by Zosia Wand
I pick up the remote and press the play button to see how much is left of this episode. Five minutes. ‘Would you like to play a game with me and Grandma when I’ve come out of the shower?’ I turn around, expecting my mother to have followed me, but from the kitchen I hear the click of the kettle. Milly takes the remote from my hand and switches off the screen. ‘Why don’t you go and ask Grandma if she wants to play a game of Happy Families? I bet you can beat her.’
But Milly slips off the sofa and stands in front of me. ‘I want to come with you.’
‘For a shower?’ I hesitate. Is this OK? I’m painfully aware of the training we’ve had from social services, the things we need to be cautious about. Is it appropriate for Milly to see me in the shower? Why don’t I know? A mother would know. If Milly had been with us since birth, something would have developed naturally between us, but I don’t have that history and I don’t know what to say. I don’t want to make an issue of this, but I don’t want to get it wrong. I can hear Mum moving about in the kitchen, but she won’t understand the subtleties of this. Why is she in the kitchen drinking tea on her own while her granddaughter’s here with nothing to do? Why doesn’t she understand how important it is to create a bond with Milly?
I bend down to Milly’s eye level and smile into her big, trusting eyes. ‘I think Grandma might like to spend a bit of time with you. She’s not here for long.’
She puts her hands over her ears and shouts, ‘No! No! No!’
‘Milly, stop. Stop. It’s fine.’ I pull her close. ‘You don’t have to if you don’t want to.’ There’s silence from the kitchen. I wonder if Mum has heard this exchange and the pain I imagine her feeling is as raw and acute as if it had happened to me. What if Milly reacts like this at the review meeting? What if she says she doesn’t like Mum?
Leading Milly upstairs to her bedroom, I leave her with a colouring book and a Roald Dahl story CD. This seems to satisfy her. She does wander into the bathroom after a while, but by then the glass door has safely steamed up. She asks me to make a peephole, which I do at knee level, so she has to crouch down to peek in. As the water streams down the glass I try to be positive. I tell myself that Shona and the panel are reasonable people. I rehearse speeches. The key is to be honest. We’ve always been honest. If Milly doesn’t like Mum, it’s not the end of the world. She’s a child. She is bound to resent another presence in the house, particularly this soon. She’s jealous, it’s only natural; she wants me for herself. I’ll persuade them. But, as the water pours over me I still feel a deep ache inside me, like I’ve lost something that was never mine in the first place.
8
Neil came back red and sweaty and caked in mud. It was all I could do not to look at Mum and say, ‘See?’ but that wouldn’t help the situation and I didn’t need to. She made her excuses and went upstairs, apparently to rest her knee and probably sneak a nap. Neil offered to make the picnic once he’d showered, so I took Milly and came ahead to the park, to make sure everything’s ready for the theatre company this afternoon.
Milly’s fizzing with excitement, skipping along. She’s wearing her trademark leggings and T-shirt. Clothes are an issue with Milly. She has four pairs of identical leggings, a series of plain T-shirts in grey, blue or white, and two plain cotton hoodies. She refuses to wear anything else. Her unicorn pyjamas were a major step forward but daytime clothes are still carefully managed. As a child, she has two areas of control in her life: what she eats and what she wears. Her world’s been turned upside down; I’m not going to force things with her. As long as she’s clean, warm and nourished, we can work with her eccentricities. The forecast is for the weather to remain dry, though the clouds have thickened and it’s not as warm as it was. I send Neil a text to suggest he packs a hoodie for Milly and warn Mum. She feels the cold and I don’t want her complaining and spoiling the afternoon.
The stewards collect their hi-vis jackets from the office. Lizzie greets Milly with a high five. Her daughter, Pearl, is strapped into a high chair that’s been dragged into the office to contain her. Lizzie used to be the festivals coordinator while I managed the park on a more strategic level. Now she and I share a combination of my job and hers, each of us working three days a week, employing an administrator to cover the day-to-day financial work and fundraising. It’s the perfect set-up, allowing both of us to focus on the things we enjoy most about the community park and festivals and have half the week for our children.
