My Daughter, My Mother

by Annie Murray

  ‘All right, love – that’s good.’ Mary called.

  She turned back to Joanne, who was shaking, struggling not to cry. Amy was still sobbing, though more quietly.

  ‘Oh, now, look at the pair of yer.’ She came over and stroked Amy’s back. ‘The poor little angel – look, you sit down at the table and I’ll get the kettle on. I’ve got our Patrick’s little drinking cup here. I can give her a drop of milk, and I’ll make us a nice cup of tea.’

  Joanne sat down, stunned and grateful. Amy had been in such a state that she was now beginning to shut down and go to sleep. Joanne held her, rocking her.

  Mary Coles set a mug of tea down beside her and drew up a chair. Joanne knew she owed her an explanation: details of what had happened. But she felt very embarrassed, ashamed to be talking about it. Like Amy, she just felt like dozing off to sleep, now that the immediate danger had gone.

  For a few minutes Mary sipped her tea, her lined face wearing no expression. Joanne realized, though, that she was thinking. Mary put her mug down and looked across at Joanne.

  ‘I’ve had all this with our Angela,’ she said. ‘D’you remember when she was stopping here for a bit with little Patrick?’

  ‘Oh,’ Joanne said. ‘Yes.’ She’d had no idea why, though.

  Mary Coles rolled her eyes. ‘Does he get like that very often?’

  ‘No!’ She stroked Amy’s back for comfort. ‘Well . . . not often. But just lately . . .’

  Mary nodded, as if this was something she’d seen before. Joanne felt a surge of gratitude towards the kindly woman. Mary had worked as a nursing auxiliary at Dudley Road Hospital for many years. She was no stranger to human traffic.

  ‘I’ve seen you a few times lately and I’ve wondered,’ Mary said. ‘D’you know what set him off?’

  ‘To begin with? Not really – a few ideas, but . . . It might just be having Amy. Maybe he’s not getting enough attention.’

  Mary nodded without comment.

  ‘You’re going to have to decide what to do,’ she said after a moment. ‘You can stay here for a while, of course, and welcome, but you can’t hide out in here forever.’ She hesitated. ‘Strictly speaking, you could call the police. He’s assaulted you.’

  Joanne was already shaking her head. ‘No. I can’t do that.’ It seemed an enormous thing: unreal and extreme. One minute they were in the hall, a family; the next, blue lights and social workers, and who knew what else . . . That was not the way she was going to do things.

  ‘What about your mother?’ Mary asked.

  ‘What about her?’ Joanne said bitterly.

  ‘Could you go and stay for a while maybe?’

  ‘Not really. Mom’s not too well herself. And she’d never believe me anyway – not about Dave.’

  Suddenly there came noises from the front of the house, the letterbox clattering.

  ‘Joanne? Come out, for God’s sake! I won’t hurt you – I promise! Just come out here . . .’

  Her pulse, which had just been slowing at last, took off again and her limbs turned to jelly.

  They heard Jim Coles begin a conversation through the slit in the front door. Jim was calm, as if talking to a wild horse. Dave sounded wretched, begging. ‘Just tell her I’m sorry – I just want to see her.’

  ‘Look, love,’ Mary said. ‘You don’t have to go out there. But if you want to, in the long run you’re going to have to do something about it. Once they start, they don’t stop, unless you stop them. I’ve seen it all before.’

  Joanne hadn’t told Mrs Coles about what he’d done to Amy. He had shaken Amy like a rag doll, hurt and frightened her. In those seconds he had drawn a steel line across her heart. She knew already what she was going to do.

  ‘I’ll go now,’ she said, standing up. ‘We’ll sort it out. He’s calmed down now, so it’ll be all right.’

  Mrs Coles eyed her doubtfully, but Joanne thanked both the Coles and went to the hall.

  Jim opened the door. Dave was outside, looking distraught and pathetic.

  ‘Any more trouble from you, young man, and I’ll be reporting you, make no mistake,’ Jim Coles told him, wagging a finger. ‘And, Joanne, you know where to come. You don’t want to be standing for that.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said again, stepping out into the day, one that already seemed to have gone on forever. ‘Thank you so much.’

