by JANICE FROST
Her home in London was a basement flat in a converted Victorian house on a street lined with tall London plane trees leading up to the gates of Victoria Park. It had been sublet to her by a girl she’d befriended whilst working part-time in a bar on Fleet Street, who had gone off travelling for a year. A stroke of luck at last.
One day, walking in the park, she had met Debbie Clarke. A small boy had run out in front of her, near the lake, chasing the Canada geese at the water’s edge, and Nancy had looked around for his mother, concerned that he might end up in the water. A thin young woman was sitting on a bench staring in the other direction, one hand on the handle of a buggy, pushing it backwards and forwards. Nancy was aware of two things; the little boy’s potential danger and the distressed cries of a very young baby coming from the buggy.
The boy’s danger was the more immediate. She caught the hood of his jacket as he shooed an indignant duck into the lake, pulling him gently out of harm’s way. It was a risk, touching someone else’s child. Nancy looked around nervously, half expecting the young mother to scream that her son was being kidnapped or molested, but the woman was still looking the other way, rocking the pram, more for her own comfort, it seemed than for the infant’s, whose wailing she continued to ignore.
The boy looked up at Nancy in alarm, tugging at his sleeve to loosen her grip.
“Hey, little man. What’s your name?”
“Peter,” he’d answered, squirming to free himself.
“It’s not safe to play so near to the water, Peter. What if you fell in?” He stared at her as if she were mad. “Let’s go get your mum.” Together, they walked to the park bench.
“Are you Peter’s mum?” Nancy asked the young woman, who seemed oblivious to their presence. Peter leaned into the pram, making shushing noises and the baby’s wailing calmed to a fretful whining.
“Yeah. What’s it to you? Been doing something naughty, has he?”
“Oh no. He just seemed to be getting a bit near to the water, got carried away chasing the ducks, probably.”
“Yeah, probably. He likes ducks,” the woman said, unconcerned. She looked younger than Nancy, too young to be the mother of two children. Was she too young also to appreciate that her son might have been in danger?
One of Nancy’s foster mothers had suffered from post-natal depression; she had been out of it a lot of the time, distant, let the kids in her care do pretty much as they liked, which had often amounted to bullying Nancy. Something about this young woman’s behaviour and attitude reminded Nancy of her foster mother’s disinterested detachment.
“I’m Nancy. I live on one of the streets leading to the park. Do you live nearby?”
“Over there,” the woman said, waving her arm loosely. Through the skeletal branches of a barrier of late autumn trees fringing the park’s west side, Nancy made out the skulking, jaundiced blocks of a run-down council estate. It was one she had been warned to avoid because of its reputation for having a high crime rate.
“We’re practically neighbours,” she said, “Look; I know it must be hard having two young kids to look after. Is there anything I can do to help?”
“How do you know it’s hard? Got kids, have you?”
Nancy’s words seemed to have roused the young woman from her passivity.
“I grew up in foster homes. One of my foster mothers suffered from depression. I used to look out for the younger kids.”
“Yeah, well it’s hardly the same, is it?”
“No, I suppose not.” The baby’s screaming had ceased. Peter was leaning into the pram, waving a soft toy, a caterpillar with purple spots and fuzzy red feet, at his baby sister.
“I meant what I said, you know. I’d really like to help.”
The young woman took out a cigarette and lit it, looking the other way. There was a hissing sound from her lips as she drew the smoke in between her teeth. She seemed to hold her breath for a long time. When at last she exhaled, she breathed a cloud of fuggy smoke over the buggy.
“Look, I could come home with you for a bit, if you like? I’m not at work until this evening. I could feed and change the baby, play with Peter for a little while. You could have a rest, or have some time to yourself,” Nancy urged.
“I could have a sleep,” Debbie said and Nancy could see how tired she was, how dark the rings were under the girl’s seemingly emotionless eyes.
