The White Room

by Martyn Waites

  The two women looked at her.

  ‘Best say I’m just signin’ on.’

  Monica looked down. The tea in her cup was cold. She was shaking, wrinkling the skin of the tea in the cup like a mini tidal pool.

  The two women exchanged glances again. Then their eyes moved down the form.

  Monica felt elation. She had done it. The first hurdle. Got one over on them.

  She tried to keep the smile from growing on her lips.

  ‘So, Miss Blacklock,’ said Smug Cheeks, ‘what we’d like you to do now is tell us in your own words why you want to give up your daughter for adoption.’

  The two women sat back. Monica felt like a Christian in the Colosseum, waiting for a Roman emperor to decide her fate.

  ‘Well, I …’ Monica cleared her throat again. ‘I just think … Mae deserves better than I can give, that’s all.’

  The two women held their gaze, expecting more.

  Monica looked at them, wondering how much she could say.

  ‘I can’t cope with her,’ she said, defeat and exhaustion in her voice. ‘She’s just … Her dad ran off before she was born. I’ve brought her up on me own since then.’

  Flat Chest raised an eyebrow. Monica picked up on it.

  ‘I’ve had other men since then, course I have. But I’ve still brought ’er up on me own. But I just …’ She sighed. ‘Sometimes I want to just throttle ’er, you know? She just annoys us.’

  ‘And how does she do that?’ said Flat Chest.

  ‘Just by bein’ there. Makin’ a mess. Getting’ in the way. Under me feet. I just want shot of her.’ Monica sat forward, the tea nearly falling off. ‘I mean, I can’t go anywhere or do anythin’. She’s there. Under me feet. On me nerves. There. Constantly.’ Monica sighed. ‘I just want shot of her.’

  She sat back. It was the most she had spoken concerning Mae for months. Years, perhaps.

  Smug Cheeks smiled.

  ‘Well, that seems to be everything, Miss Blacklock. If you could just wait in the room outside until we’ve made our decision.’

  Flat Chest was on her feet, around the desk and opening the door before Monica had time to put down her cup and saucer and stand up.

  She was ushered out, the door closed behind her. She looked down at Mae playing on the floor with old, worn-out toys that were too young for her. She looked happy. She looked up, acknowledged her mother, almost smiled. Then returned to her game.

  It’s best for Mae, Monica thought. She’ll be as happy as that all the time.

  Monica thought she had acquitted herself well in there. They had accepted her lie about what she did for a living and listened as she spoke in an impassioned way about Mae. She felt a stirring of hope in her chest. Things were going to work out all right.

  The door opened. Monica looked around.

  ‘Could you come back in now, please, Miss Blacklock?’ said Smug Cheeks.

  Monica resumed her seat in the office. The door was closed behind her. Smug Cheeks sat back down.

  The two women looked at her again.

  Monica waited.

  ‘Well,’ said Smug Cheeks, ‘my colleague and I have deliberated. And we have reached a conclusion.’

  Monica sat forward expectantly.

  ‘I’m afraid,’ said Flat Chest, ‘that we will not be recommending your daughter for adoption. We will be turning your application down.’

  Monica gasped.

  ‘What? But …’ Her voice trailed off.

  ‘For various reasons,’ said Smug Cheeks. ‘While we naturally think that two parents are always the ideal in regard to bringing up a child, it seems to us like you’re trying very hard to make a good life for your daughter. You’re willing to risk breaking the law by taking an undeclared job. Now that may well be illegal, and of course we can’t condone that, but it demonstrates your maternal love if you’re prepared to do that.’

  Monica sat there, letting the words sink in. They had believed her lie. She opened her mouth to speak, to tell them she had lied, but stopped herself. Because then she would have to tell the truth. And that would only weaken her argument, not strengthen it.

  ‘Now we understand,’ said Smug Cheeks, ‘the pain and disappointments you have to go through, the resentments you have to endure in bringing up a child alone. It’s perfectly natural to feel that way. You’re not the first, and you won’t be the last.’

  ‘You have to remember that your child is a gift from God,’ said Flat Chest. ‘Hard work sometimes, true, but oh so rewarding.’ She smiled. ‘So with that in mind, try not to look so downhearted. Always look on the bright side.’

