The Mountain in My Shoe

by Louise Beech

  But it’s open now.

  Loads of words come out. I ask if it hurts when you drown and if she is mad cos I made Dad Paul go in the water and what it was like to see a dead body and can I still tell them at school that I have a normal family now and was Dad Paul like her best friend or anything.

  Now Bernadette’s mouth is the one stuck shut. She puts her cup of tea down and she looks at me for a long time. Then she squashes me to her stinky old cupboard coat and holds me there. I don’t move.

  I never want to move.

  I will stay here forever.

  This is where I’m supposed to be.

  58

  The Book

  Hull Social Services Report – Yvonne Jones (Social Worker)

  Home visit to Conor Jordan (D.O.B. 10/11/01)

  Date: 29/09/12

  Summary

  Following the death of Richard Shaw (Conor’s birth father) I visited Conor at home where he has been living with Anne Williams for five years. Yesterday (28/09/12) was the funeral. Conor attended with Anne and his volunteer Bernadette.

  Richard Shaw had picked Conor up from school on Thursday 20/09/12 and took him and his mother Frances to Hull Marina, where Conor fell in the water and was rescued by Mr Shaw, who was sadly unable to climb out himself and was later found dead.

  Frances confirms that Mr Shaw is Conor’s father. Mr Shaw’s own entry in Conor’s Lifebook (see previous page) indicates that he had a brief relationship with Frances. Bernadette (Mr Shaw’s wife/Conor’s volunteer) confirms that there’s a physical resemblance between them and that she has ‘no doubt Richard is his father’.

  Last time I visited (21/09/12) Conor would not come out of his bedroom, but this time he sat downstairs with us. Anne expressed how proud she is of how he has handled the tragedy and told me he’s been eating small amounts and sleeping on the sofa for now, watching his DVDs to wind down. Conor looked healthy and spoke about how glad he is that he has a dad now and asked if he can have a photograph of him, which Anne said Bernadette is going to arrange for him. I spoke with Anne about whether Conor might see a grief counsellor and she said she will see how Conor goes, as he is handling everything remarkably well and he said he feels sad like he should but not angry like when George died.

  Access

  Conor will continue to see his mother Frances regularly at her home in Doncaster, where she lives with her three-year-old daughter Kayleigh. He still sees her twice a month. Anne reported that he continues to enjoy these visits. Conor has expressed deep affection for his mother following the experience at the Marina on 20/09/12. I feel the knowledge of his birth father has strengthened things. This relationship continues to be a positive and visits should continue at this level.

  Assessment

  When I was with Conor for ten minutes he asked whether he will ever be able to go and stay at Bernadette’s house, since this is where his father lived. I understand this will overstep the boundaries BFL have in place. A further assessment will be made as to whether Conor might visit Mrs Shaw’s home. Anne said she wishes to continue fostering only Conor for as long as he needs her. I’m happy with Conor’s progress in this placement. There are no plans to change it. Twice-monthly access with mother Frances will continue. Future meeting with his sibling, Sam, is to be in two weeks when Frances will take them both to Hull Fair, with respective social workers.

  29th September 2012

  To Conor,

  I hope your doing ok. Im glad you now know who your dad is and that you met him even though all this horrible stuff happened. Im sorry I didnt tell you about your dads name. I shouldve told you more but I never thought hed come back again. It wasnt his name anyway. All this time I thought he mite have the same name as my brother. Your friend Bernadette rang me up yesterday and we talked a bit, shes nice I see why you like her so much. She loves you a lot, its just mental that she ends up married to your real dad. We had a long chat about something she mite like to do. I cant say here cos I don’t know wot mite go on. I have to think real long and hard about it though. My mum kept us all even when it was really hard and I havent been a mum like her. Had five babies one stillborn one dead a few years ago. Only been really there for one. Im sad Andy Richard died but Im glad he got you out of the water. I was so scared wen you fell in and I feel so bad that I didnt go right in after you but I cant swim, God I wanted to I was going to I really was. Then Andy your dad did. He got you right back to me and I pulled u up but when I reached back for him he had gone. I yelled and yelled and couldnt see him anywhere. Then the police turned up. He mite of been wrong to have took you from school like that and take us both to the marina but he wasn’t thinking right cos hed only just found out about you by reading your book. Wen he come for me he told me I shouldve gone n told him wen I got pregnant with you but I didnt no where he was. And I never thought hed be bothered. Now he is and its too late. Hull Fair comes soon and I said Id take you and Sam and I will. You can go on all the rides you like. I think I shouldve done more in your book. I never seen it cos they just take my letter n stick it in. Bernadette told me Andy your dad wrote something for you in it. Im glad and I hope it helps you know stuff and that you got his own words from him. I dont no what will happen in the future but I do want you to no that I really really love you I really do and always will.

