by Angela Hart
‘OK. Angela! Angela! It’s ten for half ten. Angela, is ten for half ten OK? Angela?’
‘Yes, perfect. Thanks, Grace. I’ve got that.’
‘Write it down! What? Mum? What did you say? What? What?’
Another of Grace’s habits was talking over you. I guess this was linked to the same issue she had with mentally jumping ahead to the next thing before you were finished with the last. I imagined holding a phone conversation with her would be very difficult; it didn’t sound relaxed, that’s for sure! Though I couldn’t hear what her mum was saying, the way Grace was talking reminded me of when I used to make transatlantic calls to a relative in Canada, in the days when there was an annoying delay on the line.
I busied myself by tidying up a pile of magazines I kept by my favourite armchair. I’ve always been a big reader and I like nothing better than getting my teeth into a good book. I love women’s magazines too, and I always have plenty on the go. Barbara, who worked in our shop, was the same. We shared what we bought and kept a stash in the shop, to fill quiet moments. Often, I completed a word search that Barbara had started and given up on, and vice versa, or I’d read half an article, only to find she’d torn out a page to enter a competition or to keep a recipe!
One of the magazines had a headline that caught my eye: ‘E numbers turn my angel into a little devil!’ I put it to one side to read when the children were in bed. Like most people in those days, I had a lot to learn about links between kids’ diets and behaviour. New research was coming out all the time. I’d seen for myself that fizzy drinks made some kids go a bit hyperactive, and I made a point of reading everything I could get my hands on that might be useful. It hadn’t escaped my notice that Grace had drunk lemonade at the barbecue before everything unravelled. Was she one of those kids who should avoid fizzy drinks altogether, or was she just a naturally exuberant child? And what was all this about E numbers?
After the call Grace was on a huge high. She looked completely wired, in fact, as she talked nineteen to the dozen about how her mum was coming in the morning, and how she was going to spend a whole week with her.
‘She’s coming at ten for ten thirty,’ she told me. ‘Angela, she said ten for ten thirty. Does that mean she’s coming at ten but she might be late, or what?’
‘It means we need to be ready for ten, but she might not arrive until about half ten. It’s hard to give an exact time when you’re driving. I expect it’ll depend on the traffic.’
‘I hope it’s ten. How long is that? How many hours until ten in the morning?’ She went up to our grandfather clock and tried to count the hours but got in a bit of a tangle. I helped her, and she said she was going to go to bed early, as ‘the sooner I get to sleep, the sooner it will be tomorrow’. I smiled; it’s not often a child tells me that!
I hadn’t yet heard from Shannon, or Gail, and had not spoken to Grace about the incident since we came home from the barbecue. I didn’t want to bring it up now, because as a rule I always try to avoid having difficult conversations just before bedtime. I know how things can play on the mind overnight – and that goes for me as well as the kids – and I didn’t want to put Grace back into a bad mood. However, given that her mum was coming in the morning, and I might well get a call from Barry too, I needed to ask Grace what had happened.
I spoke to her gently before she went back upstairs.
‘Grace, I’ll come and help you sort out your case and find your pyjamas in a minute,’ I ventured. ‘But first, I just need to ask you about what happened today, with Lena.’
‘Oh.’ Her little face fell and she flushed red. ‘I bet everyone is blaming me, but it wasn’t my fault! It wasn’t me! It’s not—’
‘Grace, sweetheart. I’m not blaming anyone. Please don’t get yourself upset. I just want you to tell me what happened.’
‘What’s the point? Everyone will blame me and not her!’
‘That’s not true, Grace. Now, come and sit down here and tell me about it. Lena’s mum might well phone me later, and I’d like to make sure everyone knows the truth about what happened. OK?’
Grace nodded, took a deep breath and embarked on an agitated monologue.
