Motherlove

by Thorne Moore

  Kelly pulled away. She had no words. She wasn’t Roz’s daughter, not by birth, or by monumental clerical cock-up. She was someone else’s stolen child. This was so different from anything she had imagined, so awful that she couldn’t cope with it. She stared at the girl across the table.

  Vicky said, ‘What was wrong with me? What was wrong with you? You loved your baby so much? You’re trying to tell me you were frightened for me? Did you ever, ever bother to think what might become of me? Where I might finish up? Did you?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ whispered Roz.

  ‘Or perhaps it really didn’t matter what happened to me, just as long as you had something to cuddle. Why didn’t you just get yourself a doll? Or a pet? Yes, help yourself to someone else’s pet. Why not? Better than being stuck with me.’ Her bitterness beat around Roz.

  Roz flinched.

  ‘Leave her alone.’ Kelly gripped the back of a chair to keep her balance. ‘She didn’t know what she was doing, all right? It was terrible, but she was upset, confused. And now she’s ill. She can’t cope with this now, with you accusing her. I’m sorry, but just go, will you?’ It probably wasn’t right, leaving this mess like this, but Kelly needed time to find the ground beneath her feet. ‘Please leave us alone.’

  Vicky looked at her. ‘Yes, I might as well. I wanted to know who this woman was who threw me away and took another baby in my place. Now I know. She’s nothing,’ She turned and walked out.

  The slam of the door. ‘Oh Kelly…’ Roz was in tears.

  No. Now the girl was gone, it was Roz that Kelly wanted to shut out. ‘Don’t. I can’t believe this. I can’t believe you could just—’ She wanted to be sick.

  She bolted for the door, flew across the yard as Vicky was getting into her car. ‘Stop!’

  Vicky clicked her seat belt into place, inserted the key into the ignition.

  ‘Don’t!’ Kelly clung to the Mini’s door, holding it open. ‘I didn’t mean it. We can’t leave it. I have to know.’

  Vicky looked at her. ‘Know what?’

  ‘Know what happened. Don’t you see? I thought I was Kelly, but I’m not. You’re Kelly. So who am I?’

  Vicky switched the engine on. ‘I am not Kelly. I am Vicky. She left me to my fate. Right, I’m leaving her to hers. As for who you are, well, you can find that out for yourself, the same way I did. I told you, I found it all in the Lyford Herald. March 1990. Go and read it if you care that much. I’m not sorting out your life for you.’ She pulled the door shut.

  Kelly stood staring after the Mini as it drove away, concentrating on the glimpses of lime green through the hedgerow, the fading engine, so that she wouldn’t have to think about that other thing.

  Not think about it. Just like Roz. Was it a talent she had learned from the woman who had taken her? No. She did face up to things, and she would face up to this.

  She marched back to the house.

  CHAPTER 8

  i

  Lindy

  Gary didn’t want her any more. That was the truth. She was nothing but trouble, he said. A slag who tried to palm another man’s baby onto him, and now she had the whole fucking police force out looking for her.

  She knew he would have been rid of her before this, but Carver didn’t want screaming women being kicked out onto the street and nosy neighbours calling the police. Not yet.

  She hid behind the door, as Gary signalled her to do, when Carver knocked, oh so politely.

  ‘Baby’s been quiet,’ Carver said. ‘Not a cry, not a whimper for two nights now.’ Carver noticed everything.

  ‘Yeah.’ Gary tried a laugh. ‘I kick Lin out to deal with it every time it starts up. Don’t want to wake the whole fucking street.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  A pause. Holding her breath, Lindy could tell, from the jerk of Gary’s head, that Carver was looking at the empty Moses basket.

  ‘She’s taken it out. Walk in the park.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  Gary tried to make a joke of it. ‘You know, fucking women and babies, reckon they actually like them.’

  ‘She’s a mother,’ Carver responded, his deep voice thick with sarcasm.

  ‘Yeah, well—’

  ‘So leave her to it. Keep your hands to yourself. No blue lights, no trips to casualty, no questions asked. Right?’

  ‘That’s right, Carver. No trouble. I’ll see to that.’