Debbie Clarke lived in a ground floor flat in what struck Nancy as one of the worst blocks on the estate. A seeping waste pipe outside her kitchen window told a story of neglect and failure on the part of the Council, but it was the sight of moss thriving on the damp brickwork behind it that drove the message home. No one had cared about conditions on this estate for a long time.
“What happened to your door?” Nancy asked, seeing the chipped and splintered wood around the frame near the lock.
“Wade kicked it in couple of nights ago. Couldn’t find his key.”
“Who’s Wade? Is he your husband?”
“He’s Em and Peter’s dad. We ain’t married. He stays here sometimes. Got his own place in Mile End. You coming in, or what?”
Nancy realised she was hesitating outside the open door, already reconsidering her offer of help. A small, sticky hand curled around hers, and she stepped inside.
Inside, the flat smelled of stale cigarette smoke and prolonged neglect. It was furnished minimally with a shabby imitation leather three-piece suite of the standard seen on pavements outside those second hand furniture stores that accepted DSS cheques. The only other piece of furniture in the living room was a glass-topped coffee table, on the surface of which lay an overflowing ash-tray and a couple of empty beer cans. In a corner of the room was a large television set, around which were piled up an assortment of children’s videos. Even before she took her coat off, Debbie was popping one in for Peter to watch.
“Was it Wade who gave you that black eye?” Nancy asked quietly when Peter was engrossed in the cartoon that had been put on for his entertainment.
“Yeah. He was here Saturday night. I had to let him in. ‘E was kicking the door in. I’ve asked the Council for a move but they ain’t found me nothing yet. But something’s got to be done. I know he’ll be back.”
Nancy made Debbie a cup of tea and changed and fed the baby. Emily was a beautiful child. Cradled on Nancy’s arm, she sucked contentedly on her bottle of warmed formula milk, big, round eyes staring into Nancy’s. Nancy was overwhelmed suddenly with a feeling of profound love that startled her with its intensity. By the time the bottle was empty, Nancy knew every soft curve of Emily’s face, every gesture the baby made as she sucked hungrily at the teat — from the way her ears wiggled to the way her eyebrows rose and fell as her jaws worked hungrily, to the way her cheeks burned with rosy contentment as she burped up milk which dribbled down her chin and drifted off to sleep.
As Emily’s lids closed, Nancy realised with a start that, feeding the infant, she had been in another more sublime place, and she looked around the room, as if expecting to be admonished for partaking of a guilty pleasure. Debbie was dragging on a cigarette, her eyes staring unseeingly at the television, and Peter was playing happily with some toy action figures, glancing up at the action on the screen from time to time.
It was with reluctance that Nancy placed Emily in the shabby straw Moses basket that Debbie had left beside the chair in anticipation of the child’s falling asleep after her feed.
“I can come back, if you like,” Nancy said to Debbie, worrying that she was outstaying her welcome. “Do a bit of baby-sitting, give you a chance to get out a bit.”
“I’m on the social. I can’t afford to pay you.”
“I don’t want any payment. I just want to help.” At that, Debbie had shrugged, which Nancy took to mean she didn’t care one way or the other.
When she left Debbie’s flat, Nancy called in at the housing office to report the leaking soil stack. There, she spoke with the officer responsible for managing the estate. Far from i
gnoring Debbie’s plight, it appeared that the Council had moved her twice in the last fifteen months, both times to escape her abusive partner. No one was sure if he had tracked her down or if she had invited him back. Women like Debbie, explained the weary young housing officer, fell into patterns of abuse.
Nancy knew from her foster homes that there were women who became caught up in a cycle of abusive relationships. Debbie was known to Social Services and her two children were on the ‘at risk,’ register because of her aggressive partner. But she had admitted Wade Bolan to her flat willingly on two occasions after restraining orders had been put in place to deter him from bothering her.
“So you see,” the young man at the housing office had assured Nancy, “giving Debbie a transfer to yet another flat isn’t the answer. She’d only let Bolan know where to find her.” It was hard to disagree.