‘So, this is what happened. I’m telling you, Angela, this is the truth, the whole truth. I swear! This is it. This is what happened. So, you know that girl? What was her name? Lena, yeah, Lena. Right, me and that girl decided to play tag. She had to count to five before she could chase me. I ran around the back of that greenhouse and she followed me. She nearly caught me so I ran into the greenhouse and tried to, like, shut the door. Lena put her arm up to stop me and there was a smash. Her arm went through the glass. I didn’t see any blood. I don’t think she cut herself then, I’m sure she didn’t. But when she pulled it out, well, that’s when I saw the blood. That’s when she screamed. That’s when she got the cut and all the blood started to . . . See? Do you see what I mean, Angela? Do you get it?’
‘Yes, sweetheart. Thanks for telling me. That must have been a nasty shock for both of you. I’m sorry that happened.’
I believed Grace. By strange coincidence, this jogged my memory about something similar that had happened to my brother when he was a young boy, playing with our next-door neighbour on their allotment. My brother had been left with a line of stitches on his arm after play-fighting with his friend and crashing through a panel of glass. My father refused to accept it had been an accident and instead blamed the other boy for pushing my brother. It caused a rift with the neighbours, which wasn’t resolved until a long time later, when someone else who’d witnessed the accident happened to bump into my dad and described exactly what had gone on. The truth was, it really was an unfortunate accident and neither boy was to blame. My mum told me this story years later and I’d heard her referring to it many times since, usually to illustrate a point about the fact you shouldn’t jump to conclusions. She was always very fair and considerate, my mum. She had a sensible, measured approach to life and, whenever I was put on the spot, trying to work out what to do or say about a dilemma with one of the kids, I often tried to imagine how she would react if she were in my shoes.
‘What time can I get up in the morning? Angela? What time? What time am I allowed to get up?’
Grace was in my face and she brought me crashing back to the present. As ever, she had moved on much quicker than me and was already thinking about the next thing. I told her I’d be getting up at about seven thirty, and that she should try to stay in bed until then, at least. She sighed.
‘Tomorrow’s going to be the best day ever!’
Before we turned in, I found myself saying to Jonathan something that was becoming quite obvious.
‘I think Grace might have something.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’m not sure, some kind of condition? She’s hyperactive, that’s for sure, and not just physically. Her mind races and she has trouble focusing. Do you think we should suggest she gets checked out?’
‘It’s very early days, but I think you might be right.’
‘I can’t stop going over Lena’s accident. I believe everything Grace said. I think she has a good heart, but she’s so exuberant. And she can’t control her energy levels. I can’t help thinking that if she had some kind of medical explanation for what’s going on it might make her life easier all round.’
Like most people in the mid-nineties, I had never heard of Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder (ADHD). Of course, in this day and age, those would have been the first words on my lips, but back then the public was only just starting to hear about the disorder.
8
‘You could find yourself in a children’s home’
I looked out of the window and saw an old white jeep pull up outside the house. It had bright pink stripes down the sides and wheels with shiny white hubcaps. I’m not normally very observant about cars, but I could tell the stripes were stuck on, not painted, as one section was damaged and peeling off. As for the wheels, I think they were
what our young joyrider – the boy who had recently moved on – would have called ‘pimped up’.
Grace was at the front door before the bell stopped ringing and I joined her. I hadn’t managed to glimpse her mother yet and, after seeing the car, I was now more intrigued than ever to meet her. Grace was jumping up and down with excitement as I opened the front door.
‘Hello babe!’ Colette trilled as her eyes fell on her daughter. As she spoke she pushed her huge sunglasses onto the top of her head and flicked her long, blonde hair flashily over her shoulders. ‘Look at you! Aw, babe, it’s good to see you! How have you been, Gracie?’
Grace said ‘good’ very meekly. She looked like she’d suddenly shrunk in her mother’s imposing presence. Colette was a large and very striking woman. Tall and curvaceous, she stood with her shoulders back and her chin lifted forward at an angle, as if she were posing for a photo.
I introduced myself.
‘Pleased to meet you, I’m sure, Angela,’ Colette replied confidently. ‘Thanks for having our Gracie over. Has she been all right?’