  Love,

  Your Mum xxx

  59

  Bernadette

  The funeral is small, intimate, and the church much too big for the few guests. In a wooden pew near the coffin Bernadette’s parents sit on either side of her, quietly supportive. She embraced her father tightly when they arrived last night, letting his familiar wool and hard-boiled-sweet scent wash over her. Both remained in the hug for a good two minutes while Bernadette’s mother fussed over how Tower Rise was much too large and cold, how she’d never liked it and thought Bernadette should find somewhere smaller.

  Now Bernadette’s mother doesn’t fuss or ask questions; she whispers Amen at the end of each prayer. The word makes Bernadette reach into her pocket and touch the gold locket. Together in death as in life. She couldn’t wear it, instead hung it from the bedpost so the late evening light caught it and reflected a gold heart on the nearby wall. All she knows is where it belongs today.

  Brittle leaves blow in through the back doors, like children leaving school in a tumult of excitement. Bernadette turns to look at Conor, sitting in the pew behind with Anne and Frances. He’s wearing a burgundy waistcoat just too big like he’s borrowed it for the day. Anne must have brushed his hair the opposite way to usual because it rebels and is stuck up, just as that one stubborn strand of Richard’s always did. Bernadette watches him follow the words of the prayer on his service sheet, frowning at the ones he probably finds alien.

  Frances said earlier that she will stay only for the church service, to pay her respects, but that she’s not family enough to attend the party later, despite Bernadette insisting she is. Bernadette is touched that she appears to have chosen her best suit, a sharply ironed lead-grey one that Richard might have admired. Anne comforts her when she cries at the choice of hymn. Bernadette hears Frances admit she is just sad because she should have done more.

  Don’t they all feel that way?

  Conor looks up and sees Bernadette watching him. She smiles but he doesn’t. Instead he shakes his head solemnly and puts a finger to his lips. Later he explains it is because you mustn’t smile at a funeral as it’s mean to the dead, and Bernadette assures him you can do whatever you want when it’s your own family. She wishes she could be described as Conor’s family; Frances is his birth mother, Anne his foster mum, and Richard his father. Bernadette is merely his volunteer friend.

  How can she be more?

  The leaves at the back swirl fiercely about the stone floor. Following their dance leads Bernadette’s eyes to a figure by the farthest pillar, near the font where new babies are christened. Ruth. She’s wearing black clothes and less make-up, though her red hair still stands out like fire on a
dark night.

  Bernadette guesses she has read the obituaries in the paper, or seen the brief news coverage of Richard’s death. Bernadette couldn’t bring herself to let the woman know he’d gone. She kept looking at her sugar-pink card. It was a colour you might pick for announcing a baby or wedding, not give to men wanting sex. But she didn’t call her.

  Now, surprisingly, she is not angry or put out to see Ruth. She supposes she has a right to say goodbye too. They lock eyes for a moment, two women whose only connection is via a man left scarred by his fatherless, God-fearing childhood. They are not likely to see one another again and yet they have each been living their lives in the shadow of the other for three years. Without Ruth, Bernadette would never have fully known Richard, and for this she is sad but grateful.

