by Louise Beech
Conor met his siblings Sam and George again on 18/03/09, six months after the first meeting. Sam’s health has deteriorated in recent months, and the foster carer is having trouble coping. The meeting didn’t go as well as previously. Sam didn’t engage with his brothers and Conor lashed out at Sam’s carer, calling her a dog. George got upset. An assessment will be made in six months with regards to another meeting.
Signed:
Yvonne Jones
45
Conor
I’m sleepy. So sleepy. Am I still in the water?
No. Not cold but warm and fuzzy. Where did they all go? I remember now. Paul got me out. No, not Paul. My dad. He let me go but then I realised it was only cos Mum had hold of me and dragged me back onto the wood. Where’s Mum? I remember Bernadette was there too at some point.
Where is she now?
Anne’s here. We must be in an ambulance cos I can hear the siren thing. Somewhere inside I’m excited cos I’ve never been in one. Yes, I have. Of course. They said I went in one when my legs burnt. But I don’t remember that so really this is the first time. My legs are tingling though. All hot and sharp like they remember that time.
Anne is talking. Some of her words don’t reach my ears, like they got sucked out the ambulance. But I put the other ones together and it all makes sense. That’s cos we know each other. That’s what you do when you know each other.
She says, Just rest and you’ll be okay.
I want to ask where everyone went but there’s this mask thing on my face. So I try and get it off but Anne stops me and says, Let it be, you need extra oxygen to recover.
Then one of the hospital misters says that word again – delirious. I don’t know what it means but if it’s sort of sleepy and happy and cold and warm too, then he’s right. The bouncing of the ambulance is nice. Anne’s face is blurry like she’s the one in water. The misters are saying stuff about dry drowning and difficulty breathing and lethargy. Sounds like an episode of that show Casualty. And it wears me out just listening.
So I fall asleep again.
When I wake up I’m in hospital. The bed is stiff and the pillow smells weird. First thing I think is that I’ve gone to live in some new home, which is crazy cos I haven’t done that for like years now. But then I realise I’ve still got that oxygen thingy on my face and Anne leans over me and tells me where I am. She kisses my forehead and says that they have to do some blood tests and make sure my oxygen levels are back to normal and keep me warm and monitor me. I’ll probably stay in overnight, which would be cool if I could have planned it and brought all my stuff. Like a sleepover but without the ghost stories.
I can’t seem to stay awake for long. My eyes get heavy again straight away and I fall asleep.
I dream that everyone has come to see me. Sophie comes in first with a new Doctor Who magazine. She was in it once cos she wrote in about a Tardis she made out of cardboard and they used the photo.
Then there’s Bernadette and she’s got my Lifebook. I know all about it. It’s not a book like you get at the library, not a made-up one. It’s about me. Can’t read it till I’m eighteen but I’ve seen it in Anne’s house. The pages are all crinkly and there’s things stuck in it and I wrote a note for it one time.
Mum’s even in my dream but she stays near the door for some reason.
I look hard for Paul – no, my dad. But he doesn’t come.
Is he still in the river?
When I wake up I don’t have the mask on. Anne is asleep in the chair near my bed. It’s dark. Suddenly I feel real dark too. Want to get up and run out of this shit place. Try and get up but there’s this dumb thing in my arm. Reckon if I don’t leave soon they’ll put me down like they did Shana. She was so hurt they had to kill her. Was my fault. Didn’t hold her tight enough.
Paul – Dad – held me tight.
But was it tight enough?
Anne shuffles about and then wakes up. She rushes to the bed and tells me not to struggle. I have never ever said a bad word to Anne but I do now. I say the worst one of all. And then I feel so crap cos she doesn’t even mind. She still kisses me and says I’m just feeling down because I’m exhausted.
You have been through a lot, she says.
I can’t feel mad for long when Anne’s there.
I go back to sleep.
