by Ashe Barker
I wait, watching her face for any sign that there’s life at the other end. She makes eye contact, shakes her head doubtfully.
“No one picking up just yet. They may be in a team meeting. If you want to wait a few minutes, I’ll try them again.”
“Couldn’t you try now? Please.” I may be overreacting, probably am, but I just have this vision of all the social workers rushing off to meetings and client visits and whatever else, and being too busy to see me. Perhaps the note of desperation in my voice impresses her because the receptionist nods and redials.
I catch the flicker in her eyes, then, “Yes, this is the front desk. Do you have anyone free to talk to a client now?” A pause, then she glances at me. “What name is it?”
“Me? I’m Summer Jones. My sisters are Lucy and Maisie Jones. They’re in care.”
She nods, relays my name to the person on the other end of the line. She doesn’t mention Maisie and Lucy. Then, “Thanks, I’ll send her up.”
I heave a sigh of relief. I could lean over and hug the receptionist. She has her pleasant, helpful smile back on as she turns her attention back to me. She points to a spot somewhere behind me. “Through the double doors, then take the lift to the second floor. Someone will meet you there.”
“Thank you. Thank you very much.” I tuck my bag under my arm and make a beeline for the door indicated. Moments later I’m exiting the lift on the second floor. The carpeted corridor is empty. There are double doors on both sides of me, both locked with those mechanisms you need a magnetic pass to get through. I’m wondering what to do next, when the door to my left opens. The woman who peers through is a little older than I am, and has that harassed air of someone who really does have better things to do.
“Miss Jones?”
I step forward. “Yes. That’s me.”
“I’m Annabel Mason, duty social worker. Shall we go through here?” She gestures me to follow her through the double doors, and into a small room immediately on the left. It’s clearly an interview room, simply furnished with four low, cushioned chairs surrounding a coffee table. There’s a box of children’s toys in the corner, and a small vending machine perched on top of a floor standing cupboard.
“Would you like a drink? Tea, coffee?” Despite her obvious impatience to get on, she does seem inclined to put me at my ease. Must be the social work training.
I accept a coffee and sit down on one of the chairs. Annabel helps herself to a tea, and sits opposite. She has a reporter’s style notebook and a pen, which she places on the table in front of her. Reading upside down, I see my name and today’s date scrawled along the top of an otherwise clean page. She takes a sip, grimaces, then looks directly at me.
“So, Miss Jones, how can I help you?”
“My sisters, Lucy and Maisie. They’ve been taken into care. I don’t even know where they are.”
“I see. When did this happen, please?”
“What? When did what happen?”
“When was the care order granted?”
“I don’t know. A few weeks ago. Can I see them, just to know they’re all right? And I want to take them home with me. There’s no need for them to be in care. I’ll look after them.”
“Did you tell that to the social worker dealing with your case?” She regards me calmly over the lip of her plastic cup.
“No. I couldn’t. I wasn’t here. I only just found out. It’s a mistake, like I say. They don’t need to be in care.”
“Miss Jones, I’ll have to check our files and possibly consult with the social worker dealing with this case. Could you give me the girls’ full names please?”
“Lucy Jones and Maisie Jones.” I watch as she writes the names down. “Lucy has Downs syndrome.” I add the last point, unsure if it makes any difference or not. Probably not, though Annabel Mason notes that as well before she gets to her feet.
“I’ll be a few minutes. Please help yourself to another drink if you want.” And she’s gone, leaving me to contemplate the unappetizing brew that passes for social services coffee.
I think one cup will be quite enough.
* * * *
I’m beginning to revise that view half an hour later when I’m still sitting alone in that small room, wondering if Ms Mason has forgotten me. I do eventually avail myself of the vending facilities, trying the tea this time. It’s no better, but I drink it any way.
