The Woman Before Me

by Ruth Dugdall

“Rose, stop. People’ll see.”

  Natalie is having a visit from her boyfriend. She whispers in his ear and they both turn to see, sniggering. I feel your penis stirring through my dress and I push back, gently at first, then harder. You try to look around to see Burgess but I’m in control and I circle my body in tiny, tiny movements. Your eyes go blurry as you gasp in more air.

  The other visitors and inmates nearest our table see what we are doing. Susan turns her daughter’s back to us and her mother gives me an evil look.

  I want you, as I’ve always wanted you. I miss you, have missed you every night. I want you so much that my hands are shaking. “I love you, Jason.”

  You breathe heavily into my ear, and a groan escapes from your open mouth. Is it me you’re thinking of, or Emma?

  I hold you tightly as your breathing steadies.

  We stay locked like this until the bell rings, and you have to leave me. Again.

  14

  Cate Austin was working at her desk at Bishop’s Hill. It was barely 10 a.m. but she already felt exhausted. She was full of a summer cold, and soggy used tissues clogged up the waste bin. Since Amelia had started going to the childminder’s, one or both of them always seemed to be sneezing or coughing. Today Amelia had been quite unwell when Cate left her at Julie’s and she felt guilty for not keeping her home, curled up on the sofa, watching her favourite children’s TV programmes.

  She had held Amelia tight before passing her over, relieved but pained at how easily her daughter clung to Julie’s embrace, as if she belonged there.

  Reaching for another tissue, Cate thought about how she always seemed to fall short of what was expected—especially as a mother. The failure of her relationship with Tim meant that Amelia had only a part-time father. Still, she thought, massaging the swollen glands in her neck, I’m only doing what millions of other women have to do. Juggling.

  She knew she wasn’t really well enough to be at work but there was no way she could have called in sick. She’d had too much time off in the months before her prison secondment, and anyway this morning she was meeting with Rose again.

  Gathering her papers and the remaining tissues from her desk, she went to check her pigeonhole. Inside the mailroom a few officers were chatting, including Deborah Holley and Dave Callahan, who looked over and winked. She smiled politely, and then turned her back to him, reaching for the box with her name on it. Empty. Officer Holley separated herself from the group and approached her. In her hand she held a bundle of papers fastened by a red band.

  “I think you want this,” she said, holding it out.

  Cate grasped it quickly, reading the name: Rose Wilks. “Remember what I said, Austin: don’t feel sorry for her. She’s a nonce and deserves everything she gets.”

  The file was thin and Cate thought there should surely be more than this on a woman who had spent four years in prison. She looked up, intending to ask Officer Holley about this, but she had gone.

  “Morning, sunshine. How’s the world with you?”

  She was pleased to see Paul Chatham smiling at her. “Oh, you know. Another day, another dollar.”

  “A bit more than that, I hope. Unless they’ve brought in performance-related pay when I wasn’t looking. Anything planned for the weekend?”

  “Bed, I think. I feel lousy.” As she spoke she tore the manila envelope and removed the sheaf of paper.

  “Is that the file on your nonce?”

  Cate nodded.

  “Thank your lucky stars it’s not too long. Must be straightforward. Tell me over coffee. 10:30 okay?”

  Sitting back in her broom cupboard of an office, Cate quickly separated out the file into four neat piles: prison record; presentence reports; witness statements. Then came the psychiatric report, thick vanilla paper with a letterhead proudly announcing the psychiatrist’s credentials, written after Rose was found guilty of manslaughter to help the judge decide on a sentence. The report described Rose as ‘plain featured’ and ‘of heavy build’; ‘Miss Wilks is a tall woman with hazel eyes and dark hair.’ The psychiatrist said that Rose had engaged with all the questions asked of her. He concluded, ‘It is my opinion that the fire which resulted in Luke Hatcher’s tragic death was an accident, triggered largely by the defendant’s depressive state and dependence on sedative medication, making her clumsy and slow to respond after her cigarette set fire to the carpet. This woman does not belong in the criminal justice system and I recommend a suspended sentence.’

  The door behind her opened and a cup of coffee appeared, as if hovering in mid-air.