She made it sound like we’d invited her for a play date or a sleepover with one of the other children.
‘She’s been more than all right,’ I said brightly. ‘It’s been a pleasure having her to stay.’
‘Well that’s a relief to hear. Thank God for that, seeing as she’s got to come back, eh?’
Colette gave a hoot of laughter while I found myself wincing inside. Having Grace come back to live with us may well have been what Colette wanted for her daughter, but she was jumping the gun. I hadn’t spoken to Social Services since Grace arrived, apart from the quick call from Barry when he changed the arrangements for her to be collected. In any case, it would be down to Grace to make the final decision about moving back in with us long term. Far more importantly, I wondered what Colette was thinking, talking like this the minute she arrived. She wasn’t even over the doorstep yet! Was she nervous, or just not tuned in to how her daughter might be feeling? I glanced at Grace and was relieved to see she looked undaunted by her mum’s remark. In fact, she was gazing up at her in awe, as if Colette were standing on a pedestal.
I invited Colette in. She removed her denim jacket, commenting loudly that she’d been ‘sweating like a pig’ on the journey over, and complaining that her make-up was melting off her face.
I offered Colette a drink and she said she’d love a cuppa. When I asked if she’d like a biscuit she accepted and asked if she could put her chewing gum in the bin. I said yes and showed her where the pedal bin was. I was just about to offer her a tissue or a bit of paper to wrap the gum in, when I saw she had her own method of disposing of it. Colette swiftly put her foot on the pedal, and when the lid lifted she fired the gum at speed, straight from her mouth into the bin.
‘Thanks for that,’ she trilled. ‘If I do it with my fingers it gets all stuck on my nails, know what I mean? And I’ve just had them done.’ She waved her hands around to show me her false nails, which were very long and immaculately French manicured.
What manners! I thought. Fancy spitting in the bin! And those nails would drive me mad.
‘Can I have a biscuit?’ Grace asked.
‘Manners!’ Colette blurted out. ‘Say please, Gracie!’
Jonathan had been delayed on his way back from the wholesalers, which was perhaps for the best. We’d have been unable to resist exchanging glances if he were here, as we would have both had the same thought about Colette: How could she reprimand Grace for having bad manners after spitting gum into our pedal bin like that?
‘Please, Angela?’ Grace said sweetly.
I gave her a reassuring smile and passed her the biscuit tin.
‘So, babe, you all ready?’
Grace nodded at her mum and said yes. ‘I’m leaving some stuff here,’ she then announced, in a determined tone of voice. As she said this she looked her mum straight in the eye; it was almost what you’d describe as a steely gaze. It was news to me that she was leaving some of her things here. Though Grace had mentioned this was a possibility over the weekend, this morning she had asked Jonathan to help bring all her belongings down. She’d even reminded him to fetch her pogo stick and scooter from the garage. Everything was stacked in the hall, waiting to go with Grace.
‘Whatever, babe,’ her mum said absent-mindedly. ‘We’ll go when I’ve finished my tea, yeah?’
I’d have expected Colette to perhaps ask to see Grace’s room – most visiting parents do – and to at least ask more about how the weekend had gone, and what we’d been doing since Friday. However, she seemed more focused on enjoying her tea and biscuits, and as soon as she’d finished she got to her feet.
‘Thanks for that. Just the job. I love a good cuppa. Let’s go then, babe. What are you bringing?’
I followed them to the hallway, where Grace pointed to her belongings. ‘Just the suitcase, that’s all. The rest can stay. Is that OK, Angela?’
I said it was fine.
‘Thanks. I will see you again, won’t I?’
Poor Grace, I thought once again. It was painful to see her so uncertain and unsettled, and I wished I could tell her exactly what was going to happen the following week, but it hadn’t been decided yet and so I had to tread carefully. Grace needed to talk to her social worker before making any decision about coming back to live with us, and of course we would need to talk to Social Services too.
‘I hope you’ll be coming back to stay with us for longer,’ I said, choosing my words carefully. ‘We’d love to have you.’
