by Mick Bose
“I wouldn’t normally ask this.”
“Go on,” I said, watching him carefully. My mind was trying to loop around his thoughts.
“And I don’t want to come across as being rude.” He looked at me hopefully. I wondered what he wanted to say. It wasn’t like Clive to be indecisive.
“Just say it, darling.”
He pulled out the chair and sat down. “Do you think your dad could help us out with something? I mean with the baby coming and all…”
I couldn’t believe what he was saying. He wanted a handout from my dad? Really? He saw the expression on my face and held his hands up. “Now before you say anything, I am going to ask my mother as well.” He softened his features. “You know she has never seen you. I think it’s high time.”
“That might be the case, Clive, and I’m happy to see her,” I said with a deep breath. I didn’t want an argument. God knew I had a lot on my mind. I wanted to say it without being rude, and it had to be said.
“Clive,” I said slowly. “I will never ask my dad for money, OK? I just can’t do that.”
He narrowed his eyes. “You have a trust fund, right?” His words knocked the air out of my lungs. I leaned forward, my lips slightly apart, trying to catch my breath.
I closed my mouth with an effort. “How did you know that?”
He smiled innocently. “Your dad told me when we were up there. He didn’t tell me anything about how much there’s in it, mind you.”
I fumed inside, wondering why on earth dad had told him that. It made no sense. I needed to speak to him.
“I don’t want to talk about this right now, Clive, OK?”
He nodded. “I understand. It’s your money. All I’m saying is with the new baby and our jobs now being what they, we are in for a rocky period.”
He got dressed and left, leaving me to ponder his words. The breakfast lay uneaten on the tray. I threw most of it away.
CHAPTER 23
Eight years ago
Four weeks had passed, and things remained tense between me and Clive.
When Clive came home one evening, he had a defeated look on his face. He sat down heavily, shoulders hunched. I asked him what the matter was. When he looked up his eyes were red-rimmed.
“My mother’s dying,” he said, and burst into tears. His body heaved up and down. Suddenly, a few things made sense. The business going downhill, and now his mother’s illness. Maybe he has been using alcohol to numb the pain of it all. A wave of guilt flooded inside me. I had been judging him, while he was seeing his life fall apart.
He dried his tears and then looked up. “She wants to see you. Her cancer is terminal, and it has spread all over her body.” He stood up and walked to the kitchen. I followed him. He poured himself a glass of red wine. “She knows we are having a baby. She wants to see you before she dies.”
That touched me deep inside. Finally, I had a connection to Clive’s family and his past. It was sad that my child would never have a grandmother. My mum was gone, and now Clive’s mother was terminally ill. But it also meant I would be closer to Clive’s family this way. It gave me hope for the future.
The next morning, we drove to her flat. She lived in Putney, in a nice block of flats with a lawn in front. Clive pressed the doorbell, and we waited. Eventually she buzzed us in and we took the lift to the fourth floor.
His mother, Rita Connery, was on the sofa, a shrivelled and sunken old lady. Two pipes from her nose were attached to a black cylinder. Must be oxygen, I thought. She tried to stand up, and failed. She lifted yellow eyes towards me. It was shocking to see how ill she looked.
“You must be Emma,” she wheezed. “Come and sit next to me.”
I did. I felt a passing sense of guilt at not having come to see her before. In a way, I wished Clive wasn’t here at all, and I could just speak to Rita. I could find out more about his past that way, too.
“I’m sorry I haven’t met you sooner,” she said. “Clive talks about you a lot.”
“Good things, I hope,” I said. She smiled at that.
Rita looked at my belly. “How many weeks are you now?” I exchanged a glance with Clive. So he had told his mother. I hadn’t asked him about it. This was turning out better than I had hoped. Maybe there was hope for us still, hope to start a family.
“Eight weeks,” I said. Rita reached out a hand and held mine in her fragile, bony grasp.
“I won’t see the little one,” Rita said, her voice tinged with sadness.
“Surely you have…”
Clive said, “The doctor’s given her one month to live.”
