Just What Kind of Mother Are You?

by Paula Daly

  ‘Lisa, it’s Kate.’

  ‘Kate,’ I say. ‘What’s happened? Is something wrong?’

  ‘Yes – no – well, sort of. Listen, sorry to ring so early but I wanted to catch you while you still had the boys at home.’

  Kate Riverty is my friend of around five years. She has two children, who are similar in age to both Sally, my eldest, and Sam, my youngest.

  ‘It’s nothing major. I just thought you’d want to know so that you can address it before it gets out of hand.’ I stay silent, let her go on. ‘It’s just that Fergus came home last week saying that he would need money for school, and I didn’t really think much of it at the time. You know how it is … they always need money for something. So I gave it to him, and it was only when I was chatting to Guy about it last night and he said that Fergus had asked him for money also that we thought to question him.’

  I have no idea where this is going, but that’s not unusual when speaking to Kate, so I try to sound interested. ‘So what do you think he wants it for?’

  I’m guessing she’s going to tell me the teachers have set up a tuck shop. Something she’s not in agreement with. Something she’s against on principle.

  ‘It’s Sam,’ Kate says bluntly. ‘He’s been charging children to play with him.’

  ‘He’s what?’

  ‘Children are paying him money to play with him. I’m not sure exactly how much because … he seems to have a type of sliding scale in operation. Fergus is a little upset about the whole thing, actually. He’s found out he’s been paying substantially more than some of the other boys.’

  I turn around and look at Sam. He is wearing Mario Kart pyjamas and is feeding milk directly from his cereal spoon to our old ginger tom.

  I exhale.

  ‘You’re not cross that I rang, are you, Lisa?’

  I wince. Kate’s trying to sound nice, but her voice has taken on a shrill quality.

  ‘Not at all,’ I say. ‘I’m glad you did.’

  ‘It’s just that if it were me … if it were one of mine doing this – well, I’d want to know.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ I tell her. Then I give her my standard line, the line that I seem to be giving out to anyone and everyone regardless of the situation I’m faced with: ‘Leave it with me,’ I say firmly. ‘I’ll sort it.’

  Just before she hangs up I hear Kate say, ‘The girls okay?’, and I reply, ‘What? Yes, fine,’ because I’m flustered, and I’m embarrassed, and I’m not really thinking straight. I’m wondering how I’m going to tackle the problem of Sam’s new enterprise.

  But when I put the phone down, I think, Girls? What does she mean by that? Then I dismiss it, because Kate often gets me on the back foot. Confuses me with what she’s really trying to say. It’s something I’ve had to get used to.

  2

  WE LIVE IN A draughty rented house in Troutbeck.

  Troutbeck sits to the east of Lake Windermere and is the kind of place you find in books entitled ‘Quaint English Villages’. There are supposed to be two hundred and sixty houses in Troutbeck, but I don’t know where all those people are hiding because I hardly see any of them.

  Of course, a lot are holiday lets. And many of the cottages are home to people who’ve retired here – so they’re not always part of the usual day-to-day goings-on, I suppose because they don’t have children living in the village. Or grandchildren they pick up from school a couple of days a week. Or take to swimming lessons, or to the park.

  I used to think it bordered on tragedy the way families lose touch, the way people sever ties, putting a pretty place to live above being together. But now I realize that’s just how people like it. They don’t always want to be together.

  My mother has a flat in Windermere village. She and my father never married – we were his second family, his other family – and because of something shitty that happened when I was a kid, something that we don’t ever talk about, we never see him. I’d ring my mother to pick up the ingredients Sally needs for cookery, but she doesn’t drive, so I’ve asked Joe to do it. Poor thing, he’s exhausted. He’s only had a few hours’ sleep, too.

  I back the car out with Sam in the front seat next to me and wave to the older two as they wait for the minibus.

  I don’t know if this is a national thing, or if it’s just local to Cumbria, but if you live more than three miles away from the nearest school, or if there’s not a suitable pavement to walk upon, your kids are eligible for free transport. And since no proper buses run up here in Troutbeck, this takes the form of a taxi – well, a minibus. (Not Joe. Joe’s a one-man band. He generally just carts old ladies to hospital appointments, or garden centres, or to bridge club.)

