The Mountain in My Shoe

by Louise Beech

How could she have done this?

  The taxi arrived then. She ruffled Conor’s hair, said goodbye and walked over to it. He remained on the wall, grinning still at his clever analogy.

  In a moment Bernadette marched back to him and hugged him tightly. She knew it would have taken him by surprise. The boundaries put in place by BFL to protect children mean no touching beyond what is necessary, like preventing a child falling over or wiping up a spillage on a shirt. So over the years she has pushed Conor on the swings and held his hand going over the road. But never has she cuddled him; not until last Saturday.

  Conor hugged back, sniffed her collar.

  ‘You don’t know what you mean to me,’ she said to him. ‘You’ve saved me.’

  He had. A small boy with the strength to pick himself up again and again after being let down, who had lived in place after place, showed by example that Bernadette too could leave her home, her husband, and go on.

  Now it is up to her to save him.

  13

  The Book

  28th August 2003

  Welcome to our family. Its big and noisy. We like kids. When we first met you you was twenty one months old and didnt want to come in. But our oldest kid Chantelle got out the Lego and you was fine for a bit. In this foto you was with us for ten days and look like you was there much longer. You fit in quite good but you dont like going to bed. You cry and cry. You dont like playing with the kids. You just hug your black cat. Dunno what its called. Blackie I call it. But you do eat your tea.

  Jayne Smith

  19th September 2003

  Dr Howard, Mill Practice

  Dear Jim Rogers,

  After his appointment I conclude that Conor Jordan (10/11/01) is showing signs of Post Traumatic Stress Symptoms in Children after Mid-to-Moderate Paediatric Trauma, more generally known as PTSD. I attribute his sleeplessness, his losing previously learned toilet training ability, and his inability to be left in a room alone, to the trauma he experienced after being burned. Unless addressed, these symptoms may continue for years, or decrease and return later when events trigger unpleasant memories. I recommend that Conor receive some form of cognitive therapy counselling. My colleague Elena Vella (B.Psych Hons) specialises in this area.

  That Conor Jordan lives between homes, and has no permanent caregiver, must also be considered. Please contact me at the above number should you wish to discuss this matter further.

  Regards,

  Dr James Howard

  14

  Conor

  Sophie MacArthur is my best friend because she can turn her eyelids inside out. That’s not the only reason. It would be crazy to have a friend just cos of that. She’s funny too and dead clever and she likes Doctor Who. And she can beat up Stan Chiswick. She did twice. Once when he called me a faggot and the other time cos he stole her lunch money.

  Today Sophie was off school and when Stan did my head in I really missed her. Also I had something to tell her. Something I haven’t told nobody.

  Sophie lives in a house with her mum and dad and baby sister. She always has. I’ve lived in eleven different places. That’s a whole lot for ten years. Ten of those places was before I was six. I know people as old as forty who’ve lived in only two houses ever. Anne my foster carer is one of them people. She said her first home was white and looked out at the sea and on Sundays she helped her mum make lemon tarts. I’d love a bedroom with a window that sees the beach and to have lemon tarts to make my tongue all blasty. My room looks out onto a square of concrete and bins.

  When Sophie didn’t meet me at the school gates this morning I was annoyed. I’ve got other mates. Loads of them. But she’s the only one I really talk to. I think girls keep secrets better. They’re always whispering and hiding stuff in books. And Sophie’s never told anyone that I wet the bed loads until I was eight. She only knows that cos she slept over once and saw. But she didn’t laugh or anything. She just gave me a hug. Boys don’t do that. I don’t neither.

  So when she never came to school I was in a bad mood cos I knew I’d have to carry my secret round all day.

  First lesson we did Art. We had to make pictures where the words show what they mean. It’s called some long crap word I can’t remember. Smile can be curved like a mouth and tree can be all tall and pointy. I already knew that. Been drawing all my life. Mrs McCartney said we could be free and write whatever we wanted. Just like that graffiti on the walls in town. She said we should close our eyes and let what was on the inside of our eyelids appear.

