by Louise Beech
Under the water it’s not so bad this time. Not so cold now. Don’t have to move at all cos I’m floating like a fish. It’s dark but I don’t need to see.
Someone tickles me. When I laugh loads of bubbles come out. Even though I can’t see, I hear them – pop, pop, pop. Tickle, tickle, tickle. It’s Bernadette. She’s got my shoe in her hand. How come I can see her but nothing else? How come she’s here, all silvery, and floats like a mermaid? She says, take the pebble out of your shoe and then you’ll rise to the top. She shakes my shoe but nothing comes out. I say, But there’s a whole mountain in my shoe so I’ll never swim up.
Then she grabs me real rough. She drags me back to the surface.
But it isn’t her. It’s Paul.
Except he’s not Paul is he? He’s my dad. That’s who he is. And he’s here in the water. His teeth are chattering real bad, like mine were before. He’s got hold of one of those white and orange ring things. And his other arm is round me, under my arm so I’m on my back in the water, and all I can see again is the sky.
He says all shivery, It’s okay, hold on.
But he’s holding me so I don’t need to.
He’s grunting and swimming. I can hear Mum now and she’s screaming, Head for the steps, head for the steps. That’s where Paul must be going. It takes forever. Splash, splash, splash. We must be so far away. Lost at sea like the men in action stories. Water swills into my mouth and I cough and cough.
Paul says, We’re nearly there, and he’s really out of breath now.
But he’s not Paul. I want to yell it out – this is Dad.
And then I twist and see Mum real close, just above us with big big eyes. And Paul lets go of me. No, not Paul. My dad lets go of me. I kick out cos all my energy suddenly comes back. There must be water in my ears cos when I yell out I can’t even hardly hear my own words. But even though I can’t hear it I know exactly what I’m saying.
I yell, Don’t let me go, Dad, don’t let me go, Dad.
But he lets me go.
Like everyone always does.
37
The Book
*Letter from volunteer, Bernadette Shaw.
3rd October 2007
Hi Conor,
I’ve taken you out four times. I wanted to wait before writing in your book because I felt it was better to have a few things to record. I know you won’t be reading it until you’re eighteen so I’m taking this into account. I’ll tell you everything I think you’ll want to know.
Volunteering for Befriend for Life is the biggest thing I’ve ever done. On the course we read real social work files on children to prepare us, but really it doesn’t. We had sessions on boundaries and talked about confidentiality. There was so much to take in but it was worth it.
Especially when I met you.
The first time was supervised. You’ll know what that means. I came to your house with my team leader Carole. I was so sick she had to stop the car and let me out. I kept telling myself you must be more scared. I read your Lifebook before meeting you but it didn’t prepare me for the realness. When we came in Anne had made bread and the house smelt good. You were in an armchair with a pile of Muhammad Ali DVDs and your hair was wet like you’d just had a bath. You looked tiny. You didn’t look at me. I said hi but you ignored me. I wanted to squeeze you but of course I couldn’t. I tried to imagine how you must feel, how big and strange I must look to you.
I said I’d heard that Muhammad Ali was the greatest. You still didn’t look at me. I knew that you couldn’t until you felt sure I wasn’t a monster. Anne asked you to say goodbye when we left and you wouldn’t. She didn’t push you, and I didn’t mind. I said if you wanted me to I’d come back. Some children say yes to a volunteer but then change their minds. I was scared you’d say no. But two days later you told Anne you wanted to come out with me. I was so happy.
The following Saturday we went to the park by your house. For the whole afternoon you didn’t speak. You had a purple rucksack on your back with your Ali DVDs in it. Anne said you take them everywhere. The Saturday after that I took you to the same park. You still didn’t speak but you let me push you on the swing instead of struggling to do it yourself. Two weeks later I returned and you were waiting on the stairs with your rucksack.
Last week I came a fourth time. Anne said you were picking which top to wear, which meant you thought I was important. But you still ignored me all afternoon. At the end of the day you handed me one of your DVDs and said, ‘If you look after it, you can have a lend of it.’