  I could send Sam in a taxi as well if I wanted to, but I have this fear that a rogue driver would steal him away, be on a ferry bound for Zeebrugge before I realized he hadn’t made it into school (I’ve enquired, and the drivers are not CRB-checked). So I drop Sam on my way to the shelter, and it’s useful because it’s one of the only moments during a normal working day that we get some time together.

  We discuss all sorts. Sam’s still of an age when he believes in Father Christmas and he thinks of Jesus as having superhero status. To Sam, Jesus has quite obviously got superhero powers, because ‘How else could he do all that stuff?’

  Sam went through a big Jesus phase last year and kept banging on and on about him. Which I didn’t see the harm in. But then I had Joe at the dinner table, hopping mad, slamming his fork down, saying, ‘That school is corrupting him.’

  I negotiate our way down the lane. It’s a narrow, badly pot-holed stretch of track with no passing places. I have to time my departure just right or else I meet the minibus coming the other way. And it’s always me that has to reverse, because the driver has a bad neck and can only use his mirrors. In fairness, his vehicle is a lot wider than mine.

  Sam has his hat on and his hood pulled up over it because of the car’s frigid interior, so he can’t hear a word I’m saying. And my exhaust is blowing. It needed replacing a month ago and is getting worse by the day. I sound like a boy racer every time I press on the gas. I ask Sam about school and if there’s anything he wants to tell me.

  ‘What?’ he says.

  ‘ “Pardon,” ’ I correct.

  ‘Pardon? What?’

  ‘Is there anything going on at school you want to tell me about?’

  He shrugs. Looks out the window. Then he turns and tells me excitedly about a child who brought in a lava lamp for Show and Tell. And one, when can we get a lava lamp?, and two, why can he never bring anything in for Show and Tell?

  Inwardly, I’m cursing this mother, whoever she is, for giving me something else to do. Show and Tell. Brilliant.

  ‘Show and Tell,’ I explain patiently, ‘is an American thing. It’s like Trick or Treat. English people just don’t really do it.’

  ‘Everybody does Trick or Treat except us.’

  ‘No they don’t.’

  ‘Yes they do.’

  ‘Anyway,’ I say quickly, ‘what’s this I hear about you making people pay to play with you?’

  He doesn’t answer. I can’t see his face hidden behind the fur of his hood, and now I’ve got to concentrate because I’m on the main road and it’s not been gritted particularly well. A rush job.

  I have a momentary flash of panic as I imagine the taxi driver in charge of the kids’ minibus, taking a bend too fast and sailing off the edge of the road, down to the valley floor below.

  I picture the vehicle as it rolls and rolls, coming to a stop by a John Deere hay baler. The windows of the bus are blown out, and my kids sit there motionless like limp crash-test dummies.

  I shiver.

  Sam says, in answer to my question about pay for play: ‘Pardon?’

  ‘You heard me.’

  Reluctantly, he explains, ‘I don’t make everyone pay,’ and I can tell he’s more disappointed than sorry. Probably thought he could go through life making money in this way, and he can
sense by my tone that his venture has come to a premature end.

  I turn to him. ‘What I don’t get is why these kids are willing to pay you. Why are they giving you money when they could just as easily play on their own or with somebody else?’

  ‘Dunno,’ he says innocently, but then shoots me a mischievous look. One that says, I know. Are they, like, idiots, or what?

  Five minutes later and we pull up outside school. I look to see if Kate’s car is in its usual place by the gate, but she isn’t here yet. I do like her, but it does annoy me how she insists on going into school each day. Because really, there is no reason for it.