  Bernadette returns her eyes to the front of the church, to the priest, to the flowers, and the coffin containing her husband. None of the people here really know him, not like she and Ruth do. Not his work friends, not an ex-neighbour from Tower Rise, not Richard’s Uncle Tom and two adult nephews. But she’s glad. She doesn’t want them to.

  This is where she’s supposed to say goodbye to him. But she already said goodbye. Really, she’s been very slowly saying goodbye to Richard from the moment she met Conor.

  This is just the Amen.

  At the cemetery Conor throws his drawing of George, Shana and Richard on the coffin as it’s lowered into the ground. He cries a little and Bernadette kneels down and puts his head on her shoulder. This is no time for boundaries. There is no rule in a book to dictate what is or isn’t right when comforting a small boy at the graveside of the father he’s just found.

  Finally, Bernadette throws the gold locket onto the coffin. Together in death as in life. No words. No Amen.

  Knowing she’s still officially Conor’s volunteer and can’t invite him to her house, Bernadette has chosen to hold a small party in the upstairs room of a local pub, offering sandwiches and quiche to guests. She tries to be a good hostess. People who don’t know each other make small talk. Conor collects cups and asks who wants cake. Bernadette’s parents – who know him only as the boy Bernadette volunteers for – fuss about his overly polished shoes and waistcoat. There will be time when things settle down to explain to them who Conor really is.

  Who will he be to her when she can no longer be his volunteer?

  Bernadette sits on a stool in the corner of the room and watches everyone. A thought planted itself in her head recently; at first it floated about as though unsure where to go, but now it takes root and grows a little. It came in the days following Richard’s death and it blossoms as she now watches Conor fiddle with his rebellious hair strands. She doesn’t know how likely it is that it could happen, or exactly how to go about it. But for now it makes her smile and forget all the unpleasantness of the last week.

  People begin to leave. Conor goes with Anne, taking a box of left-over cake. Bernadette says goodbye to her parents. Suddenly she wants to run after the car like she did the time they went on holiday without her as a child.

  But she just waves, and goes home.

  60

  The Book

  * Please stick in this letter received from Jim Rogers – thanks

  1st October 2012

  Hi Conor,

  Messy handwriting alert!

  Some things never change. My writing is no better than it was when I used to write in your book, perhaps it’s worse with my arthritis. It’s now eight years since I was your social worker but I have never forgotten you. (I learned from Yvonne that you sadly lost both your brother George and your real father.)

  I read about George’s death in the newspaper and wanted to write something then. Instead I came to the funeral but just stood quietly at the back of the church. I watched you put a picture you’d drawn on the coffin. (I’m glad you still draw.) Gosh, I’m glad you have lived for a long time with a good foster carer.

  Of course I’m glad too that you finally know who your father is but it’s such a shame that your time with him was cut short. Still, perhaps some time is better than no time at all. I remember once writing to you about how so many things make us, like our family, our history, and circumstances. Even though tragedy has taken him from you, I think this will make you too.

  Anyway, I just wanted to send a short note and express my respects for your loss. I know you will be eighteen when you read this (and it may all seem far in the past by now) but I can say good luck in your adult life, whatever it brings or doesn’t.

  Jim

  61

  Bernadette

  Bernadette’s routine has changed.

  It’s not that she intentionally altered it, it’s just that her natural rhythm is off, like a winter snowdrop flowering in July. When Richard was alive she could barely keep her eyes open after ten. Now she can’t sleep before midnight. It’s then that she sees him. In dreams he comes from the river, locket clutched in dripping hand. He rattles the door handle to get in and Bernadette wakes, bathed in cold sweat, crying, ‘No, I won’t stay!’

  Unsettled by stillness interrupted only by a change in weather or danger on the river, Bernadette then gets up in the dark, makes tea and sits by the lounge window. Only when the sun appears over the trees does Richard disappear; he is a ghost that the sun melts.