  When Carver had gone, Gary was almost wetting himself. Terrified, wanting to hit her and not daring. Not for now, anyway. He stormed off to get drunk, leaving her alone, soaked from aching, swollen tits, in the room cluttered with baby things.

  Carver’s job was going to be soon, she guessed, and then this life of hers would be over. Gary would throw her out no matter how she begged. Or more likely he’d get nicked. He was the sort who always was. Carver would get away but Gary would get caught, and whatever it was, this job, it would be serious, not just a bit of pushing, or something. It would mean big time for him.

  A month ago, Lindy would have grieved. He had been everything to her, her Gary. But now— Now she couldn’t get fussed, because the bit inside her that got fussed wasn’t there any more. There was just a great big hole. Empty as the Moses basket.

  That was what she wanted – not Gary, her baby. She wanted to be feeding her, changing her, washing her. All those little things for her Kelly.

  She could still do the washing and cleaning. She brought out all the Baby Garden stuff, hugging each piece of soft white clothing, because she didn’t have a baby to hold. She even hugged the Pampers.

  She heated water, unearthed the soap powder, filled a bowl in the sink and started washing them all. Stripped the Moses basket of its precious bedding, breathed it in to catch the last of Kelly, then immersed it in the soapy water. Everything should be really clean. That’s what babies needed. No germs or stuff like that.

  She thumped and rubbed and squeezed, and then she rinsed. She wrung everything out, till she couldn’t get out another drop of water, and then she tied string between the two chairs, and hung it all up to dry. She put 50p in the meter and put the electric fire on. Breathing in the steam. It was like a proper baby laundry. Showed she was a good mother. They couldn’t fault her for this.

  It kept her busy, so she didn’t feel the ache so much.

  So busy she didn’t hear footsteps, the click of heels.

  Tyler must have let the woman in, in one of those rare moments when he was sober enough to stand. A sharp rap on the door of her room made her jump. She grabbed a wet sleepsuit defensively as the door opened. Lindy knew what that meant. Authority. People who didn’t think they had to wait to be invited in.

  ‘Rosalind Crowe?’ The woman was brisk, with the sort of official smile that wasn’t friendly at all. A ‘let’s keep this as pleasant as we can, shall we?’ smile. ‘Caroline Rothsay, social services. Do you remember me? We met at the hospital? Can I come in? The door seemed to be open.’

  ‘What you want?’ Lindy said, still hugging the sleepsuit, its dampness spreading across her T-shirt. ‘I ain’t done nuffing.’

  ‘Please, don’t worry. I said I’d call, do you remember? Just to see if we can help.’

  ‘Well you can’t!’

  ‘You never know.’ The Rothsay woman was looking round the room, beady eyes taking in every detail. The steaming washing on the improvised line. The empty basket. ‘You have just had a baby, my dear, and we all know what a difficult time that can be for a new mother. Especially one without support—’

  ‘I got support!’

  ‘The baby’s father? He lives here too, does he?’

  ‘Yeah. Gary. And he won’t want no social services nosing round here.’

  The inevitable tightening of that false smile. ‘I’m afraid that’s not up to him to decide. I have a duty to make sure you are all right. You and little—’ She paused long enough to glance at the notebook she was holding. ‘Kelly. I need to know you’re both fine, doing well, being looked after
properly.’

  ‘I know what social services does. They take kids away. Well, you’re not taking my Kelly away! I can look after her, right!’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure you can. Doing the washing, I see.’

  ‘Yeah! Anything wrong with that?’

  ‘Nothing at all, my dear. It’s excellent.’ She was looking at the empty basket again. ‘And where is little Kelly?’

  ‘Out,’ retorted Lindy. ‘Gary’s got her. Gone to his mum’s with her, so I can do the washing. What’s it to you?’

  ‘Ah. No, no, that’s good. Family support. Gary has a mother helping out. That is very good.’ The social worker was jotting down notes. Then she smiled again at Lindy, with a trace more humanity. ‘You know, Rosalind, we are not all bad. You were taken into care yourself, weren’t you, and I’m sure that must have been very traumatic for you, but sometimes it really is necessary.’

