Just What Kind of Mother Are You?

by Paula Daly

  ‘You need locking up.’

  ‘Is that what you really think?’

  ‘’Course it’s what I think – do you think this is normal?’

  She sighs out as if she can’t believe I’m finding this so difficult to comprehend.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell Joe about the affair you had?’ she asks.

  ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

  She repeats: ‘Why didn’t you?’

  ‘Because, in so many words, you told me not to.’

  ‘I’m not your mother. I’m not your conscience. You didn’t tell him because you looked at what you’ve got and you knew that, even though it was wrong, you’d do what you needed to do to keep your family together.’

  ‘Yes, well, it’s not a secret any more, so—’

  ‘Yes,’ says Kate gravely. ‘Sorry about that.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘I had to give Adam the nudge he needed. I told him to tell Alexa, or else I would. How did Joe take it, by the way? I felt bad about that. I’ve always liked Joe.’

  ‘You did that?’

  She sighs. ‘I needed something to take your minds off Lucinda for a while, something to buy me some time.’

  I stand there, stunned. I go to speak but find I can’t.

  And it’s then that she goes for the knife. She reaches out so fast that her hand is on the blade in a second.

  I pull back and feel the resistance on the serrated edge. It’s cutting her. It’s cutting through the flesh on her hand, but she keeps with it.

  ‘Kate, stop!’ I say, mortified at what is happening. But she doesn’t.

  I jerk, hoping to get the knife away from her in one quick movement, but still she holds on.

  ‘Jesus, Kate!’

  I’m staring at her, not believing she’s doing this, but she stares right back at me. Her eyes are white and bulging.

  ‘I won’t let you take her,’ she screams at me. ‘I won’t let you take Lucinda.’

  ‘I’m not going to take her, you mad bitch! Let go of the knife!’

  She must be bleeding. She has to be bleeding.

  ‘Mummy!’ Lucinda’s shouting, crying. ‘Mummy, stop, you’re getting hurt. Please—’

  Kate, keeping her eyes on me, shouts, ‘Mummy has to do this. Just give Mummy a minute.’

  She’s strong. So strong. Where has she got this strength from?

  Incensed, I scream at her, pulling at the knife wildly, ‘Why do you always do that? Why do you refer to yourself in the third person? She’s thirteen, Kate. She’s not a baby! Stop treating her like a bloody baby, it won’t make her love you any more!’

  And I can’t say what this triggers, but all at once her eyes well up with tears and I feel her grip slacken. It’s as if, just for a second, she doubts herself. It’s as if she can see who she is from the outside and her strength withers.

  So I kick her. I kick her hard in the shin.

  I’ve got my boots on and I kick her viciously, like I really mean it. And she yelps.

  She stumbles backwards and falls. She starts scrabbling away, blood pouring from her hand, and I’m transported back to that winter when I was eight. My father’s wife slicing at her wrists. The irony isn’t lost on me. A second family. Another second family that’s screwed a woman up to the point of madness.

  Kate is staring up at me, anticipating another kick. Lucinda is taking off her hoodie so she can wrap it around her mother’s hand. And that’s when my phone rings.

  Each of us stares at one another, unsure of what to do.

  ‘Don’t move,’ I warn them. ‘Move, and I’ll stab you.’

  I pull the mobile out of my back pocket and take a step away.

  ‘Mrs Kallisto?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Cumbria Police,’ the voice says. ‘I’m afraid there’s been an accident—’

  Christmas Eve

  43

  THE SNOW IS BACK, bang on time. Windermere village is bustling with people as Joanne makes her way to the butcher’s to pick up the turkey.

  Jackie’s at work this morning, but because of the way Christmas has fallen this year – on a Sunday – Joanne has the day off. And suddenly she’s feeling all Christmassy. This year it’s not just going to be another day. This year she’s looking forward to sharing a proper Christmas dinner with Jackie, all the trimmings, the two of them falling asleep on the settee after the Queen’s speech, bellies full of chocolate Brazil nuts.

  She picks up a couple of parsnips from the florist’s – they do a sideline in root vegetables this time of year – and nips into Boots for some last-minute bits and bobs.

