by Casey Watson
‘Well, that does seem to make sense,’ Maggie agreed. ‘In theory, at least. But it would only work if Emma committed to it properly. Though I don’t think she’ll be able to take her GCSEs. Not in the short term. She’s missed too much schooling. But that doesn’t mean it wouldn’t be valuable, I agree. So we could certainly look at some alternative education packages for her.’
‘That sounds brilliant,’ I enthused. ‘It’s really just what she needs, and as for the commitment bit, just leave that to me. How soon do you think you could get her in somewhere?’
Maggie laughed. ‘You do sound keen! Soon, perhaps. It wouldn’t be a regular school, but there is a unit I know of, quite local to you, actually, and I know they usually have a couple of places up for grabs. Tell you what, let me go and make a phone call or two. I’ll get back to you in a bit. That sound okay?’
It sounded perfect, and the more I thought about it, the more keen I was to get it sorted, because it seemed to me that Emma’s best shot at making a go of things with Roman would be rooted in her having that all-important independence from her ever less inspiring-sounding boyfriend. And the unit Maggie had in mind was one I already knew of. It was a place that took in ten or twelve teenagers at a time, kids who, for all sorts of reasons, had been excluded from mainstream school. Which didn’t make it sound brilliant – that emotive word ‘exclusion’ covered many bases – but it wasn’t just there to mop up the ne’er-do-wells. Kids came out of mainstream education for all sorts of reasons, and one of the common ones was because they had become teenage mums. And though it wasn’t the ideal (that would have been going back to a regular comp and syllabus, obviously), it was definitely way better than nothing. I so wanted her to have a chance to spend at least a little more of her short childhood continuing her education and interacting with friends. It would stand her in such good stead in the long run and – most importantly – help to guide her towards making some better choices.
And to my surprise, Emma was very definitely up for it, even if not for the reasons I’d hoped.
‘Result!’ she whooped when Maggie called back a couple of days later with the news that, commencing the following Monday, she could attend the school for four days a week. I knew she was already upbeat because Tarim had finally deigned to text her, but her happy grin was really gratifying to see. ‘Yes!’ she said, punching a fist into the air, and scooping up Roman for a quick 360-degree spin-around. ‘Now I get my laptop, don’t I? Plus – woo hoo! Four days a week free of nappies and baby sick and free to be me again! Oh, thank you, thank you, Casey. Oh, let me hug you!’
I let her hug me – baby included – reflecting that even if her reasoning wasn’t to be encouraged – particularly within earshot of Hannah – her enthusiasm definitely was. ‘Hold up, though,’ I said, as she released me and I took hold of Roman. ‘Not so fast, missy. You’ll be home at four, at which point you will be taking over full responsibility for your baby. Much as I love this little man, and I do –’ I paused to tickle him – ‘I will be very definitely handing him back.’
Emma nodded happily. ‘Oh, course,’ she said. ‘Oh, you are such a star, Casey!’ Then her brow furrowed. ‘That’s a thought. Is there a uniform?’
I shook my head, which had the effect of returning the grin to her pretty face. ‘So I’ll need clothes and that, won’t I? So can we go shopping?’
‘Perhaps,’ I said, laughing at her newfound enthusiasm for education. ‘I might be able to stretch to a couple of tops and a pair of jeans come Saturday, but right now you are a mum, dear, so here – can you grab Roman? Because I have to set about organising tea.’ I laughed again as I watched Emma waltz off into the living room with the baby, and gave myself a mental pat on the back. At least I seemed to have cheered her up a bit.
‘I think you’re mad,’ Mike had said when I finally fessed up to the plan I’d quietly hatched for us. And I knew he was probably right. The actual child-minding bit would be down to me completely; he’d be at work as per usual.