  ‘Yeah but—’

  ‘No one is saying it’s necessary this time. As long as little Kelly is being looked after properly, receiving all the attention she needs – and you too – it’s my job to help, not to hinder. And we can help, you know. In all sorts of ways.’

  That couldn’t be true. No one helped Lindy.

  ‘Just think of me as a friend,’ Caroline Rothsay assured her. ‘You can call on me if you ever need me. And I’ll call on you to see if everything is all right.’

  ‘No need!’

  ‘No, my dear. I am afraid I shall have to call again. I will need to see little Kelly. When she’s not with her grandmother. Tomorrow. Will you try to be in with her, so I can see her?’

  ‘You’re not taking her away!’

  The social worker patted Lindy’s arm. ‘Don’t you fret. I promise I’m not planning any such thing. I’ll call tomorrow, and we’ll talk things through. Fill in a few details, complete a few forms. No need to worry about a thing.’

  She was going. Lindy wanted to kick the door shut behind her, but instead she listened to the woman’s shoes click-clicking down the stairs. She went to the window, and looked out as the Rothsay woman emerged into the street, with a backward glance of faint disgust at the house.

  Caroline Rothsay paused, opened a case, produced a clipboard and a pen. Lindy, looking straight down on her, could see the sheet of names. Hers, Rosalind Crowe — 128 Nelson Road — Kelly. Lindy could read her own name and address easily enough. There were other names too. A couple had already been crossed out. The woman was beginning to cross Lindy’s out too, but she stopped, put a question mark instead. Then she put her clipboard away, glanced at her watch and marched away.

  Lindy looked after her with loathing. No social worker was going to take her baby away.

  She looked back at the clothes drying, the empty basket. They couldn’t take Kelly. She didn’t have Kelly. Kelly was gone, and no matter how hard she wished it otherwise, Kelly wouldn’t come back.

  What if she asked for her? She’d heard people talking about it on the local radio. The abandoned baby. A policeman asking the mother to come forward, saying she wouldn’t be in any trouble, they just wanted to help. Yeah, like the social services wanted to help. Lindy had heard other people on the radio too, calling in, saying she should be strung up, forcibly sterilised, she wasn’t fit to have babies. That was what it would really come to if she did come forward. The police snarling at her, doctors, social workers looking down on her. Probably just put her in prison. She’d never get to keep Kelly if she went to them.

  What if that woman started checking up. Gary didn’t have a mother. What if she came back and Gary was here and there was still no baby? She was coming back. It was only when you really needed them that those people didn’t show up. She’d be back tomorrow, with forms and orders, and maybe a policeman in tow, and a thin-lipped cow with hard eyes to seize the baby and take it away.

  Lindy wouldn’t be here. Had to shop, didn’t she? Had to go out, and take the baby with her. She could stay out all day if she needed to.

  ii

  Heather

  ‘You really should let me take you, dear.’ Barbara Norris was insistent. She had moved back to her own home but still she couldn’t resist coming round each day, with another knitted jacket for Gigi, or a toy for Bibs, or yet another hotpot. Just to see if Heather needed her help. ‘It won’t take me quarter of an hour to run you in. And I could always—’

  ‘Look, thanks, Barbara, but really, I’d prefer to go by bus.’ Heather was determined to keep it pleasant. Having her mother-in-law under their roof had dangerously strained their relationship. Things needed to get back onto tolerant separate tracks. ‘I know you think I’m daft, but I just want the chance to manage on my own again. I can cope fine with the bus.’

  ‘I thought managing on your own was becoming a teensy bit of an issue?’ Barbara could smile and smile and still be a mother-in-law. ‘Poor Martin has begun to feel quite guilty about leaving you alone all day, although Lord knows what he’s supposed to do about it.’ Yes, she was going to nurse every complaint, reasonable and unreasonable, that Heather made. ‘I just thought I could help, in his place.’

  ‘Thank you, really. But, today, I’m fine, and I want to prove I can manage.’