  Her son, Fergus, is almost eight. He’s more than capable of removing his coat and shoes, changing into his indoor pumps and finding his way to the classroom. The school has only eighty kids. He’s not going to get lost. But Kate’s one of those mothers who enjoys chatting with the teacher. She likes to watch Fergus slowly taking off his shoes, rolling her eyes at the other mothers while clapping her hands together, saying, ‘Come on, chop chop! Quicksticks! Pass Mummy your boots!’ Kate doesn’t have a proper job. She and her husband get a steady stream of income from renting holiday cottages. So all Kate has to do when she gets home is put her washing machine on and write thank-you notes to people she doesn’t really like.

  I’m jealous of Kate’s life.

  There, I’ve said it.

  It’s taken me a while to get to this point. Before, I couldn’t admit it. I used to complain to Joe. Blame him in a roundabout way for my having to work full-time, blame him for the fact I had to face every day exhausted, and—

  My phone is ringing.

  I pull it out of my pocket and see that it’s Sally. Perhaps the minibus has not turned up. Maybe the driver’s not been able to start the engine in the cold weather.

  ‘Hi, Sal, what’s up?’

  Sally is crying. Big, choking sobs. She can’t get her words out.

  ‘Mum?’ I can hear noise in the background, more crying … the sounds of traffic. ‘Mum … something really bad has happened.’

  3

  DETECTIVE CONSTABLE Joanne Aspinall is almost at the station when she gets the call about the missing girl. Thirteen years old. And not a worldly-wise thirteen either. Joanne wonders if there even is such a thing. I mean, what difference would it make if she were an astute girl? What if she was used to being out and about on her own? Would that change anything? Did it make it any less urgent?

  Missing’s missing. There shouldn’t be a difference.

  But when Joanne sees the photograph, she shudders. It has to be said, this girl does look young for her age. Astonishingly young, in fact. And Joanne has to admit, even if it’s only to herself, that the thirteen-year-olds who go gadding about in Wonderbras and tall boots tend to turn up eventually. Usually returning home sorry and sheepish, sad and scared, wishing they’d not put their parents through that anguish. Because all they wanted to do was prove a point.

  Joanne had been no different when she was young. Leaving the house, screaming at her mother that she was old enough to take care of herself, desperate to be taken seriously as a grownup. When really, grown up was the last thing she was.

  Joanne thinks about the strange confidence that seems to come to girls at this age, and decides that this confidence, this intrepidity, comes later in boys. Round about the sixteen mark. That’s when their cockiness is heightened and she starts seeing boys who’ve never been involved in any kind of trouble before suddenly start making nuisances of themselves.

  They’d had a memo in the office just last week. The army was on the lookout for kids whose life could be ‘turned around with the right sort of guidance’.

  It said: ‘They could have a lot to offer the British Army,’ and Joanne thought, Yes, I bet they could. The self-preservation instinct is woefully lacking in young lads; they’ll happily walk into battle, happily regard themselves infallible, indestructible. No wonder the bloody army wanted them.

  After the quick brief on the missing girl, Joanne makes her way to the address. She knows the house. Years ago it used to be the old vicarage, before the church sold it off. Too big and expensive for the clergy to heat.

  The family aren’t known to the police; not many residents of Troutbeck are. It’s not that sort of place.

  Joanne deals with very few serious criminal offences from within the boundaries of the National Park. It’s one of the safest areas to live in Britain. You see the same people every day, so it’s hard to hide if you do screw up, if you do shaft someone or do something illegal.

  People move here wanting a better life, wanting a better life for their children. So generally they keep their heads down. They do their best not to antagonize their neighbours. They feel privileged to live here and they try their hardest to make sure it remains that way.

  But it’s not always easy to stay here.

  House prices are off the scale, and industry is non-existent. So those who move here had better have a good way to earn a living, or else they won’t last. Those who come thinking they’ll open up a twee coffee shop, florist’s or artist’s studio get a rude awakening when they can’t make the mortgage payments.

  Joanne’s noticed how newcomers will proudly announce that they’re ‘local’ after living here for perhaps just a couple of years. As if it’s a badge of honour. Joanne can never quite make sense of that. She is a local. Lived here all her life. She’s not sure it’s something to go on about, though.

  Her mother and Auntie Jackie moved to the Lakes from Lancashire back when they were teenagers, to work as chambermaids, and Jackie scoffs at the idea of being accepted as a ‘local’.