  So I did THUNDERSTORM in wavy black lines. Made the Ts into evil scarecrows and the S into an angry snake. Nearly tore the paper with the pen. Normally drawing soothes me but I was real moody. Then Stan Chiswick started punching my arm and daring me to write something on Mrs McCartney’s back. Fuckface, he said.

  The other kids always get me to do stuff because they know I will. I’m not a wuss or owt. I just love how it feels when they brag to the rest of the year group what I’ve done. Like I’m a hero or something. Like I’m Muhammad Ali. Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee.

  Today I tried to ignore Stan. I’ve already had two detentions and we’ve only been back at school two weeks. One was for locking myself in the art paper cupboard and the other was for putting Suzy Kendal’s hamster in with the snake we had on loan from some museum knobhead. The kids still talk about Skitty the hamster and Monty the snake’s fight. They kind of laugh at first cos of how funny it was when Skitty leapt in the air and squealed. Then they wrinkle their noses and look sad because he died. I feel bad he died. I only wanted to make them laugh. But I killed Suzy’s pet.

  So today in Art I told Stan I couldn’t be arsed with another detention. I said my foster mum Anne said she’d kill me. She didn’t – she’s too nice. Really it was because of my secret. I couldn’t get kept behind today. There’s somewhere I need to go.

  But Stan kept nagging me to write something on Mrs McCartney’s back. Do it, do it, do it, arse-face, he kept saying. In the end she sent us out for disrupting the class so I never finished my THUNDERSTORM sheet. O, R and M were missing. It would’ve made a great work of art too.

  There were plenty of black names in my head when we got marched into the corridor and told to stay there until lunchtime. Stan kept hissing at me from his bench but I ignored him. Closed my eyes to see what was on the inside of my eyelids.

  Mr Grimshaw the headmaster got us in his office and told us off for being unruly and said if he saw us again today he’d keep us behind after school all week. Fuck it, I thought. Need to stay away from Stan.

  In last lesson we had another Stranger Danger talk. We’re way too old. We had that in like year two or something. Some of the girls got upset. There’s been this man outside school in a red car trying to get the younger kids to show him where the library is. The police have been there looking out for him. Mr Grimshaw said we should come straight in and tell an adult if we see this man. If our parents can’t meet us we should walk home in pairs.

  I’m not scared of strangers. I’ve met loads of them. I’ve lived with them all my life.

  I was first out of school when the bell went. I never mess about. But I wasn’t going home. Home is Anne’s house. My eleventh, her second. It’s ten minutes from school and she always has a pot of tea ready when I get in. I’ve never told anyone. Tea’s for old crinkly people. But it’s so good with Anne’s jam tart. She always asks what I’ve been doing and I tell her the good stuff like beating Sophie at conkers or being on the first sitting at lunch.

  I wasn’t thinking about Anne when I got out of school today. I was thinking about my real mum. I always start thinking about her when I try to be good and mess it up. When I get detentions even if it wasn’t me. When I plan not to join in the larks but I still get blamed.

  For the first five years of my life I never saw my mum at all. She had these problems that meant she couldn’t look after me or my brother. My brother’s a year older than me and called Sam. I had one that was younger called Geor
ge but he died two years ago. I only ever seen George twice and Sam three times cos we were at the funeral together.

  Everyone tells me my mum’s problems are the kind that never go away. I’ve got those too. They use all nice words instead of sandshoe-black ones. I’ve never really understood. And even though I do more now cos I’m older it kind of makes it even more confusing.

  Mum got better for a while and had another baby that she’s kept. So I have a little sister called Kayleigh. She’s three. Mum’s nice to Kayleigh. And that was when I started seeing her every four weeks instead of just sometimes on supervised visits. Supervised visits means a social worker comes with you.