  ‘Although,’ said Smug Cheeks, ‘if things do get too difficult, call the council. They could place your daughter in a foster family until you felt well enough to take her back.’

  ‘A much better solution.’

  ‘And also,’ said Smug Cheeks, ‘there’s your daughter.’

  ‘We’re afraid,’ said Flat Chest, ‘that she’s just too old to consider. We normally deal with babies or very small children. Your daughter is nearly seven. The older a child is, the harder it is to find a home for them.’

  ‘We are sorry.’

  The two women sat back, a veneer of sadness on their faces.

  ‘Very sorry.’

  ‘We do hope you understand.’

  They gave Monica what appeared to be a consoling smile.

  Monica didn’t move. She was physically stunned. Walking there in the morning, she had told herself this was the start of a happy new phase in her life. She had told Mae that too. And now, because these two frigid old harpies had made a decision, that was that.

  Monica felt emotions rising inside her: the trapped suffocating feeling of knowing this was it. This was her life. All she could hope for, tied to a daughter who every day was reminding her mother how fast she was ageing, what she was missing out on, what was slipping by her.

  She felt anger rise rapidly inside her. It wasn’t going to happen. She wouldn’t let it happen.

  She snatched up her handbag and made for the door.

  The two women were on their feet, placatory remarks on their lips, but she ignored them. She pulled open the door and ran, not even looking back at Mae playing on the floor.

  Down the stairs and on to Clayton Street.

  She ran.

  As far away from the adoption agency, from Mae, as possible.

  She ran.

  And never once looked back.

  They caught up with her, of course. Later. At home.

  Because she had nowhere else to go.

  She had walked around the city centre, in and out of shops. Looked at clothes, tried some on. Imagined herself in new, exciting situations, imagined accessories for her new life. She found a couple of pubs she knew. Had a couple of gins and tonics. Told anyone within earshot she was celebrating her new-found freedom. Her new life. People ignored her, moved away from her.

  Trying too hard to be happy.

  Eventually, hope and money spent, she had gone home. And waited.

  Resigned.

  She poured herself a drink, put the TV on. A new programme about an old Edwardian grandfather and his granddaughter in a spaceship designed as a police box. They could go anywhere in space and time with it, and it was much bigger on the inside than the outside, like the size of a house.

  It was rubbish, she thought, kiddies’ stuff, but she kept watching it. They were on an alien planet where a race of beautiful blonds were being menaced by some evil robot pepperpots. The old grandfather, this Doctor, was going to help them.

  Monica wished she were there with them, the blond, beautiful people. It was obvious they were going to win out, defeat the robots. She would even love to be in the police box, free in time and space. She would even put up with the bad-tempered old grandfather trying to fuck her. It would be worth it.

  But she knew it wouldn’t happen. So she sat there, emptying gin into her glass, topping it up with tonic, knocking it back, waiting for the k
nock at the door.

  It wasn’t long in coming.

  She moved to answer it, swaying unsteadily as she made her way down the hall. There stood a young police constable, next to him, Mae.

  ‘Miss Monica Blacklock?’

  Monica nodded.

  ‘Got something here belonging to you.’ He gave a cocky grin. ‘Seems you left it behind.’

  He ushered Mae into the house. She went mutely, eyes down.

  ‘Now, they’re not pressing charges,’ he said, a sternness in his voice, ‘but they will if you try that again. OK?’

  Monica nodded.

  ‘Righto. I’ll be off, then.’

  She closed the door, looked at Mae, who stared back at her.

  Monica knew she didn’t love her daughter. She had just experienced a passing guilt, tried to farm her out as a result of that. Guilt told her Mae deserved a better chance. Guilt told her Mae didn’t deserve the life she would grow into.

  ‘Guilt can fuck off,’ said Monica aloud.

  Mae looked at her quizzically.

  ‘And I don’t know what you’re lookin’ at.’

  Monica felt the familiar tide of anger rising inside her. She tried to head it off. She was too drunk, too tired to deal with it.

  ‘Go upstairs. Go to bed.’

