apparently done to her niece – misdiagnosed by a ‘professional’ for the benefit of her friend, then left, somehow, to rebuild some semblance of a life.
She’d gone to Ian for help, when she found out she was pregnant. Ian said he and his wife would take care of her and the baby. But really, she’d been duped, cast aside. Now she understands, and she understands this too: she matters. And her motherhood of Harriet matters.
The presumption of that woman, saying ‘Do you plan to have kids?’ They all look at Becky’s flat stomach, her young age and assume she hasn’t had a child. But they know nothing about her. The flat stomach is from making do, having to do real exercise – not just some stupid yummy mummy yoga class. She bets that Kirsten enrolled in one of those, to ‘shed the baby pounds’. When Kirsten would just have been fat. Fat under her stupid pregnancy suits that they bought. Oh yes, Becky knows all this. Ian told her, when he thought she was too young and stupid to care or remember. Explained it was his wife’s price for silence, that the baby had to be fundamentally hers. The mira
cle of IVF, to her friends and family. But it wasn’t her child and she didn’t deserve one. Or at least not Becky’s child. Becky’s Harriet.
It’s no good. She can’t keep walking away from her daughter. She sits on a low wall near Angel tube and hunches herself over. Let people stare. Or more likely, let them avert their gaze. Think she’s some other dosser. Well, she would have been, if it weren’t for Ian – and also if it weren’t for Ian, she wouldn’t have been in that position in the first place.
But guilt, it has deep pockets. It’s paid for a flat, her teacher training, the clothes on her back. It’s invited her to hushed rendezvous, whispered reassurances of the future, clandestine meetings in cars. Up until now. Now, she has a job. She’s independent. She’s a fine, upstanding member of society. She doesn’t need his money. And Ian knows that. That’s why he’s scared. You could see it in his face. He knows things have to change.
Part of his fear is because she’s told him. As soon as she realised Harriet wasn’t right, Becky said: I need her back. She sent him texts, criticising his parenting, saying he needed to do more. But she knew he knew that wouldn’t be enough. He’d told Becky, you see, when he explained the plan, back five years ago. Let us look after her for now. Then, when you’re ready, we can talk about you having her back.
I’ll be able to see her, won’t I? Becky asked, even though the medics had pretty much tried to convince her that she was a monster, not fit to be in the same room as a child – she’d known, she’d known she would need to see her.
Yes, of course. Of course you will.
So Becky reeled off into the world. In her tart’s flat, staring at the wall. As she’s said – her so-called landlord.
A levels written off. School only too keen to suppress the scandal. Exams picked up again later, thanks to Ian’s influence.
But now, here she is. She came back, like Ian agreed she could. An assumed name, a new start. She’s ready. She wants to talk about having Harriet back. Because every day she aches with the pain of being without her. Sure, weekdays she sees her, teaches her. Yet it isn’t the same as being permitted to show her love as only a mother can. The cuddles, the kisses, the closeness. The proud introductions: this is my daughter.
Kirsten, though, she’s said no. She’s said no and she sits in that house with Becky’s child, not giving her the love she deserves. To idly stand and watch while a little girl cries because she wants something to eat and drink! And then – scones to supplement her breakfast crisps!
What kind of mothering is that?
Becky wipes away her tears. Kirsten’s turn is over. Becky has had enough. She’s getting Harriet back.
Because, she said, didn’t she? Harriet’s her vocation. Her favourite. Her daughter.
Chapter 22
BECKY, SEPTEMBER 2012
Back home, five weeks later, the drama course is far from a distant memory. That last night has stayed with her, irreparably. The next morning, she’d left in a blur. She thought she was doing a walk of shame, but no one knew, so how could it be shameful?
Well, almost no one. Caitlin spotted her returning to the dorm at 6 a.m.
Caitlin had sat up in bed, raised an eyebrow. ‘Well, what happened, then?’ she asked, cattily. The drama on stage being over, she clearly wanted a new one backstage.
But even Becky didn’t really know what had happened, how she’d got there. She knows she has had sex. That makes her a grown-up, right? Or does it make her a slut? Or, in this case, a victim? She knows what Ian says, that their drinks were spiked. Does that mean it didn’t count? That because she hadn’t surrendered her virginity willingly, knowingly even, she still had it? And did Ian’s words mean she was ugly, a nothing, just some geeky kid, who he wouldn’t even have looked at if he hadn’t been set up? And if Caitlin was behind it, with those drinks she gave to Becky and Ian, could Becky honestly say that she wouldn’t have slept with Ian undrugged, given the chance? She didn’t know then, about the consequences.
So she hadn’t answered Caitlin. She just got her bags together. She didn’t even say anything when she spotted that there was another person in Caitlin’s bed: Andy. It didn’t matter anymore.