  ‘Local?’ she’ll say derisively. ‘What do I want to be classed as one of them for? No sense of humour …’

  Joanne slows the car as she approaches the Rivertys’ driveway.

  Their daughter is not the type of girl to disappear. Joanne knows that now. No, Lucinda Riverty is not that type at all.

  Joanne adjusts her bra and climbs out, thinking that when she was back in uniform, at least she got the clothes for free. Now, trying to find suitable work clothes took up almost as much time as the paperwork. And since her bra size is a cruel 38GG, it’s hard to find tops that don’t make her look like a barrel.

  She zips up her parka, then makes her way up the path, thinking that at least she can ring the doorbell now without being worried about being mistaken for a strippergram.

  Not that that was likely to happen here today.

  ‘Mrs Riverty?’

  The woman shakes her head. ‘I’m her sister, Alexa. Come in, they’re all in there.’

  Joanne flashes her warrant card, but the woman doesn’t look at it. She doesn’t ask who Joanne is, because nobody bothers at times like this. They get you in quickly, don’t want to lose any time.

  They’re already beating themselves up for the minutes they’ve wasted so far. When they knew something was off, something was wrong, when the universe was whispering to them there was trouble.

  The woman gestures for Joanne to go along the hallway and to the right. Joanne steps into the vestibule and wipes her feet. She glances ahead of her: muted Farrow & Ball paint colours, seagrass matting on the stairs, a dotting of tasteful black-and-white photos of the kids. Joanne spots a girl of around five dressed as a ballerina holding some tulips and a Dorothy bag, and thinks that this must be Lucinda.

  The room is already busy with people, which also happens at times like this. Everyone comes straight over. Every family member, every friend. People turning up to be together, to wait.

  Joanne’s used to it. She’s used to the faces – expectant but confused. Who is this woman in the black parka? What is she here for?

  ‘I’m Detective Constable Aspinall,’ Joanne says.

  Always best to give her full title instead of using the ‘DC’. Women, particularly, don’t really know what DC means anyway. Give a member of the public a policewoman in plain clothes and they don’t really know what to do with h
er.

  Is she here to console the family? Make tea? Family liaison – is that it? Is she even a real police officer?

  They’re not sure. Best to tell them who she is and what she’s here for right from the get-go.

  All eyes move from Joanne to a broken-looking blonde woman sitting in the middle of a sagging, taupe sofa.

  This room’s for the kids. It houses the old furniture, the stuff that doesn’t matter any more, the stuff nobody gets cross about if it’s ruined with spilt drinks, with felt-tip pens.

  A four-year-old TV is in the corner, and beneath it a stack of game boxes: PlayStation, Wii, Xbox. Joanne knows the names of these things even if she can’t correctly distinguish one from the other, not having any kids of her own.

  The blonde goes to stand, but Joanne says, ‘Please, don’t get up. Are you Mrs Riverty?’, and the woman nods her head, just slightly, spilling the mug of tea she’s holding in the process. She hands her tea to the man seated next to her.

  Joanne looks to him: ‘Mr Riverty?’, and he says, ‘Guy,’ attempting to smile, but he can’t make his face work in that way today.

  He stands. His eyes are anguished, his face so full of grief. ‘Have you come to help us?’ he asks, and Joanne says, ‘Yes.’

  Yes, that’s what she’s come for. Joanne has come to help.

  This is the second missing girl. That’s why Joanne was sent straight here. If Lucinda had been the first, these early stages would be covered by a couple of uniforms. But Joanne’s department are working with Lancashire on this one, and after a series of screwed-up abduction cases in the south, everyone’s on high alert.

  Two weeks ago, a young girl had gone missing from Silverdale, just over the border from Cumbria into Lancashire.

  Molly Rigg. Another one who looked younger than she was. Another girl who shouldn’t have gone missing, her boss said.

  Molly Rigg turned up at teatime, twenty miles from her home, when she walked into the travel agents in Bowness-on-Windermere.