by Louise Beech
And at Tower Rise she always knew Richard would come home. Whatever he could be, there was comfort in his being there and that’s what made her stay so long, what made her try so hard to make it work despite her feelings having all but died.
Now, seeing Anne and Conor go with the paramedics, Bernadette realises there is a difference between being alone and loneliness: the former you choose; the latter you feel when you’re not happy inside.
Anne hurries after the paramedics. Selfishly, Bernadette wants to call her back, wants to say she’ll go with Conor in the ambulance, say he chose her, it should be her. But Conor has the right person with him. He’s safe now and that’s what matters.
39
The Book
25th July 2008
Hi Conor,
I enjoyed lots seen you again last week. Hope you liked the pyjamas I brung you and that they fit. They was from the market in town and the woman did your name on the front. I just found out I got my own house. Well its not mine like I didn’t buy it but Ill rent it. What I mean is that Im the only one gonna be living in it. So they said that soon you can come there and visit me instead of at the office. Thatll be real good wont it? I think youll have to come with someone like a social worker but still its better than been in that stuffy room. You wouldnt of been able to tell when we met cos its early but Im pregnant again and this time cos my depresion is under control and Ive got my own place I can keep the baby. Im two months gone. So youll have another brother or sister in February. Youll be able to see him or her every time you come to my house. Its nice got two bedrooms and a little garden. The sociall worker told me your going to meet Sam and George soon. Bet your excited. I see a bit of them sometimes. Sam looks a bit like you but George doesnt. Hes like my dad. You are like the man I think is your dad. Anyway I just wanted to right another little note for your book thing. Bet theres loads in it now. Cant believe your six and a half little boy. Dont know where the time goes. Were your pyjamas for bed and think of me and I will you.
Your Mum xxx
Hull Social Services Report – Yvonne Jones
Record of Meeting with Siblings Date: 01/09/08
Child: Conor Jordan Date of Birth: 10/11/2001
Siblings Fostered Apart (Explanation for Lifebook) –
Placing siblings together is not straightforward for social workers and there are many factors we have to take into account. In practice we do try and keep them together but for many different reasons it’s not always possible. Because Sam, who was born a year before you, had already been placed with a family who did not want to foster further children it was decided you would go elsewhere. Sam also has extra special needs and needs a different type of care. When George came along two years after you, and your mum was still struggling, he stayed with her for a week and then also went to another family. It is easier to place siblings in the same home when they have already been living together, either with their parents or a carer.
Being placed in care with siblings is found by some studies to have more successful outcomes for the children concerned. In other cases it appears to make no difference. I think it depends on whether those siblings were close to start with.
Unavoidable circumstances meant you didn’t meet your brothers until now. Sam has had a lot of problems that meant we felt him seeing you and George might set him back rather than bring him on. We also felt you might not handle it, with your own vulnerabilities. But you are thriving with your current foster carer, Anne, whom you’ve been with for more than a year now, and where we see you staying for the indefinite future. You have also been seeing Bernadette for twelve months, two Saturdays of every month, and have expressed to us and to Anne how much you enjoy this.
Meeting with Siblings, Sam Jordan (19/11/00) and George Jordan (13/10/03)
Doncaster Social Services
31st August 2008
Review
Len Coupland (Action for Children) took Conor to the Doncaster office where he has previously met his mother, Frances Jordan. Conor took two drawings he had done of his carer, Anne, to let his brothers know what she looks like. Sam, who is seven and has mild autism and ADHD, came with his foster carer and social worker. George came with his social worker. The two boys were already there when Conor arrived. George and Sam have met once before, as they live quite near one another. They were playing with Lego when Conor arrived and he was happy to join in. Though shy at first, Conor engaged quite well. He seemed to enjoy the company of Sam, perhaps because they are close in age, but also because Len felt Conor had an innate sympathy with Sam’s disabilities. Conor was naturally able to communicate with Sam in such a way that Sam responded positively. His carer said not many people can do this. The boys built a spaceship out of Lego. They helped George too with the smaller pieces. George was distressed when the meeting ended but Conor comforted him.
Decision re. further meeting
01/09/2008
Since the meeting went well and was a positive experience for the three siblings, we aim to schedule another within six months.
Signed:
Yvonne Jones
10th November 2008
Dear Conor,
I’m glad you had a great seventh birthday and that I was there. I enjoyed meeting your best friend Sophie – I can see why you’re such good friends. She’s funny. You two get up to all sorts, I bet.
I’m delighted that you liked my gift. At BFL we have a budget of £10 for our children but mine only needed the price of a stamp. However, it needed time. So I wrote in July and hoped I’d hear back. And I did, in October! A picture of Muhammad Ali arrived in Anne’s post – and he’d signed it for you. Your face when you opened it – I’ll keep the image with me forever.
You said it was a good year because you met your brothers and because Muhammad Ali wrote to you. Your mum even sent you a box of Lego.