When I wake up she’s still there, sitting on the bed. If I could have a pen now and draw her she might not like it much. She’s all black lines and tomato-sauce-red skin. I don’t tell her this though. She’s looking at me real strange. Like as though I also changed how I look.
I don’t know what time it is now.
Have they found Paul? I ask her.
Anne shakes her head. It doesn’t mean anything really. He could have climbed out of the river and gone home and none of them know where he lives so they won’t be able to get him. I hope he doesn’t get into trouble for getting me from school. They’re always going on about how you shouldn’t go with anyone you don’t know, but he’s my dad. Wait until I tell Stan Chiswick.
Anne says that she just spoke to Bernadette and there’s no news yet about Paul. Then she grabs my hand and her eyes get all watery. She says that she knows about Paul. That he is my dad. She tells me I’ve been very brave dealing with it all but I don’t know what she means. The hard part was when I didn’t know.
Anne says she has something else to tell me but she will wait until I feel stronger. I am strong. Didn’t she just say I was brave?
I hate waiting to hear about stuff. Done it lots. Waiting to hear if I’ll go and live here or there. Waiting to hear if Mum will see me or not. Waiting to find out if dogs are dead.
So I turn away from Anne and close my eyes.
When I open them again there’s a nurse looking at the bleepy stuff near my bed and she smiles at me and calls me little soldier. When she’s gone Anne says she’ll explain a little bit about the something else.
She says that Paul isn’t called Paul, or even Andy.
I tell her, well, of course I know that. He’s called Dad. And then I go, Doh, cos he will have a proper name too of course.
Anne says his real name is Richard and that Bernadette knows him very well. Wow. That’s cool. Bernadette will know where he lives. I tell Anne they can go and look at his house then in case he got out the river and went home.
She shakes her head, says he isn’t there. Bernadette called from the place he lives and he didn’t go home.
This is so mega. If Bernadette can get to his house she’ll be able to take me to see him. She’ll know which bus to get. So when he gets saved and stuff we can like all hang together.
Then I get my detective head on and ask how did Bernadette know she knew Paul if he’s still in the river? Anne reminds me about the pictures I drew in the car. She says Bernadette saw one I did of my dad and told the police officer she knew him. I always knew my art would do good stuff.
That’s what Mrs Connelly said once when we used to do lessons together. It was just me and her and she didn’t have any rules like the other teachers. She let me draw what I wanted and we just looked at all this art in her books. One man actually cut his ear off. Totally did. But it didn’t matter cos he was good. He had a weird name and started drawing when he was a kid and then painted sunflowers. No one liked his stuff till he was dead. Mrs Connelly told me that it didn’t matter cos if a work of art makes a difference to just one person then it succeeds.
So I guess my art succeeded cos Bernadette has seen my dad in it. Don’t feel tired now. Want to go home. Want to ring Bernadette. Anne tells me it’s the middle of the night and they won’t let me go until morning and Bernadette might be sleeping. I bet she isn’t.
Doesn’t feel like the middle of the night. When you’re in a room with no windows you get confused. Never gonna get back to sleep with all this cool stuff in my head. Wish I could watch one of my DVDs. When I watch Muhammad Ali go side to side on his feet it makes me all relaxed. Anne is always amazed cos she says it ma
kes her feel jumpy. But not me. When I lie in bed and watch him dance like that I fall asleep.
So I close my eyes and picture him.
And I see Mark who was my mate when I lived at Georgina’s and showed me how to punch a cushion when I was mad. I see Shana the dog and she’s wagging her tail like she did when I said I’d take her for a walk. She’s not mad at me. And then at last I see my dad. Don’t even call him Paul. He comes into the room and I’m not even sure if I’m just picturing him now or dreaming or awake.
Doesn’t matter.
Dad comes and sits on the bed and his hair is all wet. It’s gone a bit wiggly like mine does after a bath. He talks in his slow soft voice that’s not like people round here. Says he’s real tired and can he just lie next to me for a bit while he gets his breath. Of course I let him. Don’t even care if the sheets get all wet.
