by Jane Renshaw
But Ruth found it creepy. She didn’t like to think of the soil under her feet being infected by thousands, millions, trillions of those ghostly white threads. A single individual fungus could cover more than two square miles, apparently.
Maybe better tell Alec not to say anything.
Poor Alec. She’d made his life a misery these past few days, obsessing and nitpicking and nagging and generally being an OCD nightmare.
On the wall above the desk were the grotty old prints of fungi that Ruth had banished in here, and the framed Gary Larson cartoon of two man-eating crocodiles relaxing on a riverbank. She imagined Deirdre’s wistful angel expression going even more wistful, disappointed wistful, if-only-Alec-hadn’t-been-a-bit-of-a-sick-bastard wistful.
She removed the cartoon and shoved it in the top desk drawer.
But the empty hook was a dead giveaway that something potentially compromising had hung there.
On the hall table was a collection of photos of their families. The biggest one in the A4-sized frame, of Alec and his sister Pippa and their parents, had a little metal loop on the back. Pippa at ten had already been taller than Alec at twelve. She was gangling in a short dress, long pale legs crossed self-consciously one behind the other.
Ruth took the photo to the study and hung it up.
Hmm.
Was it a good idea to remind Deirdre that both sets of parents were dead? That they had no extended family network apart from Pippa, who was currently backpacking in Nepal with two random men she’d met on a beach in Cambodia?
Both their fathers had died when they were children. Ruth’s mum had been killed in an accident when Ruth was at university – the driver of a milk float, of all things, had reversed without looking and run her over. A witness had testified that Mum had just stood there, as if in a daze, that she hadn’t seemed to see it coming, but how was that possible? What they’d meant was that she hadn’t tried to get out of the way. Quite apart from the guilt – because Ruth had no illusions that this wasn’t down to her – she hated telling people about it because of the comic element. Not everyone was able to suppress their natural reaction to laugh. Red faces and awkwardness all round. Sometimes even hysterical choked giggles, and the person having to make an excuse to leave the room. She always felt so bad for Mum, that her death should be a source of amusement.
Of course, for a candidate adopter, a parent dead in an accident was far preferable to a parent dead from a heart attack or stroke or cancer. No red lights flashing ‘genetic risk of early death’.
Alec and Pippa’s mum had died of lung cancer last year, but she’d been a heavy smoker, and Alec had never so much as taken a puff behind the bike sheds.
God.
She had to stop this.
It was going to be fine.
The study was fine. It said Alec is a clever academic.
She walked on down the little passage to the kitchen.
Hopefully it wasn’t too much of a cliché that she’d baked scones. They did smell amazing, six appetising cheesy hummocks cooling on the rack.
Or rather, five.
Alec, sitting at the table with his laptop, gave her a sheepish grin.
He hadn’t even used a plate. There were crumbs on the keyboard and on the table and, yes, on the flagstones under his chair.
She opened the cupboard and grabbed the dustpan and brush.
‘Up. Up.’
He closed the laptop and tucked it under his arm and stood, backing away as she pulled out the chair to get under it.
‘I don’t believe this.’ She swiped at the flagstones, reaching under the table for the outliers, feeling her face going red with the effort.
‘Sorry.’
As she straightened, he put down the laptop and reached to take the dustpan from her, but she pulled away. He was liable to tip the contents over the floor again while emptying it into the bin.
He raised his eyebrows. ‘Don’t you think you’re going a bit overboard with the Stepford stuff? We don’t want the place to say We’re too uptight to be parents.’
She replaced the dustpan in the cupboard and scanned the kitchen. Maybe it was a bit unnaturally pristine. She had decluttered, banishing even the toaster, temporarily, to a drawer. She had sanded and oiled the wooden worktops and arranged a careful collection of objects on them – a matching set of tea, coffee and sugar cannisters in a tasteful sage green enamel, a miniature trug with apples from the garden, a wire-fronted shabby-chic egg cupboard with posh blue, white and speckled-brown eggs inside. She had used baking soda on the Belfast sink after making the scones, so its white porcelain was hospital-bright. The ironed tea towel hanging over the rail of the Rayburn was red and white gingham. There was a basket by the door to the utility room with pine cones in it, for no good reason.