And it took all of seven days for me to realise he might be right. At the end of that first week – a week in which Emma had skipped off full of the joys of spring every morning, which was a complete turnaround – I was shattered, both physically and mentally. Despite my confident assertion otherwise to Riley, just a scant couple of months earlier, I had forgotten just how draining small babies could be. I lost count of the number of occasions, by the time the fourth day drew to a close, when I made a silent vow of solidarity with forty-something mothers. I was shattered. Not to mention mentally a bit numb. It didn’t help that Roman was now becoming more demanding. Not only was he sleeping less and craving stimulation so much more; he was now really active in the daytime. And being almost five months old, he could now roll over on the carpet, so the days when he could be left in his chair playing with his feet were definitely over. He was also becoming inquisitive about the world around him and would get frustrated easily, so I was constantly having to find new ways to entertain him, in between feeding him and changing him, of course.
And my lovely home was suffering every bit as much as I was. It no longer looked much like the pristine place I took so much pride and joy in; it was beginning to resemble a very busy nursery, having been taken over by the triffid-like spread of baby paraphernalia. It was also killing me not to clean round Roman all day long, killing me. I could almost hear my marigolds crying out to me from the kitchen cupboard.
For Emma, however, school was manifestly a good thing. She was back engaging with the world – something she hadn’t done in a long time; not without her child in tow, at any rate. And for that first week she was also sweetly grateful for what I was doing for her. Coming home and immediately taking over Roman responsibilities, she would talk animatedly about the school work she was doing and how much she was enjoying it, along with all the usual fourteen-year-old ‘he said, she said’ kind of gossip. It was good to hear, and I was really pleased for her; it was exactly what she should be doing, after all, and sitting at the kitchen table with her rabbiting on was just so nice, bringing back dearly cherished memories of when Riley and Kieron had been that age.
The meeting she’d had with CAMHS had gone well too. As I’d expected, but obviously couldn’t take for granted, they weren’t too worried about her, having decided that the incident had been a one-off, probably triggered by the stress of her unusual circumstances. Their feeling was that she didn’t present a danger to herself or others, so they were happy to leave it at that. They were there, of course; the door was open if we had the slightest concern about her, or felt things were going downhill, but for now they were happy to sign her off.
Which was great news. But there was still a baby-shaped elephant present in the room whatever happened or didn’t happen. And a Hannah-shaped elephant as well. And after a positive meeting with the latter on the Monday evening of the second week, everything did indeed begin sliding downhill. I didn’t know if the two things were related – perhaps they weren’t, perhaps it was just coincidence – but the day after Hannah’s visit, and the pleasure of all those lovely positive noises she was making, Emma didn’t get in from school till gone five-thirty.
‘Where on earth have you been?’ I asked her when she finally rolled up. ‘Did you have something on after school that you forgot to tell me about or what?’ Though I asked her the question, I knew very well that wouldn’t have been the case. This wasn’t a place that did after-school activities; just getting through a normal school day would be challenging enough for some of the pupils there.
Emma treated me to the traditional fourteen-year-old eye-roll – not the best start to any attempt to appease me. But it seemed she wasn’t about to try and make excuses for herself anyway. ‘God, Casey, it’s not that late,’ she came back at me. ‘I’ve just been hanging out with a couple of my friends. Can’t you take a chill pill?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘I can’t. You have a baby here that needs feeding and playing with and bathing and changing, and I h
ave a meal to prepare. Honestly,’ I said, as she followed me into the kitchen, ‘I’m disappointed, Emma. And after you impressed Hannah so much yesterday, as well.’
She rolled her eyes again and this time accompanied it with a heavy dramatic sigh. ‘God, I knew you’d bring her up. I just knew it!’
It seemed to set the tone for the next few days. The following night – late again, even if not by quite the same margin – saw her scowling when I asked her to change Roman’s nappy and then, when I impressed upon her that I’d had a busy and trying day, got back ‘God, can’t Casey-the-queen-of-the-carers cope?’
Which was the sort of backchat that would normally be water off a duck’s back for me. Sure, I wouldn’t stand for it, and with the kids on our specialist programme it would have resulted in an immediate loss of privileges, but it certainly wouldn’t get to me, not from a petulant fourteen-year-old. But this time it did get to me – proof positive that the baby minding was exhausting me. ‘Yes, the “queen of the carers” can cope perfectly well, thank you. No, young lady, I’ll tell you what the matter is, shall I?’ I railed at her. ‘I don’t appreciate you taking advantage of me, that’s what. You have a phone, so if you’re going to be late, then I’d appreciate it if you’d use it. I look after Roman so you can get yourself some education, not so you can come and go as you please!’