  “Hello, Paul.”

  His face appeared. “How did you know it was me? Here you go, love.”

  The coffee was strong and sweet and very welcome. Paul perched on her desk, looking at the four neat piles of paper. “Touch of obsessive-compulsive I reckon.”

  “Guilty. I like to have everything in order.”

  “Oh me too. You should see my underwear drawer, it’s colour coded.”

  “Really?”

  “No, not really. I never wear underwear.”

  Cate slapped his leg. “Wind-up.”

  “So what are these piles? Men who’ve asked you out, men you fancy, men you wouldn’t touch with a six foot barge pole?”

  “Paul, stop it. It’s Rose Wilks’s case file.”

  “Anything juicy?”

  “That pile is the psychiatric assessment. It really pisses me off. I mean, what difference does it make if Rose is attractive or not? It went on about her hair, her face, how tall she is. Put a few letters after your name, and you can write anything you want.”

  “Sounds like you’re letting the case get under your skin, babe.” He picked up the second group of papers. Clipped to the top page was a newspaper cutting with ragged edges where it had been roughly torn out. Someone had written in biro, ‘East Anglian Daily Times.’

  A baby died yesterday in a house fire in Ipswich, while his mother was lifted to safety through a bedroom window. Fire crews from the area were called to Clifton Drive at 4:20 a.m. on Friday. The fire was confined to the first floor of the detached property. Crews were at the scene until 6 a.m. Fire fighters wore breathing apparatus to tackle the blaze, but the four-month-old baby boy was already dead by the time they managed to reach his bedroom.

  Paul put the file down. “No wonder you’re worked up. That’s horrid. But you need to keep a distance. It’s only work.”

  “I know. Don’t lecture me.”

  Paul had a point, though. Reading about a child’s death inevitably made her think of Amelia. She was meeting Rose Wilks at the next bell, and she needed to get caffeine in her system and her daughter’s face from her mind before the interview.

  Rose was waiting in the classroom, which had evidently not been cleaned since their previous meeting. Cate noted the growing number of fag ends on the floor but the same lesson plan on the board. After sitting opposite Rose, she took out her notepad.

  “I got your case file today. I’ve just read the psychiatric report.”

  Rose rubbed her lower lip with a finger, and looked to the window. “The psychiatrist wanted me to say I started the fire deliberately. He said he would understand. Everyone knows about post-natal depression, don’t they? But I couldn’t lie. I would never harm Luke.”

  “But Luke did die, Rose. And you were convicted of manslaughter.”

  “You have a child. Do you really think a normal woman could deliberately harm a baby?”

  “I do,” said Cate. “If she was unwell, or addicted. Or depressed.”

  “It goes against a woman’s nature. Women who kill kids, they’re evil. You know that, you’re a mother. We’re programmed to protect children. To take care of them.”

  “I don’t see things quite that simply.”

  Rose looked closely at Cate. “I’ve never understood women who don’t want to look after their children. Like career women. How can they do that, leave a child with someone else? Maybe they have to because they haven’t got a m
an. What do you think?”

  Cate realised that this comment was for her benefit, and was interested that Rose was taunting her. She was about to speak when the door opened, shattering the moment. Officer Mark Burgess rushed in, worry etched on his face.

  “There’s been a call from your daughter’s childminder. She’s had an accident.”

  “Is she hurt?” Fear curled a cold hand around her heart, squeezing tight.

  “She’s been taken to hospital.”

  Cate fumbled with her papers, dropping her pen as she rushed to the door.

  “Cate?” Rose had silently moved behind her and was standing at her shoulder, bending forward, speaking softly into her ear. Turning, Cate was looking up into Rose’s face. Rose took Cate’s hand and opened it, pressing a pen into her palm.

  “You forgot this.” She touched her hand a beat too long. “I hope Amelia’s okay. I’ll be praying for her.”

  Cate hurried away, desperate to get to her daughter’s side. She didn’t even wonder how Rose knew Amelia’s name.