She imagined Deirdre standing here, looking around her, blinking her wistful-angel eyes. Shaking her head. And then turning to Ruth and sighing: Oh, but you see, I’m afraid we know.
She took a long breath, in and out.
She had to pull herself together. Get a grip and concentrate.
The kitchen. Was it okay?
No, actually. Alec was right. It wasn’t a kitchen any child would be comfortable in.
‘Oh God. It is Stepford!’
‘It’s fine. Here…’ He opened the fridge and took out the butter. Then a side plate from the neat stack in the cupboard, and a knife from the drawer. He smeared the knife across the butter and set it on the plate, and the plate on the worktop next to the sink, as if someone had just had a scone and left the plate there.
‘There would be crumbs on the plate,’ she said.
He picked a few off the bottom of one of the scones – she’d have to remember which one, so she didn’t give it to Deirdre – and scattered them on the plate.
‘And maybe you could get some papers from the study and leave them lying somewhere in the sitting room? And maybe here on the table…’
‘Ruth. Relax, for God’s sake. I don’t know what you’re so worried about. It’s going to be a breeze. What more perfect mother is there than a paediatric nurse?’
For a long moment she couldn’t say anything. She just couldn’t.
And now he was looking at her oddly, questioningly, a little anxiously.
She puffed out a big exasperated sigh. ‘It’s not me I’m worried about.’
Of all the lies she had ever told him, this might just be the biggest.
But, as his mum would have said, that put his gas at a peep.
And he really had been a bit of a liability from the word go, from the very first session of the Preparation Course, in that airless little room with the fluorescent lighting and the awful faded posters – a close-up of a child’s hand held in an adult’s; a blurred child playing in a garden; a sad-faced boy sitting on a step with lost-waif eyes lifted to the camera…
Alec had found that one particularly amusing. He’d said to Ruth, without bothering to lower his voice: ‘Reckon the same outfit does the SSPCA and homeless stuff – add a bald dog and a Big Issue seller and you’ve got the set.’
There had been four other couples on the course. They’d all sat in a circle on moulded red plastic chairs while Ben the tutor, a whispery, I’m-so-caring type, made them introduce themselves.
While the others spoke, often tearfully, about why they were there, to gentle nods of encouragement and ‘Mmm, mmm’s from Ben, Ruth had found her gaze returning to the poster of the little waif. Which was ridiculous. He was a child model. He had a family, a family who were perfectly nice, probably, when they weren’t exploiting his Oliver Twist qualities to make a quid or two. But she knew, if she and Alec ‘got through’ and ever had to make ‘the choice’ (she was already picking up the jargon), that she was going to be forever haunted by the faces of the children they didn’t take. How did you turn the page on a desperate child? How did you decide that you didn’t want to love him, consigning him to God knows what?
Because she already knew that she
wanted a little girl.
She hadn’t told Alec, but their child was going to be a little girl. She was out there somewhere, a little lost soul, waiting for Ruth to find her. Waiting for Ruth to love her.
Ben had started murmuring at them about how the children could be expected to have developmental delays and challenging behaviour because of what they’d been through.
‘How do you think you’d address that?’
No no no don’t ask Alec, she’d prayed.
But of course he’d asked Alec.
People always warmed to Alec. There was a gauche friendliness about him that lulled them into a false sense of security. And his skinny little childlike geeky frame, thin arms poking from his T-shirt, made people feel protective.
‘Alec?’