I was shocked. Rita looked down into her lap, and her lips trembled. Her grip on my hand tightened briefly, then she let go. She didn’t have tears, just the sad, lost look of someone who had given up hope. I felt a lump forming in my throat, blinking back the emotion.
We talked for a long time, while Clive made us tea. I caught him watching us once, and he seemed on the verge of tears. His mother had a lot of stories about Clive’s father, who had passed away many years ago. I saw the photos in an album.
“My Barry, he was such a handsome man,” Rita said, a tinge of sadness in her voice. She gazed at the photo fondly, evoking memories. I watched as, with a gnarled, shaking finger, she traced the outlines of his face.
“Life passes you by quickly, you know,” Rita said to me. “Make the most of it while you have time.”
It was getting to mid-afternoon when we left Rita. I promised to come again. We sat in the car in silence for a while.
I shook my head. “One month? That’s it?”
“You saw the oxygen. She will die without it. There are also ten pills that she has every day.” Clive paused and looked out of the window. I had never seen him look so sad.
“There is one anti-cancer drug,” Clive said. “But it’s not available on the NHS. It could buy her two more years of her life. It costs twenty-five grand a year.” He fell silent.
I said nothing. We drove back to the apartment. Clive got ready for work, and came in to say goodbye. His face was sad, drawn. It reminded me of how my father had looked when my mum died. I couldn’t save her. No one could. And now Rita would pass away soon. I had been thinking, and now I made up my mind.
“I need to ask you something,” I said to Clive.
“Yes?”
“I can give you the fifty grand you need for Rita’s treatment.”
Something lit up in his eyes. “What? No, I can’t ask you to do that.”
“It’s a loan that I will make to you. We can put it against the agency business. You have to pay me back. If you default, then I get fifty grand’s worth of the agency business.”
He was interested, I could tell. He churned it over in his mind. “I need to write you into the contract of the agency,” he said. “Once I do that, will you put the fifty grand in my account?”
I didn’t have anything to lose. I nodded. “Yes.”
CHAPTER 24
Present day
I’m not sure if I can drive. With shaking, clammy hands, I drive off towards school. I have fifteen minutes, with the traffic it’s going to be tight. My mind is a blur. I feel like I’m in a blizzard, heavy snowdrifts blinding my eyes.
My life is spiralling out of control. I need to get a grip, but there’s not much I can do. I need to speak to someone. Jeremy is the most important person, but before that, I need to confide in someone else. Eva is the only person I can think of.
Who is after me? It has to be him, I can’t think of anyone else. I need to contact him, but I am so scared. I circle around the school till I find a parking spot. It’s tight but somehow I manage to park.
I am hoping Eva will be there today. She is the only one who knew him. She is the only one who can help me.
When I spot Eva, I make a beeline for her.
“I need to speak to you,” I whisper.
She studies my face. “Everything alright?”
“Yes, fine. Why don’t we go back to m
ine after this?”
She nods. I head up to the indoor sports hall, where the gym squad trials are held. I hate the fact that I am late. Molly loves her gymnastics, and she’s good at it. These trials are important, and girls from different years are competing for a spot. I have been told twelve girls have been selected for five spots, which means there will be seven disappointed girls there today.
I can’t help feeling like a bad mother as I open the doors and see the mothers standing there. They turn towards me, and I catch a glimpse of the blonde locks of Joanne. She hooks eyes with me then looks away. There is anger in her face but I ignore her.
The girls come streaming out, still in their leotards. Molly is one of the first, and she has a big grin on her face, and she is jumping up and down. “I made it, Mummy, I made it.”
I give her a massive hug, holding her so tight she might melt into me. I don’t want to hurt her, but she hugs my neck back even tighter. My eyes are moist. I know how much this means to her. Many of the girls who competed for a space have private gymnastic lessons. Molly didn’t.