I could see Roman looking anxiously at the sudden commotion from his new high chair, and made a real effort to calm myself down. This was helping no one. Even Emma now looked shocked at my unexpected tirade. But perhaps that was no bad thing. That’s what she’d lacked all her life. Boundaries. Good old-fashioned boundaries. ‘Look,’ I said more quietly. ‘Would you please deal with Roman. I have things to do, tea to prepare, calls to make.’ And seeing her assessing me and realising she might just have got away with it, I added, ‘And don’t think I’m going to put up with any more of this.’
Once they’d both gone upstairs and I’d got the kitchen straight I felt a little less frazzled. Though it occurred to me that perhaps we had only just begun to get to know the real Emma, that the traumatised, shy and vulnerable child-mother we’d taken in was only that as a result of her circumstances. In reality, this was a youngster who’d been at the receiving end of a very patchy and damaging childhood and who, as a consequence, had probably become a very different animal – a girl used to having no one particularly mind, or care, what she got up to. Not until Tarim had come along, at least. It was ironic, I thought, as I beat Mike’s potatoes to a mushy pulp, that with Tarim in prison and my enthusiasm for getting Emma to reclaim some of her childhood, she was potentially going right back to what brought her to us in the first place, a girl who was used to being her own boss, answerable to no one – least of all a drink- and drugs-addicted mother. So having someone like me in her life, expecting her to toe the line, was a novel and unwelcome development. No wonder she balked at it. No wonder it caused friction. No doubt there would be further fun and games …
I would have that confirmed, as it turned out, only a scant couple of nights later, when she rolled up from school at 6 p.m. Worse than that, though, was that there was something new and unsavoury in the equation: the unmistakable smell of alcohol on her breath.
‘Have you been drinking?’ I asked her as she walked past me to get a glass of water. She didn’t answer. She merely grinned and shook her head.
‘I’m serious, Emma,’ I told her, following her to the sink to study her better. She had a slight sheen of sweat about her and looked generally a bit off-colour. ‘Have you had a drink?’ I demanded. ‘Truth now.’
‘Oh, so what if I have,’ she said. ‘Don’t I deserve one after all the shit I go through? Anyway, please don’t start all this tonight. I’m really not in the mood.’
I was struck by her choice of words as much as her tone when she said them. Pound to a penny, I thought, her mother had said exactly that to her, and more than once. But now the tables had turned. And how appalling would it be if she jumped with both feet straight into her mother’s shoes now. I had no choice but to give her both barrels. ‘Emma,’ I said levelly. ‘How dare you speak to me like that. All I do is look after your baby all day long for you, and –’
She looked at me over the glass she was now drinking from, her eyes narrowed. Then she lowered it. ‘I didn’t ask you to do that, did I? You offered!’
‘– and look after you,’ I continued over her, ‘from the minute you get home. Look after both of you. And I will not have you drinking while you’re under my roof.’
‘Well, it wasn’t under your roof, was it?’ she retorted. Then she laughed, but without mirth. ‘And why you off on one anyway?’ She was slurring, I could see it now. ‘You get paid for doing it, don’t you? ’s not like you’re doing it out of the goodness of your heart!’
I was that cross with Emma now that I needed something to fix on, so I went and plucked the baby from his high chair. My hands were shaking, I realised. And I could hardly bring myself to even look at her.
‘Get upstairs and go to your bedroom,’ I told her. ‘You’re obviously in no fit state to see to Roman. We’ll talk about this tomorrow. Go on, hop it.’
She looked befuddled for a moment, but then her expression hardened, and she carried on drinking. And in that one instant I could see the depth of the damage in her innocent little girl’s eyes. This was her territory. Drunken, vicious mother. Spiteful tongues. Casual cruelty. This was definitely her territory and I wanted no part in it.
