by Paula Daly
Now I realize I kind of know her. She used to be a bobby on the beat, visiting schools and neighbourhood-watch meetings. I remember her speaking at Elizabeth’s school, instructing the children about fire safety, how to behave sensibly around fireworks. She was in a blue Nato jumper – just about the worst possible thing a large-breasted woman can be forced to wear. It removes a woman’s natural curves, making her appear almost cylindrical. DC Aspinall seemed so very young and self-conscious of her shape at that time.
Once we’re at Windermere, she drives onto the public car park at the side of the library. ‘I won’t drop you right by your door,’ she says. ‘I imagine you’ve got enough curtain-twitchers without me adding to the situation.’
I smile my thanks, wondering what it is that motivates kindness in some people and not in others. Was this woman born this way? Or did she do it minute by minute – a series of small decisions to try to make the world a little easier for the person in front of her?
‘Am I free to go?’ I ask.
‘You are.’
I reach down for the plastic bag between my feet and am about to pull on the door handle.
‘You know you can’t keep going to the school, Catherine,’ she says.
I stare straight ahead.
‘You must give me your word that you won’t ever go there again.’ Her words are soft, but the message is clear. ‘It’s a condition of a closed adoption, is it not?’
I sit back in my seat and exhale. After a moment I get up the courage to speak. ‘I didn’t want to cause any trouble,’ I tell her. ‘I just needed to know that she’s okay.’
‘She’s okay.’
I turn my head around fast. ‘You know her?’
‘Not very well, but I do know who she is.’
‘How . . . how is she?’ I stammer.
Emotion has surged upwards and from nowhere I feel my brain shorting out. I have to concentrate incredibly hard on DC Aspinall’s face to hear her words.
‘She’s had a few problems, but she’s doing well now.’
‘Problems?’
DC Aspinall’s eyes shine with compassion as she gives a small shrug to indicate she’s not really at liberty to say any more.
‘Has she been loved?’ I ask. ‘Have they loved her? Can you at least tell me that?’
‘Yes. She’s had a lot of love. That’s probably been part of the problem.’
I nod repeatedly, struggling to speak. ‘Thank you,’ I whisper. ‘Thank you for telling me.’
‘You understand I’ll be forced to report it to your offender manager next time . . . if you do try to contact Elizabeth?’
I frown.
‘So this—’ I say, gesturing to the air between us, ‘this meeting has not been recorded?’
‘No.’ And then: ‘You have a friend looking out for you.’
‘Who?’ I ask, but she shakes her head.
‘A member of the public spotted you waiting,’ she says. ‘She recognized you and worked out why you were there. She asked me to have a word with you, discreetly, before someone – let’s say before someone less sympathetic – makes a complaint. Strictly speaking, Catherine, this is not really part of my job.’
‘I understand.’
I climb out, brush down my coat and straighten my spine. I am about to walk away when DC Aspinall lowers the window. ‘By the way, Catherine,’ she calls out, and I’m forced to bend at the waist, dip my head so I can see her face, ‘the word from those in the know is that your husband had it coming,’ she says. ‘Most say he’d had it coming to him for a while.’
I nod. Swallow down something familiar that feels close to remorse, but never ever regret, and reply, ‘Yeah. He did.’
The following morning, I wake from another restless night. I have a job interview today. This one came via my offender manager – new name for probation officer – since I was unsuccessful in finding a job myself. It’s a maintenance position for a charity which keeps some of the common grounds around Windermere tidy and litter-free and a couple of the lakeshore woodland paths accessible. The charity was set up by a benevolent Friend of The Lake District who wanted to offer good, worthwhile work to those who aren’t always considered desirable employees. If I’m successful today, I will be working alongside a young guy in a long-term drug-rehabilitation programme who has anger issues, and a woman who’s been imprisoned twice for theft. One thing prison did for me – it got rid of my supercilious streak. I wouldn’t say I was ever especially snooty, but given descriptions of my future co-workers, as above, I’d have been horrified. Now I welcome the unpredictable nature of those on the periphery. You never know what you’re going to get. Folk surprise you. I witnessed more empathy, more understanding and gentle encouragement from the inmates of Styal Women’s Prison than from any other collection of people I’ve been a part of. Women pulling together, leaning on one another, all trying our upmost to make each other’s time in there as pain-free as possible.