Her parents, oblivious, carried her bags away from the accommodation after she’d snuck back there, the two of them prattling happily about how proud they were of her (but, of course, it was only a hobby – not a career, like medicine or law, or teaching). They are probably happy, now, that she’s reverted to her serious, quiet self. Perhaps even quieter, in the last week.
Now, she stares at her sister’s New Baby in the cot, in her room. It’s crying. So’s she.
She hates it.
She loves it.
She wants to hold it.
She wants never to see it again.
She wants her own, one day. But not yet. Definitely, definitely not yet.
The baby seems to be doing something odd. Is it meant to do that? She continues to stare at it. Then she knows what she has to do. It’s not a choice, it’s a compulsion. Now or never. She acts on her resolve.
She goes downstairs. Her sister comes upstairs. Screams out her name from the bedroom. Screams things about how she isn’t safe, not fit to look after a child. Meanwhile, her parents scream at her downstairs, after they understand everything. The Bible is mentioned a lot. For months, that’s all she hears about. That, and her guilt – that even if they went to the police, physically she is guilty, so how can she claim she was wronged? Becky hasn’t the strength to fight them, so she lets them preach. And then, she doesn’t hear anything more from them again. When they cut her off entirely, with only a Bible for the road.
PART TWO
2018
Chapter 23
KIRSTEN
Kirsten’s hands still shake as she holds the latest missive from Becky, even though she’s already read it five times.
It was there on the mantelpiece when she came home from a day at KidZania with Harriet. The trip was a half-term treat that had meant hectic appointment schedules for the rest of the week. She’d dispatched an exhausted but exhilarated Harriet into the living room to watch Peppa Pig, while she made them both an afternoon sweet treat.
She’d been picturing the scene all of the drive back – curled up on the sofa, her with a tea and Harriet with a hot chocolate and a purpose-bought cupcake, happily reminiscing about their day. Kirsten would show Harriet the videos from her phone of their exploits – Harriet strutting her stuff in the fashion show zone, pretending to be a medical courier carrying hearts around, and even chaotically concocting a smoothie. A brilliant day, with Harriet really coming out of her shell.
Ian must have already opened and read it – it had a Post-it Note on it saying, ‘You should read this.’ Intrigued, Kirsten had flicked open the envelope. The neatly typed letter had already drained all the exhilaration from her. Now, as she reads it (sitting next to Harriet on the sofa, Harriet watching cartoons, perhaps puzzled by the sudden lack of communication), the panic has kicked in.
Dear Dr White,
Five years ago, you took my daughter from me.
Now, I want her back.
I am her true mother, and we deserve to be together.
Please contact me to make the necessary arrangements. Otherwise, I will be contacting the press and the police to explain what really happened.
Becky
And it gives her contact details and the Croydon address.
‘What really happened.’ When Ian confessed, teary and imploring her forgiveness, that weekend after the drama course, she had put aside natural, weak, suspicions of intent and jealous anger, and was horrified that her poor husband had been drugged, and admired his integrity for confessing. She wanted him to involve the police, but he said it wouldn’t be right.
When Becky came to him begging for help, saying she was pregnant, Kirsten’s thoughts became less generous: my husband has bedded a young fertile woman and impregnated her while I am going through successive failed attempts at IVF. Yes, he sa
ys both their drinks were spiked. But I have a right to that baby. Her rage and self-righteous sense of betrayal overwhelmed her.
When she calmed down, she thought (at least, she thinks she thought): oh, that poor young woman – she’s in no state to look after a baby, and she’ll have to put the child up for adoption or into care if we don’t offer to look after it. And no one must know why she was looking after it, because it wouldn’t be fair on any of them – Kirsten must raise the girl as her own, for the time being.
And then, five years ago, with that beautiful newborn Harriet gazing up at her, this is what she thought: this is my daughter. Unequivocal. Permanent.
But those times in between, the times since – the fear that any parent (she assumes) has of their child being taken from her is magnified. Because she knows there is a real basis on which they could do so. Sure, there would be hurdles. They’d managed, through Becky having a home birth in a rented flat (with a private midwife procured and paid off by Kirsten) to have Kirsten’s name on the birth certificate. And all (well, almost all) of Kirsten and Ian’s friends and relations thought it was a genuine conception by Kirsten, which they’d probably attest to if needed.
And there had been a genuine medical assessment at the time saying that, as a seventeen-year-old who’d conceived under traumatic circumstances, she was in no fit mental state to look after a child. Kirsten had asked Clare to make that assessment open-minded, but they were old friends and Clare knew how much Kirsten wanted a child. No surprise, then, that Clare’s report was enough to convince Becky she couldn’t care for her own child, or to convince her parents if they ever chose to look into it. And the assessment would be kept confidential so it wouldn’t alert anyone to Becky having given birth.
But Kirsten always feared this day would come.