Nearly forty minutes have passed before the door opens again, this time to admit a familiar figure. I don’t know her name. I don’t recall that she introduced herself back there at Freya’s apartment when she came to assess my suitability to take care of Lucy and Maisie while my mother was in Benidorm. If she did, I never registered it. But I recognize her instantly, and she appears to remember me.
“Miss Jones, Summer. How are you?” She enters the room, her hand outstretched.
I take it and shake. “I’m fine, very well.” Better for seeing her. She thought I was suitable back then, surely she’ll not have changed her mind. If anything, I’m even more suitable now, gainfully employed and a home of my own.
“We’ve met before. I’m not sure if you remember me, Sally MacDonald? I dealt with your case a few months back.”
My case? Am I a case too? I shelve that, return to the immediate matter in hand. “Yes, I remember, of course. Nice to see you again. I didn’t realize you were still involved.”
“I’m looking after Maisie and Lucy. Annabel tells me you’ve been away. I knew you were no longer resident at Ms Stone’s address in Kendal, as I checked there. I gather Ms Stone no longer lives there either.”
“No, she lives in Cartmel now. I’ve moved to Yorkshire.”
“Ah, some distance away then.”
“Yes, but it’s a good place. I have a job, a good job. And a flat. There’s plenty of room. I want Maisie and Lucy with me.” I can hear the desperate tone creeping into my voice, but she has to understand, has to believe me that I can do this.
“I’m sure. I tried to make contact with you when your mother was arrested to find out if you were in a position to take temporary custody of the younger girls, but when I was unable to locate you, I had no alternative but to place them with foster parents. They are being well cared for.”
“Yes, I’m sure.” In fact, I never doubted that, but they need to be cared for by me. “But I’m here now. Can I collect them and take them home?”
“I’m sorry, Summer, but it’s not that simple.”
My heart sinks. I start to argue. I can’t give up, I can’t let this happen. “They’re my family. I’m earning a decent wage. I can offer them a home. A good home, with a bedroom each. They know me, and I love them. They’ll be happier with me than with strangers.”
Sally MacDonald holds up a hand to stem the flow of protest. “I’m sure. I’m sure all that’s true. And believe me, Summer, I won’t stand in your way if what you’re telling me checks out. The girls do want to live with you. They said as much, but no one knew where you were. Now, all I need is to arrange to do a visit, see where they’ll actually be living, make sure the necessary support is in place…”
“Visit? You want to visit? In Yorkshire?”
“Of course. Though it might not be me. I may ask a colleague based more locally to do the visit, if that’s all right.
I never anticipated having social workers swarming all over Black Combe. I really can’t imagine Nathan will take kindly to that. And how would I explain it? What if they ask to meet other people who live on the premises? What if they want to talk to Dan? Oh God, they might even insist on one of those police checks to make sure no one at Black Combe has a criminal record.
I slump in my seat, my fragile façade of happy families crumbling as Sally waits for my agreement to these checks. The stupid thing is, I don’t even blame her. Of course she has to make sure, of course I can’t expect to just walk in here and she’ll hand over the address of a perfectly nice, perfectly safe foster home so I can go and collect two vulnerable girls and take the
m Christ knows where. Of course she won’t. What was I thinking?
Sally leans forward, pats my hand comfortingly. “Don’t look so worried. As I say, I’m not in the business of separating families or keeping children in care who have no need to be with us. I’ll get the formalities completed quickly. It’ll take no more than a few days. And as long as the foster parents have no objection, you can see Maisie and Lucy today. They’ll both be at school now, but perhaps later. Would you like me to try to arrange that?
I nod, dumbly, my mind racing ahead. There must be a way to handle the visit to Black Combe. The social worker won’t just turn up unannounced. Maybe I can arrange for it to happen when there’s only me around. That way no one else needs to know. And meanwhile, I can actually see Lucy and Maisie. Today. Hopefully.
I manage to remember my manners. Sally is on my side. I do realize that. Well, strictly speaking she’s on Maisie and Lucy’s side, but it amounts to the same thing in the end. I appreciate her help. I offer her a grateful smile. “Thank you, I would like that.”
