I get that familiar but oh-so-welcome kick in the stomach as he smiles at me now.
‘OK night?’ He stops clearing the detritus of breakfast.
I shrug, unable to convey the array of emotions I’ve felt since contacting social services: a deep concern for Betsey, and guilt at what feels like a betrayal.
‘Bit shit?’ He puts the dirty plates down and holds me close. I sink into him, enveloped by his heft. Not that he’s heavy but his shoulders are wide and his six foot two frame reassuring. Encased, surrounded, I feel safe. I breathe in coffee and the wool of his jumper, the faint, male saltiness of his skin.
I kiss the dip above his clavicle and am surprised by a flicker of desire. I revised for a first-year anatomy paper by working my way down his body. Clavicular fossa: just a few of the terms are lodged in my brain. He nuzzles my neck. ‘Oh, that’s lovely,’ I say, enjoying the warmth of his lips, and I run my hands down his back, reading his spine like Braille. Ordinary life is suspended for a moment. He whispers something suggestive and I laugh out loud. ‘Not very practical,’ I say, as I pull away. He gives me a look and I smile, rueful. But in truth I’m distracted not just by the thought of the children barging in but by my nagging anxiety about what’s happening to Betsey and Jess.
‘Jess came in with her baby,’ I say, filling the kettle. I speak blankly as if this will neutralise what happened. ‘She had a nasty bang to the back of her head.’
As a teacher, Nick knows what this might mean.
‘I had to call social services.’
‘You think one of them hurt her? Are you sure?’ Nick is far less cynical than me: has never had any reason to think the worst of a parent, though his work means he’s been exposed to the reality. Like me, he won’t want to think this of a friend.
I shrug. ‘Neil’s sure. And there are grounds for suspicion: Jess’s story was dodgy, her manner evasive, and there was a delay in bringing her in.’
‘And you think Jess did it? Or Ed? Christ . . .’
‘I don’t know. I just don’t know.’ The words rush from me like a sigh.
‘It’s just, if anything, Jess is overprotective, isn’t she? And cautious . . .’
‘Yes. Yes, she is.’
‘And gentle, and in control.’
‘That’s what I thought. I’d describe her as a loving parent. A good parent. I still want to think she is . . .’
‘Do you remember how calm she was when Rosa had her tantrums? How she’d give you a break and just sit beside her while she screamed it out?’
‘I know.’ I remember reading to Kit one wet afternoon while Jess sat patiently by a prostrate Rosa; and my sense of inadequacy as my daughter screamed, puce with indignation, and Jess waited for her to stop.
‘Ed as well,’ my husband goes on. ‘I mean I know he finds Frankie tricky but I’ve never seen him lose his rag – never seen him snap at the children, not really.’
A wave of weariness picks me up and drops me back down. It only takes a moment to harm a baby. Could one of our friends have momentarily acted on their frustration? I can’t articulate this thought.
‘I’m sorry – I need to get some sleep.’
‘Of course. You go up. I’ll take the kids out.’ He smiles and I see that he looks tired, too: there are flecks of grey dusting his sideburns and the spokes at the corners of his eyes have deepened, though his swimmer’s physique has barely changed since he was eighteen.
‘Try not to beat yourself up,’ he adds.
‘Mmmm.’
‘If you think there were grounds for it – well, your duty of care is to Betsey.’
‘I know, I know . . . Doesn’t make me feel any better about it, though.’
I put a herbal tea bag in a mug but Sam bowls in before I can fill it with boiling water.
‘Muuuuuuum!’
‘Careful!’ I put the kettle down as he barrels towards me and grabs me around the waist. ‘Gosh! You seem better!’
‘I’ve eaten loads!’ He clutches his flat stomach, a strip of flesh where his top rides up. He’s invariably hungry, my boy, and he’s often in motion, his centre of gravity close to the ground as he spins like a breakdancer. He reminds me so much of my brother at this age: the endless energy, the constant hunger, the reckless need to do things the second he thought of them: to live in the moment, whether it was clambering up walls, or jumping in at the deep end of the pool when he could barely swim. That early childhood willingness to chance things; to push the boundaries. A frisson of unease runs through me, and I pull my boy close.