And he goes to sleep. Next to me. I even dare touch his wet hair dead quick. He doesn’t move, just breathes and breathes, and I do too and go to sleep.
When I wake up he isn’t there and they must have changed my covers cos they’re not even wet. Doesn’t matter.
I know he was here.
46
Bernadette
Bernadette goes to Richard’s desk and hunts through the drawers for sticky tape or pins. Then she takes the two pictures she has brought with her from the riverside to the wall where her bookshelf is and unrolls the one Conor drew of her face. Carefully she pins it above the books and stands back and admires the mastery of Conor’s lines and shading, thinking, not for the first time, that his ability makes her heart ache. The sketch of Richard she puts on the coffee table, beneath the Lifebook so the creases flatten; perhaps Conor might like this one for his own wall.
There is someone Bernadette must call.
But first she must know how Conor is, so she rings Anne to find out. Anne explains that he’ll be on a ventilator for a while, and that they’re keeping him in until morning, but he’s fine. Bernadette has been telling Anne her stories all evening and now she has to tell her the most incredible one of all – that Richard is Conor’s real father.
The silence on the phone line is a clenched hand letting go of Bernadette’s neck. Eventually Anne says, ‘I really am lost now.’
We all are, thinks Bernadette. We all are.
When they finish, Bernadette hangs up. A sound. The trees? She goes to the window, half expects a shadowy Richard to be crawling along the gravel. Nothing. Her heart takes minutes to slow down.
She goes back to the phone and calls the number she usually avoids. After three rings the woman called Ruth answers, and asks, ‘Is that you, Richard?’
‘No, it’s Bernadette.’
‘Has he come back yet?’
‘No. But I know where he is.’
‘Is he okay?’ asks Ruth.
‘That I don’t know,’ says Bernadette. ‘But I want you to tell me who you are and what your interest is in my husband.’
‘Just tell me he’s okay.’
‘I can’t. You said you know where I live, and that you’d come and explain it all to me if Richard still wasn’t back. He isn’t so you should come. I’m here and I’m not going anywhere. Bring his phone with you please.’ Bernadette hangs up before Ruth can respond; she should keep the line free now in case anyone calls with news.
Now she must wait and see if Ruth comes to Tower Rise. Wait and see if Richard is found. If he returns. Waiting is much harder than searching. At least when she was out looking for Conor with Anne they were occupied, had purpose. Here there’s nothing but time and that’s never kind to a waiting woman. Bernadette must fill it.
So she makes a plate of meat-paste sandwiches and eats them in the lounge window, looking out at the trees silhouetted against sky. She feels surprisingly strong. It’s like the preceding evening has prepared her, just as running six hours a day might ready a runner for the big marathon event.
If Bernadette does leave Tower Rise – with Richard’s absence she’s even less sure what the future holds – she will miss the trees. If only she could uproot them and plant them elsewhere. She’ll just have to get new ones and watch them grow from babies into adults. Conor will love the Tower Rise woods too. He may finally get to see them, to collect their leaves and climb onto their lower branches.
A strange feeling of jealousy envelopes the thought, like an itchy coat on bare arms. Conor was hers, but now she must share him with Richard, must understand that their bond is one she might never have with a child.
A knock on the door. Bernadette freezes. Richard? No, he’d rattle the handle, try to get in, demand why the chain is on. She puts her empty plate down and goes into the corridor. The police? Surely they would ring first.
When she opens the door she knows immediately that this is the woman who Richard took to Bob’s house. Bob’s description fits perfectly; she’s glamorous in an overly colourful way, decorated with gold earrings, butterfly hair attachments and sparkling bangles, as though dressed for a role. Perhaps at home she peels off the costume and puts on jogging bottoms and a T-shirt, but here she is ready for a show. Red hair, too bright to be natural, is pinned up in places and hangs free in others. Crimson lipstick gives her thin lips fatness, and pink gives her cheeks a blush. Her skin says early twenties but the eyes are older. Conor, with a pencil and sheet of paper, would have much to work with.