  When Cate arrived at Accident and Emergency, Amelia was nowhere to be seen. She went over to where a receptionist was taking a call, impatiently tapping her fingers on the desk, eyes darting and ears pricked for Amelia’s voice. She was in a state of controlled panic and had driven as fast as her conscience would allow, forcing herself to brake at the red lights rather than rush through. There had been no vacant spaces in the car park and she had pulled onto the grass verge.

  Finally, the receptionist ended her call. Mistaking Cate’s pale face for a patient she said crisply, “If you take a seat, I’ll get a nurse to see you.”

  “My daughter’s been brought in after having an accident. Amelia Austin.”

  The woman zigzagged a red nail down a list. “She’s with the doctor now. Room 3—just down there.” She pointed to a corridor on Cate’s left.

  Cate was halfway to the cubicle already. Please, she silently begged, don’t let Amelia be badly hurt.

  “Mummy!”

  Her daughter lay on a hospital trolley, being examined by a doctor. Sitting by her side was Julie, the childminder.

  “Is Daddy here too?”

  “No, love.” Cate reached for Amelia, cradling her close and kissing her hair, smelling fresh sweat on her scalp. “Oh sweetheart, what have you done?”

  Amelia cried into her mother’s jacket, as Cate watched the doctor twisting her daughter’s foot, its sole against his palm. “Ow!” cried Amelia.

  “Is it broken?” Cate asked.

  The doctor prodded the puffy ankle. “Maybe a small fracture. We’ll need to take an X-ray and we’ll put an ice pack on it to take down the swelling. It will need to be strapped up and she’ll be hobbling around for a few weeks, I’m afraid.”

  “What happened?” Cate asked Julie.

  Amelia’s muffled voice said, “I fell, Mummy. A boy at the park knocked me off the climbing frame.”

  “I don’t think he meant to,” said Julie. “It was an accident.”

  “You should have been watching her, Julie.”

  “I was!”

  Cate couldn’t even look at her. “I need to feel Amelia’s in safe hands when I’m at work.”

  “It was an accident, Cate. Don’t you think I feel bad enough already? I wish we’d never gone to the park, but Amelia was feeling better and I thought the fresh air would do her good.” Julie reached forward and stroked Amelia’s arm. “We thought we’d have a little play time, didn’t we, angel?”

  Amelia smiled at Julie, forgetting her pain.

  Cate shifted in her seat. “You can go now, Julie. I’ll take care of her.”

  As Julie rose to go, Amelia reached out for her, clinging to her with the tenacity of a limpet. Cate tried to smile, telling herself it was a good thing that Amelia had a strong bond with her childminder. “Okay, Julie. We’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “You sure you want me to leave?” Julie looked hesitant.

  “Just go,” said Cate, fighting a rising tide of jealousy. And as she held her daughter tight she whispered a hundred sorrys into her hair.

  15

  Black Book Entry

  I learned a lot from Rita, but mostly I learned about death. She wasn’t afraid of it like most people are. Even when the doctor said she had lung cancer she wasn’t scared. Her only worry was what would happen to me when she’d gone. It was the summer after my GCSE exams and I’d done well enough to stay on at school for the sixth form. I was good at the sciences, especially chemistry. Mr. Wilson said I was a natural, and I liked the experiments, lighting the Bunsen burner with the air hole closed, then opening it, the gas burning in my sinuses as I watched the flame change from yellow to blue. I was going to do A-level chemistry, and I wanted to be a pharmacist. To help people get better.

  Rita was dying. Her coughing was something we both dreaded, the awful hacking that went on and on. She said it was only cigs that made her lungs feel clearer. The doctors tried to make her stop smoking, but what was the point? She said it was a pleasure, and she had few enough of those left. But she would rub my hand when she said it, and I knew from her look that I was a pleasure to her as well.

  Rita wanted me to go to university, and she’d worked out that there was only one way for that to happen; I had to go back to Lowestoft to do my A-levels and live with my father. I heard the pleading, whispered conversations on the phone and knew she was talking to him.

  “But she’s your daughter! She’s so clever, you should hear what the teachers say,” she said. “An education will be the making of her.” Another time I heard her say, “She’ll be all alone when I’m gone, doesn’t that bother you?” and during the final conversation she said, “Shame on you! Her mother must be turning in her grave.”