  There were the usual tears, the sobbing apologies and vows not to do it again. Dave needed to be forgiven and endlessly reassured.

  Later that day, while Amy was asleep again, worn out, Dave led Joanne up to their bedroom and insisted on making love in the warm afternoon, with the window open and a balmy breeze lifting the edge of the curtain. For the moment she let him do what he needed to do, the hard release he required. As he climaxed in her he began to sob again, releasing his weight down onto her, his head half-buried in the pillow beside hers.

  ‘Oh God, I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry, Jo. I’m a monster. I don’t know what made me do it . . .’

  Joanne went through the motions of comfort. They lay pressed together, sticky with sweat, and she stroked his back, feeling the familiar strong line of his spine under her fingertips. She felt utterly distant from him.

  He pushed up on his hands again and looked down at her, his face pink and wet with tears. She stared back up at him. There were grains of pity in her, but now mostly she felt as icy as metal.

  ‘I love you, girl,’ he insisted. ‘Oh God, I love you, and I need you so much. I don’t know why I do it. It’s like being taken over – like being someone else. I can’t help it . . .’

  ‘Maybe you should get some help,’ she suggested, knowing he would never agree to it.

  ‘Help? What – me?’ He removed himself from on top of her and lay on his back beside her. She could feel him withdrawing from her at this suggestion, almost mocking it. It felt like a test, his one last chance: If you say you need help, you know there’s really something wrong. But all Dave wanted was for her to forgive him, wipe the slate and say it was okay. But she wasn’t going to say it. It very definitely wasn’t okay.

  ‘Nah,’ he said. He sounded relaxed again, relieved and reassured by the sex, by her coming home and seeming compliant and forgiving. ‘That’s not for me. I’m not some kind of nutter. I’ve just got a bit of a temper.’ He turned to her. ‘We’ll be all right, won’t we, Jo: you and me?’

  Joanne carried on staring up towards the ceiling. Her cut lip was throbbing.

  ‘Yes, I expect we will,’ she said.

  As he had taken the week off, she knew Dave would be highly suspicious of any attempts on her part to get him to go back to work.

  That week he couldn’t do enough for her and Amy. They went to Brueton Park, as planned, and Amy loved their picnic in the green space. They let her play and play, and bought ice creams. Dave was the solicitous father all day, telling Joanne to sit down and have a rest.

  ‘I could do with one like that,’ another woman said to Joanne exhaustedly, when Dave headed off to give Amy yet another swing. ‘Mine’s useless – he just watches the football all the time. I dunno why he wanted kids.’

  Joanne smiled and said nothing. Coldly she watched Dave, her handsome, well-dressed husband, pushing his little girl on the swing. Amy was shrieking with laughter. He was trying to make it up to them, money in the bank of ‘All I’ve done for you . . .’ But today she was seeing his better self. She knew it wouldn’t last. Pangs of heartbreaking emotion rose in her at the thought of what was to come. But her resolve was strong.

  Dave took her advice against going to Drayton Manor Park. Instead they took other little trips, to the Science Museum and Cannon Hill Park. Joanne was polite and civil and did everything he wanted. She kept the peace, feeling that she was seeing their life from a distance. On Sunday they went to see her mom and dad in Kings Heath, and Dave finally got Fred’s lawn-mower working again.

  ‘You all right?’ Karen asked. She seemed to have become very sharp these days.

>   Joanne was startled. By now her lip had healed, the mark on it barely visible. ‘Yeah, why?’

  ‘You just seem a bit out of it, that’s all.’

  ‘Oh, I’m okay.’ In truth she had been making lists in her head to add to the enquiries she had been making. Phone numbers, information. ‘Just got a few things on my mind, that’s all.’

  ‘Back to work again tomorrow then, son?’ Fred asked Dave.

  ‘Yeah, but it’s been a good week, hasn’t it, Jo?’

  Joanne nodded. Like a robot, she thought. I’m getting like Mom.

  He went off to work on Monday morning, back to the usual routine. It was a cooler, cloudy day too, which felt right. But everything was unreal. The day should go on, as it always did: washing and tidying, cleaning the house, bathroom and loo, pegging out and ironing . . . Their little house. Home. Routine. But how long before he hit her again? Or shook the life out of Amy?