  Imagine that. You get two hours with your mum. Once a month. Some knob of a social worker has to come. It’s not the same. You can’t be with your mum like that. You can’t ask about stuff you really want to know and you can’t tell her you hate being away from your brother and you can’t say it’s not fair that Kayleigh gets to live there and you don’t. Supervision is stupid. Like I’m not capable of doing stuff myself when I’m ten. Yeah, right.

  Lots of stuff can happen in ten years so I’m much older. I know more than them after all the places I’ve been. All the houses and rooms I’ve lived in. And I know exactly which train to get on to go to Mum’s house. I’ve gone on it a few times with Len cos he can’t drive. Yvonne is my main social worker and she drives us to Doncaster. But Len gets us two return tickets from the machine in the station and we get on the train at platform three.

  I’ve never gone alone but I reckon I’m old enough to do it. Anyway if I want to tell Mum about my surprise I’ll just have to. Don’t want social workers interfering. But I really wanted to tell Sophie first. I really wanted her to come with me.

  The sky was ashy black like my THUNDERSTORM words when I got out the school gates. I could hear kids coming out behind me. I pictured Anne waiting for me at home and felt a bit bad that I wasn’t going there. Her tea would get cold and she’d worry and wring her hands and call people. I really thought about just going home then. Telling Anne my plan. But then it wouldn’t be special. Wouldn’t be just me and Mum. And she might stop me.

  Maybe it was stupid of me to go on a journey without provisions. In survival stories they always take provisions. They pack a compass and warm clothes and food. When they get lost and stuff they make do with what they can find, like berries and weeds and coconut milk and fish. But I won’t get lost. I was excited when I got up this morning. I hate morning normally. I scrunch the covers up and put them in the bin. That gets rid of a bit of my grumpiness. Anne makes me a cup of tea with two sugars and ruffles my hair and sings ‘Jingle Bells’. Even in summer.

  I’ve been saving my money for ages and I’ve got a surprise planned for my mum. I didn’t bring food or a big coat or a compass or owt. I’ll just make do.

  Just as I was going left towards the station Stan Chiswick grabbed my arm. I thought he wanted to fight but he said, look there’s that stranger mister they warned us about. And there was a black car parked at the kerb. Not red. Maybe he switched it to trick everyone. Clever.

  But it didn’t trick me. Didn’t frighten me neither.

  The policeman who sometimes walks up and down wasn’t around. I’ve heard Anne’s friend say they’re never around when you need them. I didn’t need one. The man in the car was looking at us. He didn’t look evil or anything. Just dead normal.

  Then he waved me over. It was definitely me he wanted. Stan went goggle-eyed. Coward. Said he was going to look for the copper or get a teacher. I was curious. No one could get me in a car if I don’t want to go. I decided I was going to tell the man to bugger off and stop harassing the kids. I’d be a hero again. They’d stop saying I was a hamster killer.

  So I went to the car.

  15

  The Book

  5th October 2003

  Hi Conor,

  Messy handwriting alert! This is Jim Rogers again.

  I have something nice to share with you but first I wanted to explain why I included a copy of a doctor’s referral I received. (Some social workers don’t think such things should be included in these books but I feel that one day you’ll need to know about it.)

  Lots of things in life shape us. Gosh, I think about that a lot, especially in this work. Things like genetics, circumstance, our history, our family, our surroundings, and our unique personality. I’ve read Lifebooks that are gentle and full of generalities and so not awfully truthful. I’ve also read ones that are brutal.

  In the USA they are very much intended to be simple so a child can read them. I tend to write that way at the start. When I read back over my entry from when you were born, I see I spoke as though you were very small, but since you’ll be an adult when you read yours I’m not sure why I did that. (I still do at times.) I suppose I’m trying to make sure yours is both gentle and honest.

  So I have decided to include various documents that might make you sad but that will be helpful one day in explaining things that happened. I’m going to include a report by psychologist Elena Vella.

  But before that here is something from your family.