Sally’s expression is sympathetic as she scurries out to make the call to the foster home. She’s back a couple of minutes later to hand me an address on a Post-it note. Lucy and Maisie are still in Barrow, less than two miles from our old home. And the foster parents are expecting me at three-thirty this afternoon.
Chapter Seven
I finally arrive back at Black Combe just before eight o’clock in the evening. The visit to Maisie and Lucy went well, very well. We spent a lot of the two hours or so I was there weeping and hugging each other, but between the tears and tissues, I managed to explain what I had in mind. They were both up for it, quite unfazed at the prospect of moving out of the town they know and starting again in the wilds of Yorkshire.
“Are there horses? I want to learn to ride.” This from Maisie.
I was surprised, never knew she had such aspirations.
“There are no horses at Black Combe, I’m not sure about the farm where Ashley lives. But there are definitely riding schools nearby, so we can look into that. And Freya has a horse now.”
Maisie had a lot of questions about Freya’s horse, and I filled her in a little. I added that I now had a close friend who was the course vet at Cartmel racecourse. She seemed satisfied that her own equestrian prospects were looking good. Lucy just wanted to hug me, so that was straightforward enough.
The foster parents, a middle-aged couple whose own children have left for university, explained that Sally MacDonald had been in touch and if it was convenient for me, she would do the home visit on Friday, just four days later. She’s decided to come herself after all, and will bring Lucy and Maisie with her so they can see their new home too. The plan is that they visit with her on that day then if all goes well, they can come for a weekend. Then, if we’re all still happy, they can come to stay with me permanently.
And by the sound of it, this will be as near permanent as doesn’t matter. Before I left Carlisle, Sally explained that my mother has decided to plead Guilty, and will be sentenced in about a month’s time. The solicitor has advised her to expect at least a five-year sentence, but it could be more, given her previous record. Even at her most optimistic, and assuming the most exemplary behavior while she’s inside, she will not be free again for at least three years. By the time she comes out, both Maisie and Lucy will be old enough to make their own choices about who they live with. I intend to make sure they have no reason not to choose to stay with me.
My head is full of plans—hopeful, satisfying plans. I can make this all be okay after all. There’s no reason, none at all, why Sally should be in any way dissatisfied with my circumstances. The outcome there is, whilst not a foregone conclusion, at least within my grasp. Now all that remains for me to do is to somehow manage the situation with Dan—and find a way to sneak the social worker in and out without Nathan getting wind of it.
I decide to practice by sneaking myself in. I drive round to my flat slowly, no noisy engine revving, and park the Discovery. I get out, taking care not to slam the door, and, instead of popping my head round the Black Combe kitchen door as I usually would, I make straight for my own apartment. I let myself in and close the curtains before switching on the lamp. I’m hoping not to attract attention from the main house, but it’s not to be. Within five minutes, my phone rings. It’s Nathan. I hit the green button to take the call.
“We’ve been worried about you.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. But I did say I’d be late.” I texted Nathan from a coffee shop in Carlisle, just before starting the drive back to Barrow, with some tale about wanting to stop off in Lancaster to do a bit of shopping while I was up here. He’d seemed to accept that, told me to take my time.
“I see. So you did. Something’s come up, though, that I really need to talk to you about. Is it all right for me to come over now?” He sounds cold, formal. He is not pleased.
My heart sinks. If Nathan’s somehow seen through my lies and half-truths of today, I can be reasonably certain Dan has too. Nathan will have told him, surely. And now Nathan wants to talk to me. Oh Christ, don’t say I’ve jeopardized my job by sneaking a day off. What was I thinking?
But there’s no alternative. I’ll have to face the music, hope I can convince my employer it was a one-off. “Yes, of course. I’ll see you soon.”
I end the call with Nathan and check my phone again for texts from Dan. There’s nothing since this morning. His first text arrived just before ten o’clock.