They say the first night in prison is the worst. Not so. The fear of being sent to prison is the worst. It’s almost a relief when the verdict comes. I can’t speak for everyone who finds themselves in my shoes, but certainly my terror dissipated substantially when the gavel came down. That was it. No more what-ifs; the rollercoaster ride of the trial was over, there was absolutely no chance of release. By the afternoon of the sentencing I had made my peace with my future and I was composed and calm. I had spent an hour with Elizabeth that morning, held her and loved her until she would take no more, swatting me away, giggling, ‘No more kisses, Mummy, no more,’ and I let her go without drama. I let her go because I always knew this would be the outcome.
I lost my child, my home, my liberty, and any chance of a decent future. I was sentenced to twelve years, ended up serving ten, and said goodbye to my life.
Given the choice, would I shoot him again?
Of course. In a heartbeat.
My job turns out better than I could have predicted. I’m supplied with a uniform which includes a warm winter ski jacket with hi-vis stripes, steel-toecapped boots, a woollen hat, a cap, and two pairs of leather gardening gloves. After tax and national insurance, I come out with around one hundred and seventy pounds a week. With this money I’m able to buy a pay-as-you-go mobile and a few other essentials – eggcups and suchlike. Now that I’m earning I must look for a permanent place to live.
The vigour of the work suits me and within days I feel my atrophied, under-used muscles responding to the hard labour. I fall on to the sofa bed each night aching and sore, my hands quivering from the continual use of shears or from gripping the hoe, with a sense of profound satisfaction and wellbeing. For the first time since my release my thoughts are not tumbling around inside my head; in fact, for the first time in years I am too physically tired to think at all. It’s bliss. Work has become like an opiate. Each night I slide into a deep, black sleep and wake in the morning renewed and ready for more.
And there is another advantage. I am no longer cooped up in the bedsit, hiding from the world outside, going slowly insane from all the hammering and banging courtesy of the crazy man downstairs.
Yesterday, when I returned home, I was in the cellar washing my overalls – mud-caked and stiffened from a day down by the lake – when the elderly woman from the first floor appeared. Upon seeing me she did a fast about-face, scampering back up the cellar steps. She wore a velour skirt, tights the colour of stewed tea and old-fashioned handmade brogues. Her quick ankles moved at the speed of someone a quarter of her age.
‘Wait,’ I called out, but she didn’t. ‘Please, wait,’ I repeated, and this time she stopped.
I walked to the foot of the stairs and beckoned her down so I could keep my voice low. ‘Don’t be afraid,’ I said.
‘I’m not,’ she replied.
‘So why run away?’
‘I keep myself to myself.’
I paused. ‘Does keeping yourself to yourself have anything to do with your charming neighbour?’
&n
bsp; She surveyed me warily. Went to speak, then changed her mind. ‘I’ll be leaving here tomorrow,’ she said. ‘I’ve found something permanent.’
‘Anywhere nice?’
She shook her head. ‘A word of advice before I go . . . don’t knock on his door. He doesn’t appreciate visitors.’
It’s now seven fifteen, and I descend the stairs ready for work. I’m picked up at seven thirty each morning by Alan, outside Windermere post office. I am always on time, as is Alan. If Alan were to be late, you could safely assume there had been an accident. But Sandra, the perpetual thief, is late every single day. And Alan, who has a hard time controlling his anger about her timekeeping, gets more riled by the second.
Sandra will climb into the cab of the truck, under a cloud of smoke, anywhere between five and twenty-five minutes late, wickedly delighted at the effect her tardiness is having on Alan’s disposition. It’s become almost a sport to her.
I nip back upstairs, having left my sandwich in the fridge, and as I come back down the stairs, packing it into my rucksack beside the flask of coffee, I notice that the door to the flat beneath mine is not completely closed. It’s not ajar, not even open a centimetre, but if I were to press against it, it would open.