  Soon after he had left, she was packing bags: things for her and Amy. One under the buggy on the tray – some toys, bottles, Amy’s favourite blanket. Other bags hanging from the handles. Money. Keys. Milk. Phone numbers. She mustn’t stop. Mustn’t waver.

  ‘Come on now, love,’ she said, lifting Amy into the buggy. ‘We’re going on a little outing.’

  Forty-One

  ‘Here we are.’

  Megan, the social worker, steered her car into the parking area of a big, shabby-looking house. There was a bay window, shrouded by net curtains. The front of the house had long ago been coated in cream paint, which was now stained and dirty.

  Joanne was too stressed and disorientated to take in exactly where they were: the other side of Birmingham somewhere, off the Hagley Road. It was an ordinary, anonymous street, with small houses one end, getting bigger as they moved along it. It could be anywhere. She felt pulled inside out with nerves. Before this journey there had been a wait of several hours in the Social Services offices, when she tried to keep things calm and normal for Amy. But she was anything but calm – especially after what they told her. When she arrived there, all she would seem to do was cry. Even after she managed to stop, the fear and worry had upset her stomach and she kept having to ask to use the toilet.

  First she had gone to her Health Visitor, who had speedily referred Joanne and Amy to Social Services. Megan, a neat, well-dressed woman in her forties, with a broad smile and a hint of a Welsh accent, had made tea and sat and listened to her.

  ‘You do believe me, don’t you?’ Joanne had pleaded, after pouring out what had happened.

  ‘Of course I do,’ Megan said kindly. ‘No one wrenches themselves away from home like this unless they have to. It’s a very big decision.’

  ‘Only . . .’ Joanne had still been crying at this point. ‘Sometimes I think it’s me – that I’m going crazy. Or making him do it somehow. But I’m not, I don’t think . . . And it’s been a few days since anything’s happened, but I’m frightened he’ll just keep doing it again. He’s just changed so much. And I’m so worried about Amy . . .’ She relapsed into sobs.

  Megan gently told her that Amy would need to be looked at by one of their medical officers. She started talking about case conferences, child-protection procedures, the police.

  ‘No!’ Joanne had protested, horrified. ‘No, we don’t need all that! Amy and I just need to go away for a bit. To be somewhere safe.’

  ‘And then what?’ Megan said. ‘I’m afraid, Joanne, it’s not as simple as that. If this was just between you and your husband – well, it would be up to you whether you pressed an assault charge. But with a child involved – and in possible danger – it’s very different. I’m afraid, now that you’ve brought this to our attention, we are obliged to act to protect her.’

  Joanne stared at her. It was hard to take anything in.

  ‘No . . .’ she started to say, shaking her head. Megan kept looking at her, firmly but kindly. ‘You mean the police . . . Dave?’

  ‘Quite possibly, yes.’

  ‘And social workers?’

  ‘I’m a social worker,’ Megan pointed out. She stood up. ‘Look, try not to worry. I’ll get you a cup of tea. Just sit and think about it all for a bit. We are here to help you, you know – not to make things worse.’ She leaned reassuringly towards Joanne. ‘From what you’ve said, your daughter is in danger. You’ve done the right thing.’

  Joanne sat, cuddling Amy, her head full of panic and confusion. She had just left home, that was all. That’s all it had felt like at the time. Why had she done it? To get away and find help and refuge. She didn’t realize she was crossing this line, into a place where so many other people could take over and have a say . . . She felt very frightened. I’m not that kind of person, she thought. Oh God, what have I done? She sat weeping quietly, wishing she could turn back time to this morning and be at home again. Would she have done the same thing? She no longer knew.

  The waiting began. Megan phoned round in search of somewhere for her and Amy to go. They found a few toys to keep Amy happy, as they sat in a back room with old filing cabinets and a table and chair. A doctor examined Amy, but so many days had passed that there was not much to see, except a few tiny remaining bruises. Someone brought Joanne yet another cup of tea and asked if she had food for Amy, which she had. Time passed, somehow.

  ‘Joanne,’ Megan said with firm gentleness, seeing her woebegone face. ‘It’s okay. It’s not your fault. You’re doing the right thing. You’ve done something about it, before it got any worse. A lot of women don’t. That makes you very brave, in my book.’ This made Joanne cry all over again.