Some of the girls are crying. I notice Henrietta is one of the last ones out. I didn’t know that she had been selected for the trials. There are tears in her eyes, and Joanne gives her a cuddle then marches up to the teachers for a word. I can’t hear, but from the moving heads and pointed fingers I can tell there is a heated discussion going on.
Lottie, Eva’s daughter, and Lisa, Suzy’s older child, were also in the trial, and neither of them have been selected either. They are sad and being comforted by their mothers. Baby Margaret is in a pram.
Suze walks over to me and congratulates Molly, who can’t stop smiling. The girls go off to get changed. The changing rooms are one flight of stairs below. When the girls come back up, Joanne storms past the rest of us, and stalks out, dragging Henrietta.
We are coming out when I spot Miss Laker standing outside the sports hall. Joanne is standing next to her, and a sense of foreboding rises up inside me as I see them. Joanne’s face is livid, and she give me daggers. She remains where she is but Miss Laker walks up to me. She looks harassed.
“Emma, can I please have a word?”
“Can it wait? I have a busy afternoon.” I need to get back home, give Molly some food and have a chat with Eva.
Miss Laker says, “I’m sorry but this can’t wait. Can we please step into my office?”
I am aware the other mums are looking over as they walk past slowly. Eva is right behind me, and I glance over to see Suzy next to her, holding the pram, Lisa and Lottie playing around them.
“What’s this about?” I ask.
“Please. It would be much better if we could discuss this in my office.”
Eva steps forward. “I hope this is not about bullying again.” She indicates where Joanne is standing with her daughter, glaring at us. “Molly has already said she had nothing to do with this.”
Miss Laker looks at me with pleading eyes, and I give in. I nod at her, and with a relieved face, she walks towards the reception area, followed by Joanne.
“I’ll call you when I’m done here,” I tell Eva. “We need to talk.”
Eva nods. “I’ve got the evening free.”
I wave goodbye to Suzy and head for Miss Laker’s office. The door is open when I walk in with Molly. I am surprised to see Joanne’s husband there as well. Tim Burton-Smyth looks at me with interest this time, and I wonder if he is aware that I am Jeremy’s wife.
Miss Laker says, “Henrietta has been hurt again. Once again, there were no witnesses, and we don’t know when it’s happening.”
I can’t believe it. “I am sorry that she is going through this, but what does this have to do with us?”
Joanne speaks up. “Because she says it’s your daughter again!”
I turn to Molly. “Did you hurt Hen, darling?”
Molly shakes her head. “No, Mummy. I am friends with her.”
I glare back at Joanne. “How dare you accuse my daughter? This is going beyond ridiculous now. How many times does she have to deny it?”
“Look at this!” Joanne unbuttons the top of Henrietta’s dress and shows me the ugly bruise on the back of her left shoulder. “Someone punched her. How would you feel if this was your daughter?”
“Terrible. But I wouldn’t go around accusing another child without proof.”
Joanne holds Hen and asks her. “Darling, who did this to you? Tell me.”
Henrietta looks to the ground, and sucks her thumb. I glance at Miss Laker, who is observing Hen with interest. Hen doesn’t say anything, and her mother has to repeat the question. Still, the child keeps her mouth shut.
“See,” I say, feeling vindicated, and also angry. “I want an apology.”
Joanne turns to me, her mouth open in surprise. “You want me to apologise? To you?” She snaps her mouth shut and grabs her daughter by the shoulders.
“Hen!” She raises her voice in frustration. “Just tell me what you said last night! Or point, at least.”
Tim Burton-Smyth intervenes. “Honey, please. You’re scaring her.”
Joanne glares at her husband. “We need to know what’s going on here.” She speaks to her daughter in a lower voice again. Still Hen stares at the floor and shakes her head.
I get up, holding Molly. “I want an apology from you, Joanne.”
She stands up as well, facing me. “You know why my daughter won’t say anything? Because she is scared of Molly, that’s why. Because that’s what bullying is, isn’t it? The victim is scared to point them out because then they get hurt more!”
I lose my temper. “The only person your daughter is afraid of is you, Joanne. Didn’t you just hear Molly say they are friends?”