  Not that getting into town for a dental check-up was going to be a doddle, on the bus, with a frisky toddler and a new-born baby, but Heather could cope. She was sure of it. The new buses were easier, more accommodating, and she was going to be well clear of rush hour. Of course, when they’d moved here she should have changed dentists, like the doctor, found a nearer practice, but she hadn’t got round to it. Maybe next time.

  And maybe a baby sling next time. She’d seen a mother in the next street with one and thought what a wonderful way it was to carry her baby. Against her breast, feeling her all the time against her own body. But maybe a bit avant-garde for the Hopcroft. The mother did draw a few disapproving stares and sniggers. Anyway, Heather couldn’t afford to think about buying something new, when she had the old fashioned but perfectly serviceable carry-cot pram that Bibs had used, donated by Martin’s sister when her three had done with it. A bit of a handful, but Heather had learned how to have it up and down in no time when a bus appeared.

  Eleven o’clock. The buses weren’t crowded at this time of day, so no jostling. The driver was relaxed enough to give her a hand, and most of the passengers were old ladies, keen to inspect the sleeping infant. Abigail, under their scrutiny, was as good as gold. Bibs was not. A bus was a place to run up and down, if a little unsteadily, making aeroplane noises. Or was it supposed to be a mechanical digger?

  ‘Bibs, come here and sit down!’ said Heather for the twelfth time, trying not to let her irritation show. Bibs clambered onto the seat opposite her and jumped up and down, looking out of the window. A few frowns of disapproval now from the old ladies. Well, what was she supposed to do? He wasn’t molesting them, was he?

  The bus was busier by the time they reached the town centre. Reassembling the pram in the general rush to exit, she barked her shins, and nearly lost hold of Bibs.

  A brisk walk to the dentist’s. Not far, but uphill. Other pedestrians staked their claim to the pavement as if gold had just been discovered there.

  ‘Take a seat in the waiting room,’ said the receptionist, and Heather was glad of the chance to sit, though she was up every few minutes to drag Bibs back. Then Abigail woke and wanted a feed. Faced with a grumpy old man and two leery teenage boys, Heather retreated to the cramped toilet, begging Bibs not to start whining.

  Abigail was hungry, not to be rushed. When Heather emerged, she had missed her go, and had to wait another half an hour. Her check-up would have been quicker if the dentist’s nurse had not spent most of the time trying to keep Bibs from helping himself to all the instruments. What had got into the boy? Was he being deliberately difficult?

  No, she admitted. He was being his usual self, exploring his potential, pushing his limits. He was just like this at home, but at home it didn’t matter. It gave Barbara something to tut a
bout, but Heather could cope with him. Out in town, with things to do, it was another matter.

  This was a mistake, she thought, emerging at last onto the street, this pointless bid for freedom. She should have accepted Barbara’s offer of a lift, or left the children in their grandmother’s care. Why had she had to be so obstinate? Still, it was done now, and there was nothing for it but to tackle the bus again and get them all home. Maybe when she was back at her front door, she would feel suitably triumphant. But for now, with no Barbara to notice, she just felt weary.

  At least the walk back to the bus stop was downhill. Bibs decided an old iron bollard at the entrance to Miller’s Lane was exactly what he needed to clamber on, but there was a number 42, the last of the queue just boarding.

  ‘Bibs! Come on!’ Could she do it? Run with the pram and a toddler?

  Bibs would not budge.

  ‘I said come on!’ She grabbed him and tugged him howling behind her. She would do it if the bus driver chose to be generous. He could see her hurrying, surely?

  Maybe he could, but it wasn’t his generous day. The doors hissed closed and the bus swung out into the traffic.

  ‘Shit!’ Heather came to a halt, ignoring a look of disgust from an old lady. ‘Please shut up, Bibs!’

  The boy continued to howl.

  What now? Wait here another half an hour for the next 42? Walk to the bus station? A hundred yards down the road was the shelter for the number 43. Every quarter of an hour, to the other side of the Hopcroft estate. Take that and deal with a long walk home at the other end?

  Bibs was bawling still, dragging back towards his chosen bollard.

  ‘Listen,’ said Heather. ‘How about we go to the park? Swings and roundabouts?’

  Bibs stopped crying instantly.