  It was well on into the afternoon when she came to Joanne and said calmly, ‘We’ve found you a place in a refuge on the south side of the city – well away from home.’

  Joanne felt anything but calm as they got out of the car. She looked the place up and down, full of dread. The parking area at the front was covered in potholed tarmac and a drift of crisp and sweet packets had blown in and caught on one side against the garden wall. The clouds had thickened as the day wore on. Her idea of a women’s refuge was a place full of rough, frightening women with black eyes.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Megan said, seeing her expression. They were getting a sleepy Amy and her few possessions out of Megan’s old green car, which had a child seat in the back. ‘It’s much nicer than it looks – honestly. Some of the rooms are quite cosy.’

  She pushed the buggy with Joanne’s things loaded onto it, and Joanne carried Amy. A ring on the bell, which was discreetly placed to one side of the door, with its spy-hole in the centre, resulted in an almost instant sound of unlocking. Two faces appeared, one white, one black.

  ‘Oh,’ Megan said, sounding surprised. ‘Are you still here, Sue?’

  The white woman, the younger of the two, with curly auburn hair, baggy, colourful clothes and long, spiralling earrings, seemed pleased to see Megan.

  ‘Marcia and I were doing the changeover; I’ll be off in a minute. Thought I’d stop and say hello. I’ve got a few days off from tomorrow – Jackie’ll be in.’ Her smile took in all three of them.

  Marcia, a much plumper woman in tight black leggings and a big mauve T-shirt, also smiled broadly.

  ‘This must be Joanne and Amy?’

  ‘Hello,’ Joanne said, relieved at the kind welcome, even if everything felt a bit unreal. It was reassuring that they already knew her name, as if they were welcoming a friend.

  ‘Let’s get you all inside,’ Marcia said, with a cautious glance towards the street behind them.

  Joanne found herself ushered inside with Amy and Megan, and the door thudded shut. The light in the hall was rather dim, but Joanne could see a worn-looking black-and-white chequered floor and a staircase carpeted in dark red. To one side was a large noticeboard covered in lists and charts. From upstairs, Joanne heard a child having a tantrum and a woman’s voice trying to be heard over it. The other women glanced at each other on hearing the noise, but said nothing.

  ‘I’ll just say hello,’
Sue said. ‘I’ve got to be off, but I might see you, if you’re still here . . . So this is Amy?’ She smiled into Amy’s face, but Amy was looking sleepy and bewildered. ‘Nice to meet you, Joanne.’

  Her pink-and-green trousers shimmered out of the door.

  ‘Come into the office a minute,’ Marcia said. ‘Then I’ll show you your room and we’ll have a look round.’

  As they followed Marcia through the door into the downstairs front room, Megan gave Joanne’s arm a squeeze and smiled reassuringly at her, as if to say, You’ll be all right with Marcia.

  When she was finally alone, Joanne lay down on the bed with Amy, cuddling her daughter close to her, on the cheap, flowery duvet cover, letting the tears come again. She felt queasy and exhausted and would dearly have loved to sleep for hours and block everything out. But Amy was awake now and was upset by her mother’s emotion.

  ‘Mama?’ She pushed her face right up close to Joanne’s and tried to wipe away her tears.

  ‘Okay, pet – it’s all right.’ Joanne wiped her face.

  It was such a relief to be inside, to feel safe and away from the constant tension of living with Dave. Yet at the same time she had never felt more lost or lonely than in this dingy old house, cut off from everything and everyone she knew. If she hadn’t had Amy to be strong for, she didn’t think she could have coped at all.

  Amy slid down from the bed and went to explore. Joanne lay feeling completely limp, as if all her fight had gone from her. From the other two rooms on the middle floor she could hear voices and bangs. A child cried and cried. The sound made her feel even more tense and sad. Who were the women in these other rooms so close to her?

  She looked round the room. It faced out over the front and the windows were covered by more thick net curtains. There was a shaggy, mustard-coloured carpet and the walls were covered in woodchip paper, painted pale peach. Beside the bed where Joanne lay there was a set of bunkbeds and other basic furniture: a chest of drawers, a small cupboard and a wooden chair. In one corner there was also a cot.