Bernadette realises that because she’s standing in the light she’ll appear shadowy to this woman. She’s glad of the protection. She imagines how dull she must look in comparison, hair not brushed since the morning, face dull with the night’s worries and dirt. Should she care? She can’t help it.
This woman should be her rival, but she feels more like she must prove she is stronger than Richard.
‘Ruth,’ says Bernadette.
She nods. ‘You don’t look anything like I expected.’
Bernadette wonders what this woman did expect. She wants to say that strangely Ruth is exactly how she imagined. Instead she opens the door wider and says, ‘Come in.’
She leads Ruth into the lounge and offers her the sofa, asks if she would like a drink.
‘I don’t suppose you mean something stronger than tea?’
‘There might be whisky,’ says Bernadette, remembering the rush it had given her at Andrew’s house earlier. The thought of that kick again is good. She’s sure there’s some in the kitchen but it’s in the pantry and she hates going in there. ‘I’ll see.’
At the pantry door Bernadette waits. The dark space has had this effect on her ever since that first time Richard was late. Now he’s so late it should simply be called absent. Didn’t PC French earlier, when asking them about Conor, explain that there are certain types of missing? That most children eventually come home, tired, hungry and sorry for causing any trouble.
Will Richard be sorry for anything?
She opens the pantry door, reaches for the whisky without stepping into the darkness and slams it shut again. There’s no mixer so she simply pours two generous portions into glasses, throws in ice and takes them back to the lounge.
Ruth is looking at Conor’s drawing of Richard. ‘Wow, it really looks like him. Did you do it?’
Bernadette wants to say no, his son did, but she’s tired of telling stories tonight; Ruth is here to do that. Bernadette gives her a drink and stands by the bookshelf with hers. If she sits down she’s making herself familiar with this stranger, consenting fully to her existence in Richard’s life, and she doesn’t yet know what that existence is.
‘Did you bring Richard’s phone?’
Ruth rummages in a multi-pocketed red leather bag and throws it on the coffee table, where it lands away from the Lifebook as though afraid of it.
‘How long have you had it?’ Bernadette asks.
‘Since Saturday,’ says Ruth. ‘Thought I told you that.’ She drinks the whisky like it’s lemonade.
Bernadette sips her drink, enjoying the fire in her throat, and studies Ruth until she looks
away.
‘So where’s Richard?’ Ruth asks after a moment.
‘No, you answer questions first. Who are you to him?’ Bernadette could be unkind and say she’s not his preferred type, that Richard likes his women pure and clean, but any anger she has is not towards Ruth. ‘Were you with Richard when he fixed a computer in Greatfield during his lunch hour last Saturday?’
‘I was. But it wasn’t his lunch hour.’
‘Well, his break,’ snaps Bernadette. ‘Whatever it was.’
‘No, I mean, Richard wasn’t on a break.’ Ruth talks kindly, as though she knows the words will be harsh enough. ‘He doesn’t work on Saturdays.’
‘What are you talking about? He’s always worked Saturdays.’ Bernadette is surprised to find that her glass is empty. She puts it on the shelf. ‘Don’t you think I know what my own husband does? He leaves at nine for work and every other Saturday I go out shortly after. It’s how I’ve been able to volunteer all this time.’
Ruth puts her empty glass on the coffee table; they are equal.
‘No, he doesn’t,’ she says softly. ‘He has never worked Saturdays. But I do. That’s when he’s with me – when I’m working. I’m a prostitute, Bernadette.’
47
The Book
21st May 2010 Hull City Council
Young Ferens Art Prize 2010 competition
Dear Conor Jordan’s Parent/Guardian,
We are delighted to tell you that Conor has won first place in the Young Ferens Art Prize 2010 Under-10 category for his stunning artwork. His 3ftx3ft pencil sketch of Muhammad Ali’s face unanimously delighted our judges. It will hang in the gallery as part of an Icons collection for the rest of the year.