She looked pleased, and then Colette said she’d suddenly remembered something.
‘I can’t bring her back myself. We’re going away next week, see.’
Clearly, Colette was under the impression Grace would definitely be moving in with us because she talked as if this was already the plan.
‘Where are you going, Mum?’
‘Torremolinos, babe. Just the five of us. You’d like it there! One day you might be able to come, if you learn how to behave yourself properly, that is.’
Unbelievably, Colette delivered this killer line with a flourish, as if she were giving Grace some triumphant news. I felt myself bristle.
‘I’ve been good.’ Grace spoke the words very quietly, through shrivelling lips. Her face looked sapped of light, and for once her slender little body was very still, as if sucked of all energy. I wanted to scoop her into my arms, but I had to stay rooted to the spot.
‘So, you’ve been good for a weekend, Gracie! But how many times do I need to tell you? You’ve got to behave yourself properly all the time. It’s not just about being good for a couple of days, you know. I need to be able to trust you, all the time, babe. Angela, here, may not be able to keep you here if you start getting up to your old tricks, you know that, don’t you? Then what? You could find yourself in a children’s home. You sure she’s behaved herself, Angela? Is there anything I need to know, because if there is I’d rather hear it now, know what I mean?’
I was angry with Colette for speaking out so carelessly. It felt to me like Grace couldn’t do right for doing wrong, and to use the family holiday as a carrot as well as a stick seemed unnecessarily cruel. I bit my tongue, of course. Falling out with Colette was not going to help Grace, and so I did my best to hide my annoyance and disapproval. It wasn’t easy. This was something I’d had to keep practising over the years, as my face used to give away how I was feeling.
Poor Grace now looked so anxious and stressed I thought she might start hyperventilating. No doubt Lena’s accident was at the forefront of her mind, and I desperately wanted to put her at ease.
‘Really, Colette, it’s been a pleasure to have Grace staying with us,’ I said politely. ‘She’s very helpful and is good company. I’ve enjoyed having her to stay, very much. So has my husband.’
I’d wanted to find out more about Grace and I’d hoped Colette and I could at least have had a chat so I might be able to fill in some of the blanks about her past. I re
ally didn’t understand why Colette wouldn’t have her living back at home. Ever since I met Grace, I’d had a nagging thought in the back of my mind. Her situation really didn’t seem to add up; was there something important I didn’t know about her that would explain why, out of the four children Colette was responsible for, Grace was the one who was excluded from the family home?
After this encounter, however, I began to wonder if the real problem lay with Colette herself. Was she the one with the issues, not Grace? I didn’t know, but the seed of that idea had been planted in my head.
After I’d said my piece about how much we’d enjoyed having her to stay, Grace visibly relaxed and Colette said no more. The three of us pitched in to load her suitcase and a few other bits and pieces into the boot of the jeep. Her holdall, bike, pogo stick and a carrier bag and box of belongings were left behind in the hall.
‘Bye, Grace. Take care. I’ll look after your things, don’t you worry.’
‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘You have been nice to me. You’re nice.’ She went to give me a hug. It was a spontaneous move on her part, or at least it started out that way. But when Grace made contact with me, it was as if something suddenly made her change her mind part way through, and she ended up giving me an awkward half-hug. I reciprocated as best I could, not wanting to invade her space while still trying to show I cared.
Colette was already in the driving seat by the time Grace and I had said our goodbyes. She wound down the window and chivvied Grace along.
‘Come on, Little Miss Trouble!’ she called. She said this chirpily, as you would if it were an affectionate nickname, but in the circumstances it felt disingenuous. Colette really did think Grace was a troublemaker, didn’t she?
Grace rushed obediently into the passenger seat and I waved them off as they drove away. Grace had no seat belt on and Colette sped off far too fast, black smoke puffing out of the jeep’s noisy exhaust.
Jonathan returned within minutes.
‘Sorry I missed them,’ he said. ‘Just as well I said goodbye to Grace earlier. What was her mum like?’