We’re meeting next Saturday. You may not talk, but that doesn’t matter because you will eventually. I know that after all you’ve been through, you have to get used to me. Make sure I mean well and won’t disappear. I can’t wait until you do.
Love, Bernadette
Hull Social Services Report – Yvonne Jones (Social Worker)
Home visit to Conor Jordan to assess recent change of placement
Date: 10/10/2007
I saw Conor this afternoon at foster carer Anne Williams’ home, where he has lived for three months. I spoke with Anne and Conor at length. He was not as chatty as he can be and Anne did much of the talking. But he appears healthy and to have grown a few inches again. She said he eats well (here Conor said this is because she makes nice stuff) and that he sleeps much better than he did when he first arrived.
It took a few weeks for Conor to adapt to his new environment, but it appears that the one-on-one care from Anne means he has settled well. I spoke with Conor for ten minutes. He didn’t make much eye contact but said he likes Anne. He got agitated when his mother was mentioned. Until this week it had been six months since a supervised visit. On 7th October Conor saw Frances at the Doncaster office, with Len Coupland from Action for Children. Conor said he would like to see his mum again; this will be reviewed. His agitation when she’s mentioned is likely due to past incidents.
Access with mother
On 7th October access supervisor Craig collected Conor from school and took him to the office in Doncaster, where Frances was waiting. Frances is currently sharing a flat with a friend, Gill, and agreed that this was not the best place to meet Conor. Craig reported that, like the previous time, Conor was reluctant to engage with his mother and showed signs of stress. He eventually talked to her after fifteen minutes. Frances encouraged this by asking about school and his current home. When the session was over Conor didn’t say much but didn’t seem upset. Back home Mrs Williams reported that he was quiet but slept well and ate his tea. During a discussion with Frances, Conor and Mrs Williams we decided that Conor and Frances should meet again in three months.
Schooling
Conor still finds schoolwork a challenge but continues to enjoy art. He is having extra after-school tuition with art teacher, Mrs Connelly, which he looks forward to. His best friend is still Sophie. Conor’s past difficulty concentrating in class has improved. Foster carer Anne Williams liaises regularly with the school.
Social life
Conor has been seeing Befriend for Life volunteer Bernadette Shaw for six weeks. She reported that it was going well, that he was ‘delightful and well-behaved’. When asked about her, Conor didn’t say much and seemed guarded, but foster carer Mrs Williams reported that he sleeps and eats particularly well after seeing Bernadette. Currently she takes him out every other Saturday and this will continue.
Home
Mrs Williams reported that she has not had any issues with Conor since he arrived and said he has settled in well after being very shy at first. It has taken a few weeks for him to engage in any way but now she says he sits next to her on the sofa and talks animatedly. Though he has moments when he sits in his room alone for long periods, this is often just to draw.
When I spoke with Conor alone he reiterated that though he likes being at Anne’s he does miss Mark, the son at his last placement. Mark has written to him twice since he moved. Unfortunately, due to circumstances with Mark’s mum, it’s not possible for Conor t
o see Mark. This distresses Conor. I will encourage further communication from Mark, if he is willing.
Mrs Williams provides Conor with plenty of art materials. He has quite a collection of stunning artwork now, mainly portraits. Mrs Williams reports that occasionally Conor wets the bed, though it’s very rare. Naturally he is embarrassed about it. He likes her to sit with him until he goes to sleep. Mrs Williams assures me she wants to continue the placement indefinitely.
Assessment
Conor appears to have settled into his new placement very well. He often takes a while to get accustomed to a new environment, which is understandable, especially having just left one where he was very happy. Conor and Mrs Williams are well matched. She is patient and kind, just what Conor needs. He responds well to her attentions. Physically Conor looked well nourished. The occasional bedwetting is no problem for Mrs Williams, who deals with it with little fuss.