A few days later, whilst browsing a market stall on Bethnal Green Road, Nancy came across Debbie again. Nancy was picking out some apples when she felt a tugging on her coat and, looking down, she saw Peter’s shy, grubby face smiling up at her.
“Nancy,” he’d said in his babyish voice and his mother had turned at the sound. She looked at Nancy, frowning, as though she sort of recognised her, before saying, disinterestedly, “Oh, it’s you.” Nancy noticed that she didn’t smile and looked neither pleased nor displeased to see her. Debbie seemed to have no emotions at all.
“Where’s Emily?” Nancy asked, looking around for a buggy. Debbie didn’t answer, didn’t even seem to hear. Concerned, Nancy turned to Peter,
“Where’s Emily, Peter?”
“Emmie home,” Peter answered in his sweet little voice.
“Debbie! Have you left the baby at home alone?” Nancy asked in alarm. No response. “Debbie?”
“So what if I ‘ave? She was asleep. She won’t wake up until it’s nearly time for her next feed.”
“What if something happened? What if she wakes up and chokes or . . . or something?” Debbie’s expression signified that she thought Nancy completely crazy.
“You don’t have to leave her or Peter alone, Debbie. I meant it when I said I could look after them for you. Promise me you’ll call me next time.”
“Yeah. Okay,” Debbie answered. Nancy had a sudden idea.
“Why don’t you give me your key? I could go to your flat and make sure she’s alright. I could take Peter with me, if you like. If he’ll come.” To herself, she thought, she’s only met me once. I could be anyone. How does she know she can trust me? But she could see immediately that Debbie was game; for the first time a spark of life seemed to shine in her eyes.
“I suppose I could go and ‘ave me nails done.”
“Yes. You do that. I’ll take care of the children. We’ll be fine, won’t we Peter?” Nancy looked down at the small boy and saw the uncertainty in his expression that had been absent from his mother’s, but when she offered him her hand he took it.
Debbie rummaged around in her handbag for her house keys. To Peter she said, “You be good for . . .” She hesitated over the name.
“Nancy.”
“Be good for Nancy.” Turning to her, she said, “Put a video on for him. That’ll keep him quiet. He won’t be no bother.”
Nancy made a call to another girl who worked at the pub, asking if she would cover her shift. It meant losing money, but she could not leave the children until Debbie returned. They walked through Bethnal Green gardens hand in hand and, as they passed the library, Nancy asked Peter if he liked stories, resolving to return with him and his sister.
They found Emily as Debbie predicted, asleep and oblivious to her mother’s neglect. Nancy could have sobbed with relief. She woke the infant up, changed and fed her and dressed her in a grubby white snowsuit before tucking her into her buggy. Peter stepped on to the standing platform and they set off for the library.
Peter loved being read to. He sat on Nancy’s knee and listened to story after story without stirring. After an hour and a half, Nancy reluctantly returned the books to the shelves and prepared to go.
On their way out, the woman on the desk spoke to Peter, commenting on how good he had been, how much he seemed to enjoy his story time.
“Next time you come, ask your mum to bring something with your address on and we can see about getting you a library card so you can take some books home,” she said.
“I’m not his mum,” Nancy said, “I’m just looking after Peter and his sister for the afternoon, but I’ll tell his mum to bring him along.” She had little faith that Debbie would bother. Peter was a bright little boy, she was sure, but with no books at home, and TV cartoons providing most of his entertainment, what chance would he have to develop?
She thought of her own early childhood, growing up with loving and attentive parents who had given her every encouragement to learn and flourish. Her life had been rich until the accident that had so cruelly removed them from her young life.
When they arrived back at Debbie’s flat, Nancy searched the kitchen cupboards and the fridge for something for Peter to eat. There were no vegetables to be found, only tinned and packet food. In the end, she heated some beans and made some toast, and Peter ate these happily while she warmed up another bottle for Emily. Then, she played with Peter as Emily dozed again.
The hours ticked by. Nancy began to worry.
“Where’s mummy?” Peter asked, when it was beginning to grow dark outside and there was still no sign of Debbie.