Are you all right?
I replied, also from the coffee shop just after I’d texted Nathan.
Yes, fine. I’ll see you tomorrow.
Dan’s next message came a short while later.
How was your journey?
Fine, no problems.
Did you get home OK?
Reading through them now, I can see the exchange was off, stilted. I should have realized but my head was spinning from the conversation with Sally MacDonald and I just missed the oddness. Or maybe I blanked it out. It’s staring me in the face now though.
I’d replied, piling on the lies. Yes, just arrived. This was timed at ten twenty-three, while I was still in the coffee shop in Carlisle.
A sharp rap on my door signals Nathan’s arrival. I rush down the stairs to let him in.
“Can I offer you tea? Coffee?”
Nathan follows me up the stairs to my flat and I make myself busy clicking the switch on my kettle, playing for time. Nathan shakes his head.
“Nothing for me, thanks.” He accepts my offer of a seat though, making himself comfortable on my little two-seater sofa. “Dan phoned this morning. He wanted to talk to you.”
Right. So that’s how the cat came out of the bag. I should have known I’d never get away with it. I was banking on Dan having no reason to check up on me. And to be fair, I’m puzzled that he would. It seems unlike him.
Nathan continues, “He couldn’t reach you on your mobile. He thought maybe it was poor reception or something, so he tried the office line, expecting to find you here.”
“I… Yes, I mean…” I have no idea what to say. It’s true the reception in Cumbria is patchy at best. He might have caught me in a dead zone.
Nathan forestalls any further stammering. “That’s between you and him. As far as I’m concerned, you wanted a day off so I agreed to let you have one. What you did, where you went, is not my concern.”
“I see. So…?” I don’t quite know how to phrase the question. I don’t want to appear rude, but why then is he taking issue with me?
“The reason Dan phoned, the reason he was so keen to talk to you… I’m afraid Freya’s horse didn’t make it.”
What? This is so left field, so totally unexpected. “But—how? Why? I mean, I thought…” The last I heard from Freya, Queenie was improving, doing well. What does Nathan mean—‘didn’t make it’?
“I’m no expert, Dan could explain it obviously. From what I can make out, the horse developed some complication and the
vets advised she be destroyed. Freya had no choice but to agree. She took it hard.”
“Oh God, poor Freya. I’d better get over there.” I stand, meaning to leap straight back in the Discovery and head on over to Leeds, but Nathan stays me with one imperiously uplifted hand.
“No, there’s no need. Nick’s with her. I think they’ve gone back to Cartmel. Together.”
I drop my face into my hands, shaking. This is awful, just terrible. Poor Queenie, poor Freya. Yet again someone I love has gone through a crisis and I was miles away, uncontactable. So Dan wasn’t checking up. He was just trying to get hold of me to tell me the news. I raise my gaze to Nathan’s again.
“So, Dan…?”
“Ah yes, Dan. From what I understand, the trainer, what was his name? Pat something. Anyway, he contacted Dan early this morning to tell him things were going wrong as far as the horse’s recovery went. Dan tried to contact you, but neither of us knew where you were. I gather you didn’t tell him you were planning a shopping trip. Do you need any help bringing your bags in, by the way?”
“What bags?”
“Ah. Right.” Nathan shakes his head wryly, taking in the total absence of shopping, despite my alleged day-long spree in Lancaster. He says no more. There’s nothing more to say.
“You might like to give Freya a call. Even though she’s with Nick, she’ll be glad to hear from you, I expect.”
“I will, yes. I’ll text her.” There’s no point calling Freya, for obvious reasons, When we’re apart we communicate by text or by signing over Skype. “At least—I mean, it’s awful about Queenie, but if Freya and Nick have made up, that’s good. Isn’t it?”
“Every cloud, and all that.” Nathan stands. “I’ll leave you to it then. I just thought you should know tonight, about the horse. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Yes. And, thank you.”