Children. Family. Mothering. Words that were unavailable to me for years. Words for the privileged, the chosen, the more fortunate. Now they belong to me too.
Pearl thumps her plastic cup on the wooden tray of the high chair. Unimpressed at being ignored she flings it at the filing cabinet. Lizzie, without looking up, passes her a box of tissues while continuing to talk to me. Pearl plucks out a tissue and tears it into strips. Milly slips free from my hand and picks up the cup. She puts the strips of tissue inside it. Pearl pulls them out, Milly puts them back. A game ensues.
‘Eve? Are you listening?’
I grin and shake my head. ‘Sorry.’ I just want to watch them, to drink it in. I still can’t believe that I’m allowed to have this, but with Lizzie and Pearl that drip-drip-drip of worry subsides a little. This is happening, this family I dreamed of, this life I longed for, is unfolding in front of me. My mother is tricky, but she’s always been difficult. At least she’s here. We’re speaking again. That’s progress.
Milly. My daughter. Grinning at Pearl. ‘Say Milly? Milly?’
Pearl frowns, purses her lips, makes an M sound.
‘Good girl.’
Pearl has grown to fit her name, a round ball of a baby, with a shine to her hair and a glow to her skin. I’d assumed she’d been named after a grandmother or an elderly godparent, but when I told Lizzie this she snorted with laughter. ‘Elkie Brooks,’ she explained. ‘“Pearl’s A Singer”. Always loved it. And pearls come from grit. I like that; something beautiful growing out of something difficult.’ Lizzie’s life hasn’t been easy, but she makes it work. She and Jonty split before Pearl was born and he’s old enough to be her grandfather, but he lives around the corner and is actively involved in her day to day life. His teenage children are Pearl’s siblings.
‘My mum wants to call Milly Amelia.’
Lizzie frowns. ‘Is that her name?’
Milly says, ‘No,’ without looking up.
I shake my head. ‘Milly on her birth certificate.’ She’s been Milly for five years.
‘Isn’t it your birthday, tomorrow?’ Lizzie asks, as if she doesn’t know. Milly looks up, eyes bright with anticipation. Third of September. I had thought about throwing a big party: a cake with five candles, the house draped in bunting and filled with squealing children, but the reality, when I came to plan it, was quite daunting. Milly doesn’t have any friends here yet. I could have invited people with children the right age, but it felt forced. I need to let things develop naturally.
Milly says, ‘Can Pearl come for my birthday?’
‘Are you having a party?’ Lizzie had a lovely first birthday party for Pearl a couple of weeks ago, in her little cottage, where we squeezed in alongside her wonderfully complicated family and eccentric neighbours, but we don’t have that network locally and it feels a bit too soon to have Neil’s extended clan visit.
Milly shakes her head, but she doesn’t seem disappointed. ‘Mummy is making a cake.’
‘Oh, well then, we’ll have to come,’ says Lizzie. ‘Am I allowed to come?’
Milly gives a grave nod. ‘I should think so,’ much to Lizzie’s delight.
We’ve talked through the birthday plan with Shona, who phoned Helen, Milly’s social worker, to find out what sort of celebrations Milly has had in the past. There were no parties, just a cake and a special tea at her grandparents’ house. Mum, Claire, would be invited and sometimes came, sometimes didn’t, so it was played down not to raise Milly’s expectations. We’ve decided to keep it low-key this year, but L
izzie and Pearl will be a lovely addition. ‘You don’t have to do it all at once,’ Shona reminded me. ‘You have the rest of your lives.’
The rest of our lives.
‘Next year, when you’ve made more friends, you can have a proper party.’ Milly will be starting school this year. She will be one of the oldest in the year. Had she been born a few days earlier we would have had another year with her at home. That feeling I had in the shower swamps me again. Like arriving at the station to see your train pulling out, or opening your diary to discover the party you were looking forward to is not tonight, as you’d thought, but yesterday. Gone. Nothing to be done. But there will be other trains, other parties, other milestones in Milly’s life for us to enjoy together.