38
Bernadette
The illuminations on the Marina are not pretty ones, not welcoming amber boat and pub lights that mean a romantic stroll along the water followed by a glass of chilled wine. They are angry blue whirls and flashes.
Bernadette and Anne slow down by the water; the night is silent for now, only the colours are loud. Bernadette imagines the bad-news-filled noise waiting outside for them. An ambulance is parked near the boats and farther along – but hard to see fully – a police car blocks the entrance to the pier. Anne stops behind the ambulance, switches the engine off and looks at Bernadette.
‘I’m afraid,’ she says.
‘Me too.’ Bernadette shivers despite the car heater’s warmth.
They get out and approach the ambulance. The open rear doors permit a full view of the inside; there’s a white stretcher with an orange bag on top, padded grey pull-down chairs, an oxygen unit and rows of cabinets containing medical paraphernalia. Bernadette logs every item mentally and is relieved none of them is Conor.
But is that necessarily good news?
In the front, a paramedic talks on a phone, says something about the coastguard.
The coastguard?
Bernadette thinks of the many nights lying in bed at Tower Rise, listening to the foghorn on the water. It feels like all those mournful warnings led to this night. As an emergency helicopter’s whirring blades disturbed their sleep Richard would say, ‘poor beggar’, and turn over.
Why do they need a coastguard now? Who’s in the water?
The paramedic says on his phone that he must have been out there more than ten minutes now. He?
‘Someone fell in the river,’ says Anne, eyes glowing like headlights in the dark.
‘A he.’ Bernadette’s thoughts race on in spite of the mental wall she builds.
They run; past the empty police car, climbing over the wall to the concrete pier, and then along the square, heels scraping and clicking on the hard surface.
They race up uneven steps to a thin wooden platform. Here the water is close, frothing beneath them. And at the far end of the pier a group is gathered.
Frances is the first one Bernadette recognises – the photographs in Conor’s Lifebook did her no justice. Life suits her better. She stands huddled against the cold, moaning into a fist. Her blonde hair bobs and bounces in the wind, and with red cheeks from the cold and eyes bright with concern she looks bold. Hers is a kind of raw beauty.
PC French is with Frances, writing something in a notepad. On the other side of a locked gate another police officer, burly and bald, paces the perilously thin platform.
On the ground two paramedics tend to someone Bernadette can’t see, their fluorescent jackets gaudy next to the black police uniforms.
Anne moves closer to the scene first, slowly, obviously afraid. Bernadette is still glued to the spot, can’t follow. Frances squints for a moment as though to recall who Anne is, and then begins to cry. Bernadette can’t hear Anne’s words but they appear to comfort her. PC French joins them, patting Anne’s arm.
From the ground, a chalk-haired paramedic says, ‘Tell us your name, son.’
Anne turns.
He says, ‘Do you know where you are?’
A mixed bunch of dying flowers has been attached to the railings with its red, half-price sticker still attached.
‘How many fingers can you see?’ asks the paramedic.
Anne is upon them; she bends down and her face says it all. But still Bernadette can’t move.
‘I’m his foster mum,’ Anne tells the men. ‘Is he going to be okay?’
‘He’s conscious and breathing well; a bit dazed, though,’ explains the paramedic. ‘His body temperature is our main concern.’
Anne bends down and whispers something into the ear of the child wrapped in a silver thermal blanket.
‘So why do they need the coastguard?’ she asks.
‘The man who rescued the boy is missing.’
‘He was so brave,’ says Frances, her Belfast twang similar to Andrew’s. ‘He managed to drag Conor back to the steps and I pulled him out. But then he was gone! I yelled and yelled for him!’
Her urgent words compel Bernadette forward at last. Conor’s pasty face sticks out of a too-big blanket. He looks like one of those dolls made entirely of cloth, apart from the porcelain head. His red hair is wet, black and oily.
He smiles, says, ‘Bernadette, he saved me. I wanted to get you the big leaf. Remember the leaves? Mum said he saved me. You’ll never guess who he is. Try and guess.’