  ‘But it’s only—’

  ‘Don’t fuckin’ argue with me—’

  Monica made to cuff Mae about the head, but Mae anticipated the blow and moved. Monica overbalanced. She grabbed the banister.

  ‘Just fuckin’ get upstairs!’

  Mae went. Monica made her way back to the living room, poured herself another drink.

  ‘Cheers.’

  She drank. She noticed that the bottle was nearly empty. She would need a new one soon.

  Monica sat like that, berating her past, commiserating with her future, for at least two more hours. Or more. Or less. She didn’t know. She lost all track of time.

  She fell asleep in her chair, the TV broadcasting to no one while John Steed and Cathy Gale smashed yet another spy ring.

  Then, a knock at the door.

  Monica opened her eyes, closed them again. She wasn’t working tonight. Must have imagined it.

  Then another knock. More insistent.

  Her eyes opened again, this time stayed open. She wondered where she was, who she was. She imagined herself spinning around a black and white universe in a police box spaceship, the grumpy old grandfather not so bad after all.

  Another knock. Harder this time. They weren’t going away.

  Monica stood up. Too quickly. Her head swam. Nausea welled up from within. She stood still, swaying slightly. It passed. She made her way slowly to the door.

  ‘I’m comin’, I’m comin’ …’

  She opened the door.

  ‘Hello, pet.’

  Recognition didn’t come immediately, but when it did it was with a much deeper wave of nausea that owed nothing to the alcohol.

  He had thickened around the middle, his hair was greyer and sparser, his face redder and his style of clothes hadn’t changed. His eyes had stayed the same.

  Her father.

  ‘Aren’t you going to invite your old dad in, then, eh?’

  She moved numbly aside, let him enter. He stank of beer and cheap whisky.

  ‘You’ve been drinkin’,’ she said.

  He turned to her, sniffed.

  ‘So’ve you,’ he said, then smiled. ‘Saturday night, eh? S’what it’s for.’

  He walked into the house. She closed the door, followed him down the hall. Steed and Cathy Gale were involved in an elaborate fight with some black-polo-necked villains. Monica turned the TV off.

  ‘What d’you do that for? I was watchin’ that. That Cathy Gale’s a bit of a one, isn’t she?’

  Monica stared at him. Her head was beginning to clear.

  ‘What d’you want?’ she said.

  Her father laughed.

  ‘Is that any way to talk to your old dad?’ He sat down in her armchair, picked up her empty gin glass, held it out to her. ‘Good idea. I’ll have one an’ all.’

  Monica took the glass, crossed to the sideboard. She made two gins and tonics, handed one to him.

  ‘Cheers,’ he said, and drank.

  Monica said nothing but drank also.

  ‘So why are you here, then?’ Monica said eventually.

  ‘Can’t I come and see me own daughter some time?’

  ‘You never have before.’

  Monica perched tentatively on the arm of the other chair.

  Her dad smiled. ‘Waitin’ to be invited, love. Just waitin’ to be invited.’ He took another mouthful of gin, stretched his legs out. ‘When whatsisname – Brian – left, I thought you’d be back like a shot. When you didn’t come I thought it’d only be a matter of time.’

  ‘And I never did.’

  ‘So I thought I would come to you.’

  Monica knocked back most of her gin.

  ‘Right,’ she said. ‘Now you have. You can drink up and go.’

  Her heart was beating fast. She was still frightened of him. She hoped it didn’t show.

  Her father sat there, drank, looked as if he hadn’t heard her.

  ‘Hear you’re on the game now,’ he said to his glass, then looked up and smiled at Monica. That cruel look she always feared was back on his face. ‘You any good?’

  She felt herself shivering and shaking as if the temperature in the room had dropped. She didn’t trust herself to speak.

  ‘I’ll pay,’ he said, offhand. ‘I’m just curious, like.’

  Terror welled within. Her heart pounded faster, breath quickened. The terror broke as anger. She knocked the glass from his hand. Gin and tonic soaked into the carpet.

  ‘Get out! Just get out!’

  She hit him. Small fists dealing small blows. The impact barely registered on his arm, his chest.

  He stood up. She stopped, took a step back.