Anne made a cake with boxing gloves made of icing. When you blew out the candles you whispered that you wished you knew who your dad was. I wanted to say that dads aren’t everything, but that would have been wrong, especially when I’m fortunate enough to know mine. What do I know about how you feel?
I can’t believe we’ve been seeing each other more than a year. I’m so proud to have seen how you have grown and pleased you’ve grown to trust me. It took time and you still have moments where you close up, like a shutter comes down. I don’t mind. We all like to close the shutter sometimes.
Love,
Bernadette
40
Bernadette
Bernadette pulls her coat tightly about her body. She did not dress for a night by the cold river. She had no clue she’d end up here – on the Marina, Conor having been pulled from the water and another person missing – and even if she had, the cold down here always surprises.
Now Anne has gone to the hospital with Conor, PC French says, ‘There’s not much we can do here.’ The other police officer has returned to the car. ‘The lifeboat and coastguard helicopter will take over.’
As though to back up her statement, the whir-whir-whir of chopper blades fills the night and a yellow helicopter flies over them towards the river, like a metal wasp.
‘How long has he been in the water?’ asks Bernadette.
Frances shakes her head and sobs, ‘It must be twenty minutes.’ She goes to the locked gate and shakes it violently. ‘We can’t just fucking walk away! He’s out there!’
‘It’s too dangerous,’ says PC French. ‘We have to let the right people find him now. Come on. Let’s go back to the car, get warm. You need to tell us every detail of what happened this evening.’
The police officer guides Frances away from the gate and leads her back along the pier. Bernadette follows, like a forgotten child. On the concrete again Frances stops and puts her face in her hands.
‘You just don’t get it,’ she says. ‘It don’t matter if his name is Andy or Paul. I don’t even know his surname anyway. Don’t even know where he lives, not now, not then. Didn’t care. Bu
t you need to know what does matter.’ Frances takes her hands away from her face and looks at PC French, who opens her notepad. ‘No, you won’t need to write it down. You won’t forget it, I promise you. Andy is Conor’s father. His dad. That’s who he is!’
Bernadette wishes she could sit down. Of course he is. It’s the only thing that makes sense, and yet it’s still a shock. It still feels like the time she slipped on the ice while at the park with Conor and the fall winded her, took her voice.
Does Conor know? Did this Andy tell him?
What was it Conor said just now – You’ll never guess who he is. Try and guess. So he does know. And she should have guessed. Wasn’t a father the only person the police ruled out? The one they should have considered most as the person who had taken Conor? Maybe she and Anne knew but never watered the thought and let it bloom. Now it grows, fills her head.
How must Conor feel? The father he often talked about, wondered about, now here and real after all this time.
Bernadette imagines Conor’s Lifebook, turns the pages in her head, finds a fresh one and writes in it that a man called Andy is his dad. A man called Andy rescued him and is now lost in the river.
‘And he turns up today, totally out of the blue!’ continues Frances. ‘And I’ve no idea how he knew or how he found me. I never told him I had a baine. Never saw him again after that one week here.’ She flings her arms towards the Minerva pub. ‘This is where we met eleven years ago. If you think this was some perv stealing a kid, you’re all wrong. He was good to the kid tonight. He jumped in the water after him! It was both our faults. We was arguing in front of Conor. Said all kinds of awful stuff we shouldn’t of. And that’s when he ran off. But I didn’t go in the river after him cos I were fucking scared. And I’m supposed to be his mother!’ Frances shakes her head, says more softly, ‘I’m supposed to be his mum.’
She pauses a moment. ‘So that’s who you’re looking for – Conor’s dad. If you want a description I can try, but your best hope is Conor.’
‘I don’t think he’ll be up to that until tomorrow,’ says PC French gently.
‘No, I mean the picture he did.’
‘The picture?’
Bernadette understands immediately. ‘Conor draws really well,’ she says.
‘Like that,’ says PC French.
They follow PC French’s gaze: a white sheet of paper flutters in the opening to a bin, like a flag of surrender. Even from where they stand they can see a face drawn on it in black pencil. They approach the sketch and PC French carefully removes it from the metal opening. It’s Bernadette. Even she recognises herself – thin eyebrows, fine eyelashes, small smile. The details are what bring Conor’s art to life. What he sees and makes you see.
‘Conor ran off with it,’ says Frances. ‘I … I scrunched up the one he did of Andy.’ She pauses, says quietly, ‘It’s always been right that the kid don’t live with me.’
‘We need to see the picture of Andy,’ says PC French. ‘Where is it?’
‘In his car, near the Minerva.’
‘I’ll join you in a minute,’ says Bernadette, holding the picture to her chest.
Bernadette watches them climb over the wall and round the corner. Then she goes to the railings and looks out at the river. What a horrible place to be – so cold, dark and isolated. What are the chances of survival after all this time? Bernadette read once that the River Humber is one of the most dangerous rivers in the world, with shifting sands and seven-knot currents. The Humber Rescue team save lives on the estuary, launching from a boathouse at the foot of the Humber Bridge’s north tower. They are out there now.