  I was glad when she slammed the phone down. I didn’t want anything from him anyway.

  When Rita’s breathing became too difficult she was admitted to the general hospital in Ipswich, and put on oxygen. I stayed in the house alone each night, going every morning on the bus to Ipswich, a new magazine rolled up in my pocket. Rita lived in a council house and although the housing benefit was paid for the month while she was in hospital, I knew they’d soon want me out. Rita would never come home, and I’d have no right to live there when she’d gone, and Dad didn’t want me back.

  It was a long summer the year I was sixteen, and I spent every day by Rita’s hospital bed watching her slipping away from me. The nurses worked around me, putting watery hot chocolate by my side, and taking it away cold. I wasn’t thinking about food, but each evening Annie would bring over a plate of whatever she’d cooked at the house: chops and carrots, liver and mash. I could hardly get it down but she would watch over me, clicking her tongue if I paused for too long. She didn’t ask how Rita was. She knew it was just a matter of time. But she would rub my hands and ask about me.

  Although Annie had known Rita since they were both girls she wouldn’t come with me to the hospital. She just said she preferred to think of Rita at home, that was how she wanted to remember her. It was only later that I discovered the real reason.

  When I arrived in the hospital room I heard the grating noise in Rita’s throat and knew it was bad. I pressed the red buzzer and a nurse came quickly. She took Rita’s pulse and then turned to me.

  “That noise,” I said, “is she choking?”

  “Not choking, love. It’s a rattle—it means she’s going to go soon.”

  I took Rita’s hand, and saw that her fingers were swollen. “Look,” I said to the nurse, “what’s happening to her?”

  “Her body’s had enough, love. Just sit and talk to her. Make her passing easier. There’s nothing more you can do.”

  I sat on the chair, stroking Rita’s puffy wrist, listening to the life caught in her throat. Finally, within the hour, the noise stopped and I knew she had gone.

  When I got home that evening Annie didn’t force me to eat any food, but hugged me tight and kissed my forehead. “It’ll be better, Rose, in t
ime. You’ll see.” But I didn’t believe her. Rita wasn’t just my auntie, she’d been my best friend. She’d helped me navigate through the last few years, and I’d started to think about my future. With her gone, I was shipwrecked.

  For the first two weeks I only left my bed to use the toilet or get more smokes. Smoking reminded me of Rita, and it was the only thing that slowed my breathing. I didn’t open the post; it could only be bad news. The council would want me out and I had nowhere to go.

  On the third Saturday Annie came calling, shouting through the letterbox until I had no choice but to let her in. She took one look at me and frog-marched me to the bathroom, leaning her ample body over the enamel bath and twisting the hot tap on full. She tipped in a generous amount of Rita’s pink salts, dissolving them with her hand.

  “Now, Rose. Rita wouldn’t like to see you moping like this. You need to sort yourself out. I want you to have a bath and get dressed. Quickly, mind. We can’t be late.”

  “Late for what?”

  “What do you think? It’s Saturday.” And that, of course, explained everything. I knew I had no choice so I got clean and clothed and followed her out of the house to the church hall.

  The meeting hadn’t started yet, and the huddle of women turned to greet Annie. When they saw I was standing behind her they hugged and soothed me, sympathising with my loss. But there was an excitement in the room, like before a party, and one of the women squeezed my elbow. “I hope she comes,” she whispered, and Annie smiled back at her.

  Soon, Maureen went to her place on the stage and everyone took their seats. I felt the hope and expectation in the bodies around me. And that night I understood the comfort of it.

  Rita didn’t come, and neither did Mum, but Annie had a message from her dead husband. I found out why she hated hospitals; he’d gone in for a hip replacement, but caught a virus there and never came home. She’d vowed never to set foot in a hospital again. But those sessions gave her comfort. She laughed when he told her she’d gambled too much on the dog race that Saturday. Another woman was asked not to forget her sister’s birthday and that she wanted yellow flowers on her grave. Another had her new haircut complimented by a lover. Even the ones who didn’t get a message weren’t crestfallen; there was always next week. And what they’d witnessed reassured them that the dead are always with us.