‘Go to your room, please,’ I repeated, slowly and quietly.
She drained her glass. ‘Suits me fine!’ she barked at me, slamming it down on the draining board. ‘You think he’s your kid anyway! An’ you better make the most of it, hadn’t you? Because little d’you know that’s all about to change. Yeah, that’s right,’ she said, as I cradled Roman’s head against my neck. ‘Cos his daddy’s out any day now and he’ll soon put a stop to all this “taking my fucking baby away” crap.’
And with that she practically staggered out, slammed the door, and lumbered heavily up the stairs, where hopefully she’d stay till she’d at least slept some of it off.
I stroked Roman’s head absently as I stared at the kitchen door. Out of prison? If that were true then she was right. Things would be about to change. But there was something more pressing: how the hell didn’t I know about it?
Chapter 10
Emma, that night, had been contrite. She came downstairs again, at around 8 p.m., puffy-eyed and pale, having presumably had a nap and (with the alcohol slowly wearing off now) a feeling of remorse beginning to wash over her. She apologised profusely, told me she wished she could take back all the nasty things she’d said to me, and then tearfully attended to Roman’s needs for the rest of the evening and night. I didn’t know if it was partly motivated by the report she knew I’d have to write for Hannah – which must have been on her mind – but when Saturday came, and Sunday, and she seemed to be making a real effort to make amends, I allowed myself to believe she really meant it.
But now it was the following Friday, and almost 7.30 in the evening, and once again she wasn’t home from school. And as I jiggled a disconsolate Roman around on my shoulder and tried to do everything one handed, I reflected that the city of Rome wasn’t built in a day any more than its tiny namesake.
I was disappointed, but I wasn’t surprised by Emma’s intermittent progress. In my line of work you would have to be extremely naïve to think that torn childhoods could be stitched back together quite that easily. It was mostly one step forwards then two – maybe even three – steps back with these children, till the happy day dawned when the numbers began reversing. And I was well aware that the one subject that Emma had skirted around most deftly since the previous week was that of Tarim. Yes, he was due out of prison fairly soon, she’d confirmed, but no, she didn’t know quite when – he didn’t either, apparently – she’d just said ‘any day now’ for effect. I had no choice but to accept that, whether I believed
her or didn’t. And my plan, given that I was next scheduled to speak with Maggie the following Wednesday, was to ask her what, if anything, she knew in that respect.
Rightly or wrongly, what I didn’t want to do was act too hastily. Emma had spent most of her life, it seemed, being told by her mother that she was a piece of rubbish, so I knew that if I didn’t accept both her apology and her assurance that I could, from now on, trust her, I would just be adding to the weight of worthlessness she already felt – a sure-fire recipe for reversing such progress as we’d already made.
But that required Emma not to abuse the trust I’d placed in her, didn’t it? I glanced at the kitchen clock again and sighed heavily. And here she was doing just that.
‘So, how long do you think we should give it before calling out the cavalry?’ Mike asked, coming back into the kitchen with the last of the washing up. We’d gone ahead and eaten – Mike’s job could be very physical, and he needed his dinner – and as he slid the last bits of crockery into the soapy water I put a plate over Emma’s meal for when she did deign to roll in – though when she did, I mused, her tea would be the last thing on her mind, because I’d be filling it up with a large piece of mine.
‘I don’t know,’ I said, as Mike took Roman from me. He was getting heavy now, and my back was really beginning to notice. ‘There’ll be no one in the office,’ I said, ‘and I’m really loath to call out the EDT only to have her waltz in here five minutes later. Quite apart from anything else it’s not fair on them, is it? “Fourteen-year-old girl doesn’t get home till eight in the evening” hardly constitutes an emergency, does it?’
‘No, it’s doesn’t, to be fair,’ Mike agreed. ‘But you do have Maggie’s mobile number. And, love, at some point soon you are going to have to call her. At the very least to see if she has any useful numbers – that friend, for instance; the one Emma was living with? She might be with her, mightn’t she?’