  ‘Got brave suddenly, have you?’ He smiled, eyes aglow with that old, cruel light. ‘Maybe I should hit you. Be rough with you, eh?’ He crossed to her, stood directly in front of her. ‘I hear you like it.’

  She closed her eyes, cowering, expecting the blow.

  ‘What’s happenin’, Mam?’

  Monica opened her eyes. Mae was standing there, eyes full of sleep, wearing a nightie that needed a wash, clutching her toy rabbit.

  ‘Hello, there.’

  Monica’s father had bent down, switched his attention from his daughter to his granddaughter. Monica couldn’t move. She just watched.

  ‘And what’s your name?’

  ‘Mae.’

  ‘That’s a lovely name, Mae. Well, d’you know who I am?’

  Mae shook her head.

  ‘I’m your granddad. How old are you, Mae?’ ‘Seven.’

  His eyes lit up. The cruelty intensified.

  ‘Seven, eh? That’s a great age to be.’ He looked up, smiled at Monica. ‘A great age.’

  Monica looked at him. Watched as he stood up, crossed back towards her. He smiled at her.

  ‘How much?’ he said.

  Monica felt her body tremble again. She was going to tell him to leave, to physically attempt to throw him out, make him stay away from her daughter.

  But then she looked at her daughter.

  Black, dead eyes staring up at her. Undisguised kernels of hatred directed at her.

  Monica didn’t love her. Didn’t even like her. Certainly didn’t want her. But she was stuck with her. And if she was stuck with her, she may as well pay her way.

  ‘Fiver.’

  Her father laughed.

  ‘A fiver? D’you think I’m daft?’

  ‘You’d be the first. You’d be breakin’ ’er in. Fiver.’

  ‘I haven’t got a fiver on us.’

  Monica smiled. She had the upper hand. She was beginning to enjoy herself.

  ‘How much you got, then?’

  He rifled through his pockets.

>   ‘Nearly a pound.’

  ‘And your wallet.’

  He sighed, opened it.

  ‘Another pound.’

  ‘I’ll have all of that. You can owe me the rest.’ She smiled again. ‘And I’ll collect. Or I’ll tell the polis what you’ve done.’

  Fear flickered in his eyes. Monica got a thrill from that.

  She also knew he wanted Mae. Monica loved the control she had over him.

  Finally.

  She took his money, pocketed it.

  ‘Mae, go with your granddad. Next door. He’s got something to show you.’

  Mae and her father went into the room with the white walls and the deep shadows, the crucifixes showing Christ’s love, Christ’s agony.

  Monica poured herself another gin and tonic, one that was nearly all gin, and sat herself in the armchair. She drank.

  Her father’s soothing words came through the wall.

  She drank.

  Her daughter’s cries and sobs came through the wall.

  She drank.

  The noise continued.

  She talked, shouted, tried to drown the noises out in her head, make them go away:

  ‘I never wanted you anyway … Never …’

  She drank. Drained her glass. Filled another.

  ‘Why didn’t you go away, eh? Why didn’t you stay away?’

  The noise: soothing words, cries and screams.

  ‘Why did you have to come back?’

  She drank. Looked down at the floor. Saw the dropped toy rabbit. She drained her glass. Grabbed the bottle.

  ‘Why, eh?’

  Cries and screams. Soothing words.

  ‘Why don’t you just die?’

  Mae, next door, white and crucifixes, crying and screaming.

  Monica sitting there, drinking, tears streaming down her face, crying and screaming.

  Crying and screaming.

  PART THREE

  Downbeat

  At night he dreamed the city.

  A panoramic swoop: down from the heavens and through the clouds, through the cold air, the grey sky. The city becoming larger, getting closer: various shades of black spreading out from the centre, staining the surrounding greens and browns. Small twinkles of light, like strings of lost diamonds in mud.

  Closer still to make out landmarks: Grey’s Monument. Royal Arcade. Grainger’s New Town: Grainger Street and its covered market, Grey Street and the Theatre Royal. The theatre showing, in this dream, nothing but Victorian spectacle and Edwardian tableau. Then the bridges: the Tyne. The Swing. The High Level. The King Edward. The Redheugh. And further along: Scotswood Bridge. Familiar objects. Dependable. A feeling of comfort and warmth: seeing things where they should be.