  In the days after last week’s funeral she broke things. She smashed the thin-rimmed cup he always drank coffee in. She threw his laptop in the bath, where it cracked with a satisfying crunch. She went through his suits, pulling them off hangers and ripping them, before lying amongst them, sobbing.

  This morning Bernadette doesn’t return to sleep after sunrise, despite dreams of Richard’s damp footprints around the flat leaving her exhausted. Today there are things to be done. In the kitchen she makes a boiled egg with bread soldiers, just how Richard liked them; the egg almost too hard to dip into, the toast cut in small, neat squares. As soon as they’re on the plate she realises what she’s done; she crushes the soldiers into breadcrumbs and throws them in the bin. She makes milky coffee and eats a banana.

  Taking her coffee into the lounge, Bernadette sits by the window. She looks at the bookshelf, skimming paperbacks for that lemony spine with no words to identify it. It isn’t there. Of course not, it’s back where it belongs – at Anne’s.

  Will Conor want to know everything? Certainly not now, aged ten; but what about when he’s eighteen? Bernadette supposes he will figure it out himself. He’ll work out what kind of women Richard talked about in his letter and he’ll likely find out that his own mother is a prostitute too.

  Perhaps Bernadette should simply tell Conor what his father liked: walks by water, movies from the seventies, sometimes singing quietly in the shower. And how he never forgot a birthday or anniversary. Maybe those are the truths you give a child who never had the chance to know a parent. The other truths – his last threat – are gone. Cannot hurt anyone now.

  The phone rings, intrusive.

  ‘It’s just me,’ says Anne. ‘How are you?’

  ‘It’s so quiet,’ says Bernadette. She hasn’t told Anne about what Ruth revealed to her. She will never tell anyone that.

  ‘When Sean died I missed his snoring,’ says Anne. ‘It kept me up for hours, but when he’d gone I longed to hear those grunts again.’

  ‘Anne.’ Bernadette pauses. She looks at the trees. The leaves are leaving. She smiles and it hurts her face. ‘There’s something I’ve been thinking about … but I’m not sure…’

  ‘Tell me?’

  ‘I’ve looked into it, read some websites. I have to know what you think first.’ Bernadette pauses. ‘I’d like to adopt Conor.’

  ‘That’s wonderful,’ says Anne, immediately, her voice full of smiles. ‘If it was something you could do, I’d back you. I can’t think of anything better. But Frances – she’ll never say yes. Never has all these years.’

  ‘I rang her after the funeral – I copied her number from your book. Maybe wine made me brave or maybe s
omething happens when you bury someone?’ Learning Richard’s final intention had somehow compelled her into action too. ‘I suddenly felt I can’t waste the next ten years like I have the last. It might not be possible. I’ve read how difficult the process can be.’

  ‘What did Frances think?’

  ‘She said she’d have to think and I understand.’

  ‘Goodness,’ says Anne. ‘It’s such a lot to take in.’

  ‘How’s Conor?’ asks Bernadette.

  ‘He’s doing fine. It’s like the joy of finally knowing a father has lessened the fact that he died – as if the bereavement hasn’t taken him away but given him something. Does that make sense? He’s excited for Hull Fair with his mum.’

  ‘Children are so wonderfully simple,’ smiles Bernadette.

  ‘All he talked about at breakfast was which rides he’ll go on and what colour candy floss he’ll pick.’

  Bernadette puts her forehead against the window’s cool glass, needing the wake up. ‘Richard’s haunting me,’ she says. ‘His ghost is here.’

  ‘Then leave; it would be easy. You don’t own it. Hand in your notice.’

  Anne is right. There’s nothing keeping her at Tower Rise. The things she loves – her books, the soft furnishings she made – are portable. But the view she’s enjoyed for ten years isn’t. The treetops like rows of children in green school uniform. Perhaps Conor might paint them for her. Even though he can’t come here she can photograph the scene and ask him to draw it. Financially, moving is possible. Bernadette was surprised to find that Richard had a life insurance policy. And even without it, she can work now. Though her CV is sparse, she has volunteered for the last five years, which always makes an applicant look good.