Alec had sat back in his chair and pushed his feet out and frowned, considering, and then he’d come out with it: ‘Well, I don’t know that there would be much I could do to address that. Developmental delay and behavioural problems are likely to be down to things like foetal alcohol syndrome, foetal complications of heroin addiction, genetically inherited conditions… the list goes on. Just for instance – up to a fifth of adopted children have some sort of foetal alcohol disorder, which can produce a small head and brain, learning disabilities, epilepsy… autism, ADHD, horrendous behavioural issues… And as for genetic conditions, it’s been estimated that about half of single parents with serious psychiatric illnesses lose custody of their children. That means that a high proportion of children up for adoption will be at risk of having inherited a mental health condition from one or both parents. Bipolar disorder has a heritability of seventy-five per cent. Schizophrenia, eighty-one per cent.’
Ben opened his mouth.
Alec held up a hand. ‘Now, when I say heritability, that doesn’t mean that a child of someone with schizophrenia has an eighty-one per cent chance of inheriting it. It means that eighty-one per cent of variation in the presence or absence of the condition can be attributed to genetics.’
Ruth could feel her face going bright red. She made her voice light. ‘Alec… I don’t think anyone is interested in a lecture on genetics?’ And she giggled; a high, nervous, slightly manic sound.
Maybe they would think that she had a mental illness? Maybe they would think that was why Alec knew so much about it? Maybe Ben would pass on his concerns to his boss and they’d decide to look at Ruth a bit more closely?
‘No, but…’ One of the other men was rubbing his chin with the back of his hand. ‘I hear what you’re saying, Alec. These mothers who give up their kids, or have them removed… You gotta wonder what’s at the root of that. You gotta wonder whether – You know, they’re often not the sharpest pencils in the box either…?’
His partner, a neat corporate type in a grey designer trouser suit, was staring at him in horror. He gave her a placating grimace.
Alec nodded enthusiastically. ‘Yep, mothers who lose custody of their children also tend to be of below-average intelligence, which is also massively hereditary. So I reckon, quite honestly, that if the child is backward or shows challenging behaviours, there’s probably nothing much we can do about it. The heritability of IQ is around eighty per cent. And you can’t cure bipolar disorder or schizophrenia or foetal alcohol syndrome by putting the kid on the naughty step.’ And he’d flapped his hands in that dismissive way of his, as if to say I don’t expect any of you to understand, though, so what’s the use.
But then he’d smiled, his wonderful, bashful, infectious smile, and laughed, and said, ‘So should I go on the naughty step, then, Ben?’ and all of them, even Ben, had laughed too, and the women had given him the indulgent maternal looks that women tended to bestow on Alec, while Mr Chin-Rubber had beamed at him in something close to awe.
But she was pretty sure Deirdre wouldn’t appreciate a repeat performance.
‘Don’t mention anything to do with the child’s probable gene pool. Don’t say you dislike children. Don’t say you were quite happy that I couldn’t have any, and that at least adopting a toddler will cut out the earliest years of maximum noise and mess. Don’t say you feel like a bit of a mug for volunteering to bring up someone else’s child, like reed warblers would feel about cuckoo chicks if they had brains bigger than a pea, but you’re hoping your own preprogrammed nurturing neural pathways will kick in if and when the child is dumped on us.’
Alec opened and closed his mouth.
Pippa said Alec was socially incontinent, like a child, blurting things out regardless of context or appropriateness – and Ruth had to agree, but she also liked to think it was a sort of social courage, a refusal to compromise himself to fit in with what was seen as acceptable just to be popular – and, ironically, it was this very quality that made him popular. That, and his self-deprecating sense of humour, and a sort of quiet exuberance that had attracted her to him straight away.
He wasn’t in your face, he didn’t dominate a room, he listened more than he spoke, but he had an air of childlike wonder that she loved, an eagerness to be told about the world, a way of being fascinated and delighted by what people were telling him about quite ordinary things; an awareness that he was a hopeless novice at life and needed to be schooled in it by those more capable than he. At the same time he came across as quite confident, opinionated, prickly at times, easily exasperated by stupidity – but that just seemed to make people want to please him all the more.
As he laughed shame-facedly at himself now – the sound a cross between a donkey braying and a seal barking – she found herself laughing too, and apologising for being such a pain, such a Stepford nightmare; and felt all the tension that had been lodged in her body, in her brain, in the sore place behind her eyes leaving her as he pulled her to him and kissed her on the lips she’d so carefully made up an hour before.