  Neither of them gets much in the way of presents. Jackie’s son hasn’t sent anything for the past couple of years, so they’ve taken to spoiling each other a little. Joanne puts some overpriced body butter in her basket and, as an afterthought, a Scholl foot spa.

  She studies the box and gets a vision of Jackie sitting in her carer’s uniform, half a pint of Baileys in her hand, steam rising up around her ankles. And Joanne decides that, yes, this is exactly the right gift.

  The clouds are low and brooding as Joanne leaves the shop. They’re in for another covering of snowfall this afternoon, so there’s a frisson of excitement in the village, of wanting to get home, to close the door and shut the world out. Wait for Christmas to arrive.

  A tuba-, trombone- and trumpet-player are tucked into a sheltered spot just by the Abbey Bank; the last few bars of ‘Joy to the World’ are audible as Joanne approaches the butcher’s.

  There’s a queue inside, but it moves quickly. Everyone’s already pre-ordered and paid for their birds, so it’s just a case of picking them up. Joanne wanted to go for a turkey crown – what with there being only the two of them – but Jackie would hear none of it. ‘Brown meat’s the best bit,’ she said.

  Joanne is about to cross the street and head home when she sees someone reverse into one of the spaces right in front of her. She stops, recognizing the driver. She can’t see inside the car too well – the windows are obscured by steam as the car is filled with bodies – but she knows who it is.

  Joanne approaches and taps on the window. Lisa Kallisto cuts the engine and opens the driver’s side door. Joanne leans in and sees Lisa’s three kids in the back, squashed together, the excitement of Christmas clear in their faces.

  Joe’s in the front passenger seat, the Bedlington Terrier that Forensics used sitting in the footwell between his knees. Both of Joe’s lower legs are in plaster.

  ‘Hi, Lisa,’ Joanne says. ‘How you doing?’

  ‘Good. You?’

  ‘Fine, thanks.’ Joanne looks past Lisa to Joe. ‘They let you out of hospital for Christmas, then?’

  Joanne heard on the grapevine that Joe’s taxi left the motorway and ended up in a ditch. He survived but fractured both his feet.

  ‘Came out on Wednesday,’ Joe says. ‘I’ve got a wheelchair to get about with,’ and he gestures behind him to the boot of the car.

  Joanne smiles. ‘They any idea what caused your blackout, yet?’

  Joe looks shiftily from side to side.

  When he doesn’t answer, Lisa rolls her eyes, leans sideways towards Joanne and lowers her voice away from the kids. ‘He’d been having TIAs – transient ischaemic attacks – mini-strokes.’ She glances at Joe. ‘And for reasons best known to himself he decided to keep that little piece of information from me and the kids.’

  Joanne raises her eyebrows.

  ‘He thought it was better if I didn’t know about it,’ Lisa says, and Joe looks rueful.

  ‘You know why,’ he says quietly.

  Lisa gives him a soft dig in the ribs. ‘Daft sod thought I’d leave him if I found out … Anyway, they’ve put him on Warfarin, so he should be okay.’ She reaches behind Joe’s seat for her handbag. ‘What’s the word on Kate? You got any more news?’

  ‘She’s been charged.’

  ‘What with?’

  ‘Kidnapping, false imprisonment and
perverting the course of justice.’

  Lisa takes a long breath in. ‘Shit,’ she says. ‘Shit, that’s worse than I thought.’

  ‘You did the right thing, Lisa.’

  ‘Did I?’

  ‘You didn’t have any choice. She was hurting her children – you couldn’t let that continue, you know that.’

  Lisa swings her legs around, makes to climb out of the car. ‘If I did the right thing, why do I feel so lousy about it? … Do you think she’ll lose the kids?’

  ‘A prison sentence is more than likely.’

  Lisa digests this and sighs out sadly.

  ‘Will she not try and plead … will she not plead mentally unfit – or whatever it’s called?’

  ‘She might, but then there’s less chance of her keeping the children in the long term, if that’s the way they decide to play it. Have to wait and see.’

  ‘What a mess,’ Lisa says, standing and closing the car door.