Tim stands up and steps between us. I stand back, holding Joanne’s eyes. I don’t care who she is. My daughter’s done nothing wrong, I know that.
Tim says, “Let’s break this up, please.” He turns to look at me. “Look, we just want to find out who could be doing this. Will you keep your eyes open? Just to make sure that you don’t miss anything. It could be any child in the school.”
I am slightly mollified. “OK, I will. But it’s not my daughter who is responsible for this.” I give Miss Laker a look, and she holds her hands up.
“I think Mrs Mansell is right. Henrietta is not accusing Molly anymore. I think we can draw a line under this, and all of us can keep watch on the matter.”
Without saying anything, I walk out of there. I feel flushed and angry. My earlier euphoria at Molly getting into the gym squad has gone somewhat. I flash back to thinking how disappointed Joanne must be that Hen didn’t get in. Bet you she had private lessons. On top of that, she’s still being bullied.
My anger starts to abate. If I was Joanne, I would be clutching at straws as well. Still, that doesn’t excuse her behaviour. She is rude and arrogant. But my heart melts for Henrietta. She seems a docile girl. This school is full of confident, loud girls, and they are prized. I watch the girls and know for a fact that some of them are bossy. It wouldn’t surprise me to find out there was a group of them who bullied poor Hen.
CHAPTER 25
Eight years ago
Once I had wired the money into Clive’s bank account, he went from being sorry and crestfallen to rude and drunk again. I found excuses for his behaviour all the time. He was under stress, and for the first time in his life, he had found out he was going to be a dad. Maybe the best I could do was cut him some slack, and put up with his behaviour for now. I was sure that when baby arrived, everything would change. I couldn’t wait for the day.
Six weeks passed by quickly. When we did talk, all he mentioned was how badly he wanted to expand the business. It made no sense to me, because the entire property market was cratering. Trying to borrow money and open more offices now didn’t seem like the right idea. For all his talk about the business, most of the workers at the agency, myself included, hardly saw him at the office. Half the sales force had been laid off. Only two gir
ls now worked in the back office. We had shrunk from twenty-four employees to seven.
I had come back from the doctor’s office one evening, two weeks away from my first scan. I was fourteen weeks, and my bump wasn’t easily visible as yet. But I could feel the little life growing inside me. I saw Clive park his BMW, open the boot, and take out two large suitcases. I met him downstairs.
“What’s in the suitcases?” I asked. I hadn’t seen him leave with luggage, and he didn’t have anyone with him.
“Stuff,” he said, heaving them inside. He took them into the lounge at the back. He knelt on the floor and opened them. I came and stood behind him. Over his shoulder, I could see black parcels stacked inside one of the suitcases. They had a red stamp on them, some letters in a foreign language I couldn’t read. Clive picked one up and sniffed it. It was flat, slightly larger than an A4 envelope. Hundreds of them were arranged neatly. Clive shut the suitcase and stood up.
I faced him. “Tell me what they are.”
There was a flushed, irritated look on his face. “If I told you, you wouldn’t understand. Now get out of my way.”
“No. I need to know.”
He tried to push me aside but I barred his way. He stepped back, rage turning his eyes red, blood rushing to his face.
“What are you doing?” he said in a raised voice.
“Tell me what you have in those suitcases.”
He ground his teeth, flexing his square jaws, handsome face working. Eventually he grit the word out. “Merchandise.”
I folded my arms, frowning. “What sort of merchandise?”
“Just stuff I need to sell. You want me to keep a roof over our heads, and raise this,” he pointed to my belly, “this thing, don’t you? So, shut the fuck up and listen to what I have to say.”
I felt like he had slapped me. Apart from the vile language, he was referring to our baby as “the thing”. I fought back the tears that were threatening to pool in my eyes.
“The child belongs to you as well!” Maybe it was the hormones, or just plain frustration with him, but my fists were balled, and I was angry enough to hit him. “And I don’t want you selling dodgy stuff to make ends meet.”