  I got a letter from an Aunt Rhona that I’d like to stick in here. She is actually your Great Aunt, which means she is your grandma’s sister. She’s an aunt to your mum, Frances. Sadly Aunt Rhona died recently but her husband made sure this letter got to us. I think you’ll enjoy reading it one day. It’s definitely one of the things that should be included in here. It’s your history and I hope it’s one of the things that shapes you.

  Jim.

  1st October 2003

  Dear Conor,

  I hope you are well. I hope this letter finds you. I hope I have done the right thing. I’m your great aunt even though I’ve never met you. I don’t even know your mum now. Since they all left Belfast I’ve hardly heard from her or any of them. I hear her life has not turned out very well. I don’t know much about that. But anyway I don’t want to dwell on it too much. We all make mistakes and she had a tough start. They never had much money you see. Not with ten children. I never had no kids. It’s like my sister had them all. But anyway. She had it hard bringing up ten. I helped where I could. If I’m real honest little Frances was my favourite. I know you shouldn’t have favourites. But I couldn’t help it. Your mum was the kind of little girl who tugged on your heartstrings as they say. My heart nearly broke when they all went to England to be with her dad’s lot. She was about fifteen then. She was what they call wayward. Not the cute little thing she once was. The devil was in her they said. Well, her dad did but he could be nasty. He didn’t do much to help and had a bad temper and liked to drink. So all the kids got into bother and stuff. They were left to roam wild you see a lot of the time. But when she was little Frances would come and sit quietly with me and put her head on my knee and not say much but just be there. It was nice. She sometimes couldn’t stand all the noise in the house. She had to share her bedroom with two sisters and a brother. That was her twin, Andrew. Them two were like light and dark. When she was good he seemed to be bad. He stole from his mam’s purse once. Then when Frances grew up a bit and got with the wrong boys Andrew went all good. Tried to stop her. I think Andrew is the only one Frances still sees. Twins can never be parted for long. I’m ill now and have been told by my doctor I’ll be lucky to live a year. My sister, your grandma, died a few years ago. Your granddad is still alive but lost most of his memory through alcohol. He drinks and brawls. So I’m writing to you and your other brother Sam before I’m gone. Just to say I’m sad I never knew either of you. I should have maybe found a way to see you somehow and do regret it. But at least you might read this when you’re big and know we were all thinking of you. They tell me Frances had a kid die. Never knew till after. They said it was a real tragedy. Never should’ve happened. But she didn’t have the best start. Remember that. She was a sweet sweet girl once upon a time. Keep that in your heart.

  Love Aunt Rhona

  16

  Bern
adette

  Outside Anne’s house, darkness disguises the area. Streets that by day are a mixture of both well-maintained and rundown properties are made uniform at night, becoming rows of identical shadowy squares.

  Anne lets Bernadette in the car and then gets out again without a word and goes back into the house. Perhaps she has changed her mind and cannot cope with this night. Perhaps she needs a moment. But she returns with a cloth and wipes bird droppings off the car’s back window, before dumping the rag in the bin and getting back in the car.

  ‘If Conor were here,’ she says, sadly, ‘he would have cleaned that off. Then he’d say, Anne, if you’ve only got a quid instead of two I don’t mind.’

  Bernadette squeezes her hand. ‘Where on earth is he, Anne? Where did he go? Why did he take all his money?’

  ‘God, if I knew.’

  ‘It makes no sense. He’s happy at the moment, doing well.’

  Bernadette remembers one of her favourite survival stories, where a man lasted three weeks on a mountain ledge, with a broken leg and only two days’ worth of food. He said it was the thought of his daughter at home that kept him going. Once rescued, he recovered well, until ten months later when he collapsed in a shop and died. Has Conor now given up the battle after five years in a safe place?

  ‘I think Frances is the key somehow,’ says Anne. ‘He’s not with any of the people who matter to him – you, Sophie, me. The only other person he talks about is his mum.’ She starts the car. ‘I think we need to get there fast, see where she is and then perhaps find out where he is.’