I stand for a moment, unsure of what to do, listening for signs of life.
He doesn’t appreciate visitors.
Perhaps I could just take a peek? I mean, the door is open. I nudge the wood and a thin slice of white light appears between door and frame. The hallway is in semi-darkness, dawn not having fully broken this bleak winter morning, and the light is an assault on my eyes. Quickly, I pull back.
But where is he? And what does he do in there?
I’m propelled by the need to know. I mean, he could have a slave. What if there’s a poor woman chained to the bed, and the tap-tapping I hear is her lone signal to the outside world?
Christ, I could be one of those neighbours you see on the news. The ones who say, all matter-of-fact, ‘Now you come to mention it, I did see a naked woman at the window, holding up messages like HELP, SOS, that kind of thing. But to be honest, I didn’t think much of it at the time.’
Imbued with a sense of righteousness, I push open the door.
And he’s right there.
His flat is larger than mine. There is room for a small dining table at the centre. He sits at it, deeply asleep, his head on top of his folded arms. The air smells stagnant with alcohol. An almost empty bottle of Absolut vodka is beside his elbow. In front of him lie his car keys and around ten neat stacks of fifty-pound notes. Each stack is about 6 cm high.
There is no slave.
I stand rooted to the spot and stare, transfixed by all that money.
Ten minutes later I’m in the warm truck, drinking coffee from my flask, as Alan taps on the steering wheel. He wipes his nose with his thumb and forefinger, twists the sleeper earring in his left ear twice, before curling his tongue up around his front teeth, releasing it fast to make a loud, wet, smacking sound. This series of tics, which Alan repeats minute by minute, keeps a lid on his emotions. I find it quite soothing, watching him soothe himself. It’s not dissimilar to the array of quirky rituals Rafa Nadal goes through each time he makes a serve.
Now he’s back to the tapping.
‘Can I see the job sheet, Al?’ I ask.
He reaches down and pulls out a rolled-up wad of printer paper from beneath his seat. The sheets are dog-eared at the edges, adorned with muddy fingerprints, and there are also a couple of blood-red smears across the front page – most likely from Alan’s nose.
While I’m scanning the page, Alan glances at me out of the corner of his eye. ‘We’re edging the turf at St Mary’s church this morning,’ he tells me. ‘Litter pick-up along the main road at Troutbeck Bridge after that.’
My stomach turns over at the mention of Troutbeck Bridge. That’s where Elizabeth’s school is located. ‘Easy day, then,’ I reply with a casualness belying my inner tumult.
Handing the job sheet back to Alan, I wipe out my coffee cup with a tissue and replace it on top of the flask. Then, under the pretence of returning the flask to my rucksack, I have a good root around in it, trying to locate my cap. It’s crammed right at the bottom. Later, my ears will suffer in the bitter air, but pulled low the cap will provide the much needed concealment of my face.
I feel a rush of giddiness as I picture Elizabeth laughing with her friends as I watch from the sidelines. She doesn’t notice me at first; perhaps she glances my way and smiles shyly, before continuing on, her yellow curls bouncing with each stride. Her expression quizzical and intent, just as I remember her: interested in everything, wholly in love with life.
‘You’re fucking late,’ Alan spits as Sandra flings open the passenger door.
‘Morning, Al. Morning, Cath.’
‘Eighteen minutes late,’ he adds.
‘And you, Alan,’ she replies, climbing in, ‘are getting tedious. Cath, pass me that Daily Mirror, will you?’
I reach forward to the dashboard as Alan slaps his hand down hard on top of it. ‘Buy your own fucking newspaper,’ he says.
I haven’t talked to Alan or Sandra about Elizabeth so I’m unsure if they know I have a daughter. They are both from the area, so know of my shooting Julian, but both are a good deal younger than I, so perhaps they are unaware of the finer details of the case.
Sandra and I have traded prison stories. She has spent two stints at HMP Askham Grange in Yorkshire, an open prison that’s soon to close on account of a restructure of the system used to deal with women offenders.