  She looks past Joanne’s shoulder at the Christmas lights slung low across the street. Joanne watches as Lisa tries to shrug off what she’s just been told. It’s Christmas Eve, Joanne can feel her thinking, it’s all about the kids now.

  Lisa turns to Joanne. ‘You got your man, though, didn’t you?’ she asks, brighter now. ‘You got the man who took the other girls?’

  ‘We did.’

  ‘That’s good. Was it that same guy who’d been talking to Lucinda after school? Was it him?’

  ‘He’s not admitted it, but yes, we’re pretty sure. From what we gather, Lucinda came home and told her mother about him, and Kate hatched the fake-abduction plan … Then she was just waiting for the right opportunity—’

  ‘Waiting for me,’ Lisa cuts in resignedly. ‘Kate was waiting for me to screw up so she could pretend Lucinda was gone.’

  Joanne can sense the hurt still fresh in Lisa.

  After a moment Lisa asks, ‘Are her children all right? I know I should probably get in touch, but I can’t seem to bring myself to do it.’

  ‘They’re with their dad.’ Joanne touches Lisa’s elbow briefly. ‘They’re going to be okay … don’t be too hard on yourself, eh, Lisa? With Kate’s state of mind the way it is, who knows what she might have done next?’

  44

  I WISH DC ASPINALL A merry Christmas and leave Joe, the kids and Bluey inside the car while I nip to the butcher’s. This is our last call of the morning. Once I’ve got the turkey we can go home, get the fire going and curl up and watch a daft film. Wait for Christmas to come to Troutbeck.

  The butcher’s window is filled with good stuff. Pheasants, guinea fowl and some ready-stuffed partridges sit on the left side of the display; a stack of game pies, terrines and pâtés are on the right.

  I loiter for a moment before going in.

  The news about Kate has hit me harder than I thought it would. And, yes, I know she’d completely lost it. And, yes, I know someone that deranged cannot keep their family. And don’t get me wrong, I am still angry. There’s this hot ball of fury I’ve been carrying inside my stomach since last week, I am so fucking mad about it all. But then I’m also saddened for her.

  I’m heartbroken by the fact that she pushed so hard to keep her family together she ended up losing all of them. She’s lost everything.

  I look back to the car. My whole life is inside that car. And I couldn’t imagine losing any of it. Not one bit.

  I push open the door to the butcher’s and take my place in the queue. The line is winding its way along the back wall. I glance at the people waiting to be served, and it’s then that I see Alexa.

  She stands second from the front. Her back is to me, but I know it’s her.

  I close my eyes. I let my weight fall against the cold, tiled wall. For a second I think about ducking out to avoid her, but then what’s the use? This is a small place. I’m going to run into her sooner or later.

  The butcher’s son is serving today. He’s fifteen, a quiet lad. You tell him your name and he retrieves the turkeys from the cold store at the back.

  He hands over a small package in wax paper to an elderly lady at the front and she passes him back a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black Label. ‘For yer dad,’ she says, and the boy takes it shyly. Tells her ‘Thanks.’

  Alexa moves up and clears her throat. ‘Mrs Willard,’ she tells him officiously. ‘I’ve ordered a large, free-range Bronze.’

  The lad blanches and averts his eyes. After what seems like an eternity, he stammers out, ‘I’m sorry, but we don’t have a turkey for you, Mrs Willard.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ she laughs. ‘I ordered it in November. Of course you have it.’

  He shakes his head. ‘I’ve been told to tell you we don’t have one.’

  His distress is visible. He moves from one foot to the other. The shop goes deadly quiet as everyone watches. I straighten my spine. I can almost feel the rage building inside Alexa from here.

  ‘Get me your father,’ she snaps. ‘I’m not accepting this.’

  He nods, swallows and steps away. Seconds later, his mother, Kath, appears. She’s a buxom woman with thick arms, a bloodied apron and a no-nonsense look on her face. She was in the year above me at school. We played senior hockey together. Me as right back, her as goalie.

  ‘Mrs Willard,’ she acknowledges without emotion.

  ‘What’s going on here?’ Alexa demands. ‘Your son tells me you’ve forgotten to place my order.’

  ‘Not forgotten. Cancelled.’