It was going to be fine.
4
‘Now, Mrs Johnson,’ says the sheriff. ‘I realise that this is a difficult and emotional time for you. But please keep your language under control and respect the court, or I’ll have to ask you to stop and sit back down. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, My Lady.’ I set Shrek on the wide bit of the sheep pen in front of me. ‘I’m sorry about before. I’m just that wound up, you know?’
I cannae look at Mair or I’ll lose it. I concentrate on Mr Lyall’s eyes behind his glasses as he goes, ‘I believe you’ve prepared a statement to read to the court.’
‘Aye. And it’s all my own work by the way.’ I fold out my statement and give a wee cough. ‘Our Bekki means the world to us. She’s our wee angel and we all love her to bits. She should be with us, her family, where she belongs. We may not have much money but we have plenty of love to give. Bekki has had a difficult time with Shannon-Rose and she needs the security of her family around her, not strangers who don’t know her and don’t love her, and who can never love her like we do.’ Oh God. Oh fuck. I’ve got to stop. I cannae even breathe.
‘You’re doing very well, Mrs Johnson. Just take your time.’ He’s a nice wee man, Mr Lyall.
‘Aye. I’m sorry. This is a bit hard.’
‘Of course it is.’
‘Every grandma loves her grandkids, but Bekki and I have a special bond because of Shannon-Rose being the way she is. I always stepped in when I could, but often Shannon-Rose wouldn’t let me in her flat and when I went to her social worker she said there was nothing they could do about that.’ I heave in another breath. ‘We aren’t in the best of circumstances financially and as a family we’ve had a hard time of it lately, but we are turning our lives around. I’ve got a wee job at the Co-op, and my manager Mrs Shaughnessy has written me a reference which Ms Mair said she never got, but it was sent recorded delivery and Mrs Shaughnessy has the tracking document to prove it… She’ll give it you if you want, the document that proves the receptionist at Social Work signed for it, so she did –’
‘Please just continue with your statement, Mrs Johnson,’ goes the sheriff.
Mr
Lyall’s nodding at me, so I take another breath.
‘The reference says: “Lorraine Johnson is a valued and well-liked member of the Co-op team. She is a very conscientious worker and can be relied on to perform any task in the store to an exceptional standard. She is particularly popular with the older customers, sometimes even helping them carry bags to the bus stop, and with children, with whom she has an obvious connection, never too busy to chat and raise a smile. I join with the rest of the staff in hoping she will be successful in gaining custody of her granddaughter Bekki.”’
Mr Lyall nods. ‘Well… That’s a glowing reference if ever I heard one. So, Dr Fernandez’s assessment of your IQ as low enough to put you in the category of “learning disability” is perhaps wide of the mark, given your success in your new job?’
‘“Dr” Fernandez never visited us. This is the first time I’ve laid eyes on the bitch.’
‘Mrs Johnson,’ goes the sheriff.
‘Sorry. On the lady in question. She never interviewed us. Ms Mair never visited us except for that one time. That’s a pack of lies in her report about three more visits by the way. And she must have turned round and told “Dr” Fernandez a pack of lies about us, and “Dr” Fernandez put them in her report, making out she’d interviewed us. She never.’
Mr Lyall frowns. ‘I see.’
‘My neighbour’s CCTV proves it. Sonia McLeckie’s CCTV. That proves Ms Mair only came the once, and there was no one with her. On the other dates she claims to have come, and the date she claims to have come with “Dr” Fernandez, she never.’ And now I do eyeball Mair, and the bitch sitting next her. Mair’s bright red, and Fernandez’s got a face on her like she’s chewing a wasp.
Gotcha.
They’re not to know Sonia McLeckie wouldnae piss on me if I was on fire.
‘I also sent Ms Mair a reference from one of the teachers at my old school, which she also apparently never got. I’ve got that here an’ all?’