Sandra said, ‘Reckon the Ministry of Justice finally cottoned on that all women prisoners are there on account of some dickhead man.’
She’s not wrong.
Practically every female prisoner I met was inside because her man dealt drugs, dealt in stolen goods, or ran up huge debts in her name. The other common reason for imprisonment amongst women was alcohol-induced violence against a cheating man, or else the cheating man’s bit on the side (sometimes both).
Alan parked the truck on the road leading to the school and I’m hurling my third black bagful of litter into the back of it when I hear the faint sound of the bell. This is our signal to leave. But Alan has nipped to the petrol station for his daily energy drink – a disgusting concoction that turns both his tongue and few remaining teeth blue. I pretend to move the gardening equipment around, rearranging for maximum space, all the while glancing from beneath the brim of my cap for any sign of Elizabeth.
Kids make their way past me. Out of the corner of my eye I catch sight of Sandra’s hi-vis stripes as she heads back towards the truck. An obese girl with blue-black hair shuffles along on the other side of the road, head down, and I’m horrified when a cocky lad behind her launches a half-eaten Granny Smith straight at her head.
The apple hits her cleanly on the back of her skull and I can tell by her reaction – shock, followed by a reddening of her cheeks and a quickening of her pace – that this is a regular occurrence for her.
Poor kid.
But she’s around eighteen stone, an easy target for the teenage clown. Why do parents let them get like that? I’ve heard people say it’s akin to child abuse and I have to agree. Surely you’d want to make your child’s passage through school as easy as possible? Surely you’d want to—
‘Hey, Elizabeth!’ the boy shouts out to her and I freeze.
The girl keeps on walking. She crosses the street right in front of me and my eyes fly to Sandra, who is now almost at the truck also.
Sandra’s staring at me. ‘That’s her,’ she mouths silently. ‘Who?’
‘Your daughter,’ she says.
So she did know about her.
The girl comes to a stop a little further along the road and waits for the bus driver to open his doors. Her expression is urgent, desperate. Please open, I can feel her willing, and my heart is breaking.
Because I now understand that it is Elizabeth. My girl. My daughter wh
o is standing there.
I take a couple of steps and Elizabeth turns. She is watching me apprehensively and I realize instantly that she does not want me to approach. She does not know who I am, that much is clear, but her expression warns me off. I do not want your pity, her scowl tells me before she snatches her head away and suddenly I, too, am transported back to school. I am the one who is the butt of the jokes that day and, yes, the last thing I want is the attention of a sympathetic onlooker. That would make things so much worse.
I stop and turn. Make my way to the truck and climb into the cab next to Sandra.
Sandra does not speak to me for the entire journey home.
Back at Oakleigh House, there’s a builder’s van parked on the kerb. Its back doors are open and I hear the sound of machinery – an electric planer, perhaps. The front of the building is shielded by the neighbour’s privet fence, which has grown way too high and wild, keeping the small front garden of Oakleigh in an almost permanent state of shade.
I say goodbye to Sandra and Alan. Alan is already checking his wing mirror, ready to pull away to get home, but Sandra glares at me. ‘I thought you would have talked to her,’ she says.
‘Yeah, well, you thought wrong.’
I don’t tell Sandra I was so wrong-footed, so slammed by the fact that I didn’t recognize my own child that I couldn’t move. Let alone approach Elizabeth.
All the hours – hours that stretched into days, and finally into years – that I imagined our reunion, not once did it occur to me that I wouldn’t know who she was. Not once did I imagine I would watch Elizabeth – Christ, that I would judge Elizabeth – as though she was another woman’s overweight child.
I turn into my gateway and two men are busy fitting a new front door to the building. One is in his fifties – small pencil behind each ear, clean shaven, with the neat, wiry build of a fell runner. The other is mid-thirties, and what I notice immediately is his sweatshirt. It’s navy-blue, emblazoned with the Reebok emblem. It’s covered in paint and smears of silicon sealant, but I find it endearing to see this throwback from an earlier era now used exclusively for work.