  ‘Cancelled? Why? I didn’t authorize any cancellation.’

  ‘No. I did.’

  I shift over slightly so I can get a good look at Alexa in the mirror that runs behind the counter.

  Her mouth is gaping open. ‘I don’t understand,’ she says.

  ‘Nothing to understand. I just cancelled it.’

  ‘Because of what?’

  ‘I’ll explain,’ the butcher’s wife says, matter-of-fact, ‘but, to be honest, I think you’ve got a bloody cheek coming in here. Showing your face after what you and that crackpot sister o’ yours done to this community … Our husbands put their lives at risk searching for that young girl, out in that snow and ice. These shops lost business on account o’ you – no folk wanting to come here and spend – and what when we’re already struggling for trade. If I were you I’d think long and hard about moving. No one round here’s going to want much to do with you—’

  ‘But that wasn’t me!’ Alexa exclaims. ‘I didn’t have anything to do with what my sister did, I didn’t know—’

  ‘The word is you did know.’

  ‘I didn’t—’ Alexa says. ‘Honestly, I really didn’t.’

  Alexa looks around the shop helplessly, perhaps hoping someone will speak up at this injustice, but everyone looks away.

  The butcher’s wife wipes her hands on the dishcloth she has threaded through the belt of her apron. ‘You’ll have to excuse me,’ she says, ‘but I need to crack on. A lot to get through today.’ But she stays standing right where she is.

  Alexa turns on her heel, and we come face to face.

  She glares at me for an extended moment and I watch as she thinks about yelling some abuse my way. But the eyes of the shop are upon her. She realizes this, and struts out.

  When she’s gone, the butcher’s wife catches my attention. One quick nod in my direction and she returns to the back of the shop.

  Five minutes later and I get out to the car, slinging the turkey into Joe’s lap. ‘Hang on to this,’ I tell him, and turn around to look at the kids. Sam’s in the middle, cheeks red and scaly from the cold; Sally’s on one side; James is on the other. They’re almost bursting they’re so excited to get home.

  ‘I just saw Alexa,’ Joe says. ‘She didn’t look too happy.’

  ‘She wouldn’t,’ I tell him, putting on my seat belt. ‘They said they’re not serving her. Told her to go and shop elsewhere.’

  Joe is tickled pink by this.

  ‘What?’ I say to him.

  ‘Not
hing,’ he replies, but he’s smiling broadly.

  As I put the car into gear he reaches forward and gives the curls on top of Bluey’s head a quick ruffle. They’ve become almost inseparable since Joe came out of hospital on Wednesday.

  I check my mirror and pull away, head off towards home just as the snow begins to fall again.

  I glance at Joe.

  You watch, he’ll have the bloody dog sleeping on the end of our bed before the week’s out.

  A Note from the Author

  This book came about after watching an episode of The Oprah Winfrey Show. One of Oprah’s recurring themes is getting the right balance in life, and after treating countless exhausted working mothers in my physiotherapy practice, it was at the forefront of my mind as well.

  The programme showed school administrator Brenda Slaby. It’s 6 a.m. and Brenda’s driving her two young children to separate childminders, then continuing on to work. It’s the first day back after the long summer break and a particularly busy time lies ahead. Eight hours later, a co-worker rushes into Brenda’s office to break the news that her baby is still inside the car. Brenda has had so much on her mind that she has forgotten to drop her youngest child off, and little Cecilia has died of heatstroke in the hot August sun.

  I was heartbroken by this woman’s story. At the time, Brenda described herself as ‘the most hated mother in America’; she received death threats, and outraged mothers wanted her tried for murder.

  As I watched, all I could think was: that could have been me.

  I, too, had once been so overwhelmed with balancing children and full-time work that I could have missed the one thing no person wants to miss.

  This preyed on my mind and I was certain I wanted to write about it – I just didn’t know how. I write thrillers. I knew I couldn’t possibly do Brenda’s story justice. As time went on, though, I couldn’t stop thinking about how women push themselves nowadays. How they push themselves to be perfect mothers and perfect employees, often at the expense of their health and their relationship with their spouse, frequently putting other women down for not operating at such a high level.