“She’ll be home soon,” Nancy reassured him, but Debbie did not return until well past midnight, and she was drunk. Moreover, she was not alone.
“Where have you been?” Nancy asked, “I’ve had to call work and say I couldn’t come in.” It was a lie but she wanted Debbie to feel bad.
“Who’s this?” The man with Debbie asked.
“Just the babysitter,” Debbie said, in a slurred voice as she staggered over the threshold. Nancy felt anger welling up.
“It’s gone midnight. What were you thinking? I put the children to bed hours ago. Peter wanted to know where you were.”
“I was out having some fun. What’s so terrible about that? You say you’ll look after the kids anytime and the minute I take you up on your offer, you change your mind. I might have known you didn’t really mean it.”
“I haven’t changed my mind. I just thought . . .” What had she just thought? That Debbie would have had the decency to let her know she would be late? That she cared for her children enough to be there for them; that she was mature enough to understand that they were her responsibility? What right did Nancy have to take such things for granted? She had no idea what it was like to be a single parent in Debbie’s situation. Suddenly, she found herself apologising.
The man whose voice she’d heard was following Debbie into the kitchen. He sneaked up behind her and grabbed her backside and Debbie turned around, giggling. One of the man’s hands slid up her skirt, the other squeezed a breast and Debbie moved lasciviously against him. Nancy turned away, embarrassed. Were they about to do it right in front of her?
She coughed loudly, saying, “I’ll see myself out,” making for the door. In two strides, the man was beside her, Debbie pulled along with him. A hand rammed roughly between Nancy’s legs and a feeling of intense, sick shock riveted her to the floor.
“Why don’t you stick around? We like a threesome, don’t we, Debs?” Shocked, Nancy struck out at him; pain bolted through her right arm before she’d even realised he’d grabbed it and twisted it behind her back.
“Leave her alone, Wade,” Debbie said, sounding bored, “she wouldn’t be no fun anyway.”
Wade released her. Nancy staggered backwards out the door and ran without looking back. She ran across the estate, feeling violated, her vulnerability exposed cruelly in the brilliance of the halogen floodlights. The harsh unnatural light seemed to transform the estate into a vast ‘film noir’ set, filled with sharp angles and long shadows, and dark, impenetrable areas where danger lurked. Nanc
y kept running until she was clear of the estate and her lungs burned for air.
Over the next few days, from the safety of her basement flat, she revisited Debbie’s home in her head, reliving the shock of Wade’s assault. Behind her shock and burgeoning anger lurked something more disturbing; a deep sense of shame at having abandoned the two innocents inside. And something else stirred too, something she’d tried hard to forget; the memory of her thirteenth birthday and Johnny Duke’s weight pinning her to the bed in her foster mother’s room.
She thought of alerting the police, but what had Wade done, except flirt with his partner and touch her friend inappropriately, which would be hard to prove in any case? It wasn’t as if Debbie would back her up. As for the children, they were already known to social services and Wade hadn’t laid a finger on them.
Despite her concerns for the children, for a couple of weeks Nancy avoided any place she might bump into Debbie Clarke. Then, one morning, she saw Debbie cross the street and head straight for her. A new bruise on the girl’s cheek stirred Nancy to pity. At once, her resolve to have nothing more to do with Debbie and her kids evaporated.
“Where are the kids?” For days, she’d been picturing Peter and Emily in a box, like Schrödinger’s cat, their fate undetermined as long as the lid stayed on. She could not be sure that they were safe, but neither could she be sure that they were not. There was a lot to be said for a state of unknowing.
“They’re with my friend, Nina. She owed me one since I tipped her off about the cops . . .” Debbie checked herself, “since I helped her out a couple of weeks ago.”
“And Wade?”
“He ain’t been round for a bit. Left me this,” she said, touching the bruised and tender-looking skin around her left eye, “’spect he’ll be back when he wants some.” It was said in a matter of fact way, as though it were something over which Debbie had no control.