Schools start back from Wednesday, though Neil will be going in straight after Monday’s review meeting to prepare. The reception class at the infant school doesn’t start until the following week, once the older children have settled back in. And the school’s policy is for the reception class to be split, with all children attending part-time for two weeks after that. Milly has been allocated mornings for the first week, which will give us the rest of the day. Lizzie and I have planned our hours to accommodate this. I will have to make the most of this extra time; a taste of what might have been.
When Milly slips off to the toilet, Lizzie says, ‘You can’t change her name. It would be too weird for her, with the move, and all the other changes going on, to have her name taken from her. She’d lose all sense of who she is.’ It’s a relief to hear it put it so unequivocally. Mum made it seem much less certain. ‘Amelia’s a nice name, but it’s not her name. You don’t want to make it sound like there’s something wrong with the name Milly; she’ll think there’s something wrong with her. Tell your mum she’s Milly. End of.’
I laugh, imagining my mother’s face if I spoke to her like that. What would Mum think of Lizzie with her blunt London accent and her no-nonsense approach? Lizzie’s right, I need to make it clear, my daughter’s name is Milly and it’s staying Milly. Mum is old-school, a teacher through and through, and she’ll never accept me as an equal. To her I will always, fundamentally, remain her child, but I can manage that. Isn’t that what women do all the time? All those PAs who manage their bosses, the nurses who quietly prompt the consultants, I’ve had to do it myself with board members, time and again. I can manage my mother.
*
The car park is full and the crowd gather around the performance area like a colourful garland tossed across the grass. The minimal set is in place, beneath the ancient oak that will serve as the Faraway Tree for this afternoon’s production. Moonface and Silky the Fairy, with their outsized, papier-mâché heads, are laying out props, engaging with the children and young families in the audience, and the general chatter is beginning to subside as people prepare for the show to begin. There’s still no sign of Neil and Mum. We’re too late to get a place near the front, but Lizzie laid out a large blanket for her and Pearl earlier and said we’re welcome to join them. She waves and I send Milly to pick her way through the crowd, promising I won’t be far behind. Kath and India are also there, with India’s husband, Neil’s cycling buddy, Guy. It will be fun to sit and watch the show with them. I’m about to call Neil to find out what the hold-up is when I see our grey Golf coming up the drive. There’s nowhere left for him to park. He winds down the window as Mum climbs out of the passenger seat, groaning.
‘Why did you drive?’ It’s a five-minute walk along the footpath from our house, but in the car, he’ll have had to navigate his way right around the park perimeter, and now he’ll have to drive back out onto the street. There’s no way he’ll find a space anywhere near here.
He rolls his eyes. ‘Your mum’s knee’s playing up.’
My mother gives another groan, hobbling around the back of the car towards me. She looks at the gathered crowd. ‘Is there no seating?’
‘I told you it was a picnic.’
‘I thought there’d be benches.’
I grit my teeth. ‘Picnic blankets. We’ve got a place down at the front.’
Neil interrupts. ‘I’ll take the car to the house and nip back. Where’s Milly?’
I point to Lizzie who’s waving one arm above her head. Milly is standing next to her, frowning at us.
As Neil pulls away, Mum says, ‘I’ll need a chair. I can’t sit on the ground.’
There are people with camping chairs, but they’re sitting at the periphery so as not to obscure the view for those behind them. Lizzie’s blanket is in the centre at the front. I won’t be able to put a chair there. ‘How about a cushion?’
‘A cushion? On the ground? I’ll never be able to get up again!’
I hold up my hand to Milly and Lizzy, indicating that I’ll be five minutes, and run to the office to get a chair. By the time I’ve carried it back, Neil has dropped off the car and climbed over the garden wall to join us. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Mum needs a chair. You go and sit with Milly. Guy’s there with India.’ I don’t look at him, but take the chair to the edge of the crowd, as close as I can get to where my family will be sitting, and beckon for my mother to follow. She lowers herself in with a grunt, while I stand beside her. Milly calls out to me, ‘Mummy! Come on!’ I wave, waiting for Mum to reassure me she’ll be fine, to tell me to go and join my daughter, but she says nothing. She knows no one here, I can hardly leave her alone. Neil holds up his palms in a question. I mouth sorry, watch him shake his head and sit down, taking Milly onto his knee. She looks at me over his shoulder, but what can I do?