‘He may be a little delirious,’ says the chalk-haired paramedic.
Bernadette leans down and kisses Conor’s forehead for the first time; she hugged him last Saturday, and now a stolen kiss. Does this again overstep the Befriend for Life boundaries? Should she touch his cold face this way, her hands trying to warm his cheek? Does this physical act come under ‘appropriate intervention’ as her course leader defined it?
Why are all the rules coming to her now?
In the surge of water and swell of wind Bernadette hears other volunteers’ voices, asking is this appropriate, is that appropriate? What if my child’s crying? What if he asks me for a hug? What if she jumps on me? Appropriate, appropriate, appropriate. All Bernadette knows is that now isn’t time for rules. It’s time for instinct.
‘It’s okay, Conor,’ she says. ‘These men are going to get you warm and make sure you feel better.’
‘But what about Paul?’ He looks panicked now. ‘Why don’t they jump in and get him? He was just there.’
‘Paul?’ Bernadette looks at the paramedics and then PC French.
‘He’s the man who picked them up this afternoon,’ says PC French. ‘Paul’s what Conor called him. It appears that when Conor fell into the river, Paul got a life-ring and jumped in after him.’
‘His name’s actually Andy,’ says Frances. She looks like she has a lot more to say, but doesn’t. Close up Bernadette sees a red love-bite on her neck. As though sensing she has been caught out, Frances pulls up the lapels of her coat.
‘Why did he give a different name to the boy?’ asks PC French.
Frances shrugs but avoids the officer’s eyes.
‘Why don’t you jump in after Paul?’ asks Conor, his voice thin and tired now.
‘Because we can’t see him,’ says PC French, gently. ‘So it’s too dangerous. But the coastguard has been alerted and they’ll get the big chopper out and launch the lifeboat. They’ll find him.’
It occurs to Bernadette that this is a cruel promise to make Conor – don’t they know how many promises have been made and broken over his short lifetime?
‘We need to get him to the hospital,’ says the paramedic, standing with Conor in his arms. ‘Who’s going with him?’
The three women look at one another. Who should go? Frances, the woman who gave birth to him; Anne, the one who has been his true mother for the last five years; or Bernadette, the woman somewhere in between?
‘You should go,’ Anne says to Frances.
The young woman
shakes her head vigorously. ‘No, he’ll want you.’
From within the blanket Conor’s one word surfaces like a cartoon bubble: Bernadette. Despite the long name, no one has ever shortened it. Not her mother, not a friend, not Richard. When they first met, Conor pronounced it Bern-dette, saying it in a solemn voice. Now he says it right.
No one ever said it so right.
But the flash of happiness is tempered by the thought that Anne and Frances might be hurt.
‘I’d love to come with you,’ she says softly to him. ‘But I bet you’d rather I stay and help find Paul? I’ll make sure we look really hard for him. Do you want me to do that?’
He nods and closes his eyes.
‘You should go with him,’ Frances insists, looking at Anne. ‘When he’s gets out he’ll be going home with you. You’re his mum, really. And I reckon I can do more here – I know what Andy looks like.’
PC French agrees. ‘You’re the one who’ll be able to answer best any questions the nurses have about Conor,’ she says to Anne.
‘Will you be okay?’ Anne asks Bernadette.
They have come so far together; this is the kind of experience that creates lifelong friends.
Bernadette hugs Anne tightly. ‘Yes. Go look after our boy. Please call me later and let me know how he is.’
‘Where will you be?’ asks Anne.
Bernadette realises she doesn’t know. ‘I’ll ring you,’ she says.
She watches the small group depart and has never felt so lonely. This is her monster: loneliness. She fears it, avoids it, and yet she is the loneliest person she knows, living in a huge, empty house with a husband who is a ghost, with her parents miles away and no friends to call on. As a child she often sought solitude in her room, closing the door and putting a chair against it so she could get lost in her books. But she always knew her mum and dad were just downstairs – that she was never really alone. In their quiet way, they were there.
