Until You're Mine

by Samantha Hayes

  ‘I think Claudia has the file,’ Tina said to Mark, looking worried. ‘She was doing supervision on it with me and I’m pretty certain it was in her possession. She wasn’t feeling very well earlier. She went home from a meeting. I doubt she’ll be in tomorrow