‘Dad says I’m well enough to go to football,’ he says, looking up at me, and I smile down at his hopeful eyes, his unblemished, peachy skin.
‘Sounds like a plan,’ I say as he breaks free and races upstairs. I listen to him thundering along the landing, making the wooden floorboards of our Victorian terrace creak.
‘Must remind him not to run,’ I mutter, but half-heartedly because I love his noise and vibrancy: the perfect antidote to working in paediatrics. Sometimes I look at my children and think: this is what childhood should be like. I feed off their energy, their fearlessness, reminding myself that this – rather than chronic illness, or acute injury, or abuse – is most children’s normality.
‘Sam-’ Nick calls up the stairs after him, though he tells the children not to do this. ‘Please don’t thud. The walls are shaking.’
The pounding stops.
‘I’ll keep them out for lunch,’ Nick says.
‘Don’t worry.’ My job places such impositions – spilling way past my rota-ed hours, dictating holiday dates and even whether I’m around for birthdays or Christmas – that I don’t want to disrupt their lives any more than I do already. ‘I doubt I’ll sleep much, anyway.’
But as I crawl under the covers, my limbs are leaden and I realise that sleep, however disjointed and troubled, is what I need.
*
It’s nearly 3 p.m., and the dull January light behind my curtains is dimming by the time I wake. Downstairs, Rosa has started her piano practice. A door slams, and Sam’s footsteps pound down the stairs.
For a moment I try to kid myself that nothing is wrong. But it’s no good. I dozed off agonising over Betsey; have woken thinking of her and Jess.
I reach for my mobile but it’s not by the side of my bed: I left it in the kitchen. I heave myself up against the pillows, contemplating getting up and joining my family, when there’s a gentle tap at the door.
‘Thought you might like a cup of tea?’
Nick places a mug on the bedside table and perches on the edge of the bed.
‘Oh I love you,’ I say.
‘Should hope so, too. Did you sleep?’
‘A bit.’
‘Want something to cheer you up?’
I nod. I feel sick; doubt anything will make me feel better but I’ve got to make an effort for him and the kids.
‘Just watch this video a second. It’s from Matt. He got Rosa’s birthday wrong: thought it was today.’
He holds out the family iPad and taps an attachment. My brother’s face fills the screen against a backdrop of a snow-capped Ben Nevis and dark, glassy water. Mattie works at an activity centre for deprived kids near Loch Eil: almost the furthest he could flee from us, in the UK. My throat thickens as he starts singing ‘Happy Birthday’ alongside two wild reindeer. The deer are majestic: imperious, and impervious when he pretends to interview them about their birthday wishes for Rosa. He pulls a look of mock-surprise for the camera as one doe tosses its head. ‘Well, ignore them, Rosa: I’m wishing you the happiest of birthdays.’ He crosses his eyes quickly then gives a wide, open grin: so different to the guarded expression he wears in London. He is happy in this environment. I can’t help but smile, even as I automatically notice the angry sheen, the scarring, that runs from his right ear to his torso, rippling down his neck.
‘Very good,’ I say, acutely aware of his absence. ‘Have you shown her?’
‘Yes,’ says Nick. ‘She
loved it. Asked when she could next see him . . .’
‘Good question. I meant to ask him for some dates.’
‘I suggested we see if we could go up there in the summer?’
‘I’d really love that – and we won’t get him down here.’
‘You’ve a lot of missed calls, by the way.’ Nick fishes my phone out of his pocket and hands it over.
‘Work?’
‘I’d have woken you if they were.’
I glance at the screen. There are missed calls from Ed, Mel and my mother, plus four new voicemails. I tilt the screen to show him.
‘Take your time. The kids are just doing their homework, ’ he says, leaving the room.
I grimace, wishing I were helping them with something as familiar and constructive, rather than dealing with this.
*
With some trepidation, I play my mother’s message back first. She rarely rings me – and only then when there’s a problem.
‘Lizzie? Lizzie?’ She’s only sixty-six but the voice down the end of the line sounds disarmingly frail. ‘Lizzie? Are you there? Why aren’t you answering me? I want to speak to you.’ Then, frustratingly, nothing. I play the message again. For her to ring, it must have been important. I’ll call her back after I’ve listened to Ed and Mel.
There’s no doubt about the reason Mel’s phoned. Her words spill from the phone in a torrent.
‘Oh my God. I’ve just heard: about Betsey being in hospital and you calling the police? Ed’s trying to get in contact with you: can you call him? He says Jess has done her closed-off thing: that he can’t understand what’s happening, and what she has said doesn’t make any sense.
‘I told him you wouldn’t have called the police but, if you have, you will stop this straight away, won’t you? You know she couldn’t have harmed her. It’s completely crazy! I know we all lose our rag sometimes but Jess is so child-centric, so calm and yogic, she’s the very last person who would harm her kids.’
She continues for another minute or so. I hold the phone away from my ear, listening to her spiralling bemusement, catching a few lines that snag: about her surprise at my not showing my customary emotional intelligence, my compassion, if this is the case. It’s not that I’m detached: more that I don’t know how to deal with this. As a teacher, she knows you have to follow safeguarding protocol; understands that however personally uncomfortable a decision you can’t try to protect, or be seen to protect, a friend. She’s having a tough time – Rob left her for his young PA eight months ago – and she’s understandably emotional at the moment. I itch to ring her back, and chat to her properly about this, but my phone starts vibrating in my hand. I let it ring out four times before I trust myself to answer.
‘Liz?’ Ed sounds breathless. ‘Oh, thank God! Sorry for the barrage of calls. Did you get my messages?’
‘I’m sorry. I haven’t had the chance to play them back.’
‘Oh.’ His voice dips with disappointment.
‘I’ve just done four night shifts on the trot. I left my phone downstairs while I tried to grab some sleep.’
‘Sorry, sorry.’ His voice is that of a man in a rush to get some answers. He’s used to being listened to, and to being answered in a confident, forthright manner. Now, for the first time since I’ve known him, I sense a certain hesitation and uncertainty.
‘I just can’t get a handle on what’s happening,’ he says. ‘A skull fracture? That sounds pretty serious.’ A pause and the strain of the past eighteen hours is encapsulated in his next question. His voice cracks. ‘She will be all right, won’t she?’
‘She should be.’ I can’t promise anything. Which of us can do that? But I so want to do so. I think of the scan: the crescent-shaped piece of bone; the two distinct cracks. He doesn’t need to hear this from me.
‘Christ.’ His voice swells with emotion. ‘I just can’t make out what happened.’
‘Didn’t Jess tell you she banged her head?’
‘Yes – but she’s, well, you know how she gets when she’s distressed, she shuts down a bit. Gives you the bare minimum. It didn’t seem that serious at the time.’
‘Look.’ I’m a little confused. ‘I’m not meant to discuss any of this with you, but I thought it was you who suggested she bring Betsey in?’
‘Yes, yes, it was. But I didn’t realise the outcome would be so dramatic. That a simple tumble would mean she’d cracked open her head!’
‘Hold on. It’s not an open fracture. There’s no blood seeping out.’ Poor man. He hasn’t seen his baby since Jess brought her into the hospital. Perhaps he’s catastrophising.
‘The bone’s cracked, though, is that right? Jess said you saw that on the scan? And her brain’s been bruised.’
‘Yes, but there’s no apparent long-term damage.’
‘Oh, thank God!’ The breath rushes from him like air from a balloon, but his relief is short-lived.
‘It doesn’t feel right, though,’ he continues. ‘Her being so badly hurt that she’s in hospital and the police are crawling all over us. It just doesn’t make sense.’
I shift against the pillow. We’ve strayed into territory I shouldn’t talk to him about. But Ed is like a terrier with a stick.
‘Is this usual? Getting the police involved in an accident like this?’ he goes on. ‘It seems like an overreaction. Something really excessive . . .’
‘Look, I shouldn’t be discussing this. I can’t be involved because I know you and Betsey. But whenever there’s a head injury in a child under one the hospital get very anxious,’ I try to explain. ‘And if the explanation doesn’t make sense, then alarm bells start to ring. I’m sure there will be a perfectly innocent explanation: that it was an accident and that the police and social services will realise this very quickly. But until then I’m afraid you just have to answer their questions. I’m so sorry you’re going through this, but it’s not uncommon, it really isn’t, however horrible it must seem.’
‘Hmm.’ He sounds unconvinced but is a little chastened. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to question you. I know you’ll have done your best to dissuade your boss from contacting social services and the police.’
There is an uneasy silence. I want to concur with his assumption but I can’t lie to him.
‘Liz?’ Another pause. ‘You did argue against this, didn’t you?’
‘I’m sorry, Ed. I did – of course I did – but in the end, I had to agree with my colleagues. Professionally, we have to follow protocol, and if there is any concern we have a duty of care to Bets.’
‘You mean you thought the police and social services should be contacted as well? Jesus Christ, Liz! They’re here at the moment: they want to interview Kit and Frankie – will do, when the social worker gets here. Frankie’s absolutely bloody terrified, as you can imagine. How could you think that getting them involved was a good idea?’
‘I’m sorry – but please don’t get angry with me . . .’ ‘How could you think they should be involved?’
‘Believe me, their involvement was the very last thing I wanted but it would have been unprofessional, negligent of me even, not to do this.’
With my professional integrity at stake, I’m defensive, my heart rate increasing to a rapid, syncopated thud. I try to calm it by using the sort of legal language I know he will understand and respect. But he’s boxed me into a corner, and in squaring up to him I sound far less empathetic than intended.
‘I’m sorry, Ed, but Jess was holding something back from us. She’s not telling the whole truth here.’
ED
Sunday 21 January, 2 a.m.
Nine
He doesn’t mean to spy on her. That’s what Ed keeps telling himself as he opens Jess’s laptop and sits, hunched in the darkness, deciding whether to tap in her password or not.
He’s not the kind of husband who keeps tabs on his wife, and he hasn’t the time – or inclination – to fret about what she gets up to all day. He isn’t worried that she’s being unfaith
ful, and there’s nothing on their credit card or bank statements to perturb him.
And yet here he is.
It’s two in the morning and, while Jess is knocked out by a sleeping pill, he is poised to use her not-so-secret password. To dig around, scrutinising her search history, trying to discover something, anything, that might help him understand his wife. The blurred outlines of their children glow, and he briefly considers just closing the lid and going back to the warmth of their bed and the comfort of her body. That’s what he ought to do, rather than committing this pretty fundamental betrayal. And yet he knows that he can’t.
He can’t because the Jess he married, and even the Jess who was a confident, seemingly exemplary mother to Frankie and Kit, is not the woman sleeping upstairs. This new Jess is as slippery as water. Secretive. Guarded. Her tone clipped; her expression inscrutable. Someone he can’t get a handle on at all.
Of course, she’s always been a bit like this. Locking him out’s a protective mechanism learned from early childhood, when she and her three siblings were dispatched to boarding school and learned not to bother their parents with anything disturbing. He thinks of her brother, Charlie, who thoughtfully broke his arm during term. By the time he returned home, his cast was off and his right forearm two shades paler than his left. Jess’s mother, Frannie, never mentioned it – just as she apparently never acknowledged her eldest daughter Martha’s teenage abortion. As far as she was concerned, her children’s pain or trauma was an irrelevance, a distraction. God knows how she’d have coped with anything more sinister.
Little Disasters Page 6