What must it have been like for Conor in the freezing water, thinking he might die? And then his own dad jumped in and got him out.
But sometimes the rescuer is the one who first puts you in danger. Richard locked Bernadette in the pantry. So he was the one to open the door and let her out. This man – this Paul or Andy – put Conor’s life in jeopardy by missing it altogether and then unlocked the pantry door when he jumped in the river after him.
Bernadette studies again the drawing of her face. It’s like looking in a gentle mirror, one that ignores frown lines and tired eyes. This is how Conor sees her. She wonders how he saw his dad, what that drawing is like. It’s time to go and join the others and be wherever she is needed.
The ambulance has gone. Conor is likely at the hospital now, safe, warm and taken care of. PC French and the bald officer sit in the front of the police car, Frances in the back. Bernadette gets in next to her. The warmth soothes her cold skin.
‘Could be anyone,’ says PC French, holding a smoothed-out piece of paper up to the light. ‘I don’t recognise him. We could scan it into the PNC back at the station. Might get a hit. Have a look, Bernadette, see if he means anything to you.’
She takes the paper from her. They have clearly tried hard to straighten it out and the damage is minimal, just extra lines and criss-crosses across the male face. Bernadette looks at it.
She frowns.
She looks up again to make sure her eyes are not blurring in the waft of car heater air. No, PC French’s face is clear, its youthful skin like an advert for an expensive cream. The bald officer’s face is moonlike, dark where chin hair needs shaving, grey under bloodshot eyes. And Frances’ feathery thread veins and tiny blackheads are signs of her self-destructive behaviour.
Yes, Bernadette’s eyes are working perfectly. She looks back at the drawing.
She knows him.
‘Where’s the car?’ she asks, each word sounded carefully.
‘Andy’s?’ asks PC French.
‘Near the Minerva, on the other side,’ says Frances. ‘Why?’
‘Is it open?’
‘Yes. He must have had the keys in his pocket when he…’ Frances’ words die.
‘You have to call the coastguard now.’ Bernadette squeezes PC French’s arm but speaks calmly. ‘Check if they’ve found him – they might have him now. Make sure they look harder if not.’
‘We will, we are.’ PC French twists in her seat. ‘What’s wrong? Do you know him?’
Bernadette opens the door, taking both drawings with her. She slams it on PC French’s questions and hurries through the dark, feet twisting awkwardly on the cobbles.
Where’s the car? She will know it when she sees it.
And then, in a badly lit spot near a tree she sees it – the black Audi. She recognises the registration plate, the two letters that are coincidentally the same as her first initial and his. She’s been in this vehicle so many times, been in the leather seat and stared out of the window, listened to the music of his choice.
Anticipating the smell of lemon air freshener, Bernadette opens the back door. It’s there like she knew it would be; the laptop bag. All this proof and yet her mind still pushes the truth away. Pursuing the evidence, she opens the bag, finds notepaper, pens, business cards (no need to read one, she knows the name and number embossed in gold), laptop, and a guide to some computer system.
But there is something else Bernadette recognises. Something she didn’t expect, that doesn’t belong among these items and stands out like a baby in a yellow blanket on a ward of all blues and pinks.
It is Conor’s Lifebook.
She opens it at the first page, sees Jim Roger’s messy handwriting and his simple This book is a gift. She turns the page, and another and another and another. So many words, so many stories. Bernadette finds that first letter from Frances; it’s easy to spot as she always wrote in red like she’d dipped the pen in blood. Where’s the part where she mentioned Conor’s father? Bernadette touches the red sentences and reads aloud.
He was dressed nice and there not usually. He talked nice and he said we could just walk by the water and chat and stuff. He wanted to know about my house and me mum and dad. None of them ask that stuff normally. He said he was on a kind of mission and I said what like in the Blues Brothers film? Im sure its him thats your dad cos after him I was ill
a while and there wasnt nobody else. So you come from a nice man.
Bernadette closes the book. She knows the truth and how Conor’s father discovered it.
PC French comes around the corner, approaches the car.
‘Do you want to tell me who he is?’ she asks.
Bernadette looks at the two pictures, hers smooth and his rough. Side by side, it’s like she smiles enigmatically and he watches her. It occurs to Bernadette that just as she has recognised him now, he must have looked at her picture when Conor drew it and pretended innocence.
Or did he admit to Conor that he knew her?
‘Just tell us,’ urges PC French, ‘and then we know who we’re looking for.’
‘You’re looking for my husband,’ says Bernadette.
41
The Book
Conor’s first (and only) entry in his Lifebook.
16/08/09
I will be 8 in November.
I like these things
Number 1 Berndete
Number 2 Ann and Sophie
Number 3 Muhammad Ali
Number 4 drawing stuff
Number 5 cake
Number 6 Saturdays
Number 7 Mum
Number 8 cake
I don’t like this stuff much
Number 1 sprowts