*
I watch the production through a resentful rage. I can feel it crackle the air around me. If my mother so much as speaks I feel I will, quite literally, bite her, but she doesn’t. Behind me she chuckles at something silly Moonface has said to entertain the children and I am sorely tempted to turn around and tip her out of her chair. I’m just wondering how I can join my family without creating a disturbance when Milly comes to my rescue, standing up and picking her way through the crowd. Neil, crouched over, follows, issuing apologies, until they are both beside me. I sit down on the grass with my back to Mum and Milly climbs into my lap while Neil wriggles into position and slides his arm around me. Behind us Mum mumbles something about the grass being too damp to sit on, but we pretend we can’t hear her. I try not to picture the expression on her face and focus on Saucepan Man’s noisy arrival down the tree.
*
Milly appears to be more impressed with the ice cream Kath’s bought her than the production, but I don’t mind. It’s enough to have her here, sharing my world, whatever she chooses to take from it. I’ve agreed to stay until the park is cleared and check the litter has been collected. Neil goes to help the company manager load the van while I sit with Milly on the grass by Mum’s feet making daisy chains. As I drape the flowers over Milly’s head, she asks, ‘When are we going to see Nana?’
I scan her face for signs of distress. ‘Are you missing Nana and Gramps?’
She nods, but she doesn’t seem tearful or anxious. ‘Can they come?’
‘Here?’
She grins and I feel a surge of joy that she wants to share this new life with them, that it’s something she feels good about and wants to show off, but it isn’t that simple. Contact must be carefully managed, with supervised visits in neutral places, most likely an anonymous room in a social services family centre in another part of the county. Milly must be kept safe. Not from her grandparents, but from her mother, Claire, whose drug problem causes her to behave unpredictably. Milly’s grandparents have accepted that it’s better they don’t know the details of Milly’s new life. They have the bald facts: professional couple, early forties, with a large house in a rural area, though not necessarily Cumbria, and no other children yet. They haven’t been told our names or seen what we look like. We have chosen to remain anonymous, given the high profile nature of my job. My photograph appears regularly in the local press when I’m promoting f
estivals and park projects and if Milly’s birth family were to recognise me this would jeopardise her anonymity. It wouldn’t necessarily be a problem with her grandparents, but could put Milly at risk with respect to her mother. I’d love to reveal more with Milly’s grandparents, to share photographs and short films we’ve recorded, invite them here to share Milly’s new world, but it’s not an option and I can understand the reasons for that. I’m quietly relieved, if I’m honest. Without those rules I’d find it difficult to set my own boundaries. I’d probably end up adopting the entire family.
‘They can’t come here, sweetie.’ My mother gives a cluck that suggests, I should think not, but I don’t want this to be the message Milly receives. ‘Nana is poorly. It would be difficult for her to travel all this way, but we can go and see them. Would you like that?’
She grins again, nodding. I don’t mention not going back to the house where Milly spent the first three years of her life, until her nana’s stroke put an end to that chapter, or the fact that it would probably be Helen and not me or Neil who would accompany her for that visit. ‘We’ll talk to Shona and see what she can do. OK?’ But reassured and no longer interested, Milly has run off after India’s little border terrier, before I’ve finished the sentence. I laugh.
Mum gives another cluck. ‘You aren’t seriously going to take her back there?’
‘We’ve agreed to regular contact.’
‘Why?’
Everything is so simple for my mother. Black and white. But there’s nothing black or white about our relationship with Milly; this is every shade of grey. ‘They are her family.’
‘You’re her family now.’
‘They don’t stop existing.’
‘They stop having rights.’
‘They’re good people.’
‘Which is why they’re giving the child up for adoption?’
I breathe. Count to five. Milly is running circles with the dog yapping at her heels. ‘She’s their granddaughter. And they were taking good care of her, but Margaret’s had a stroke. She’s lost the use of her right side and Reg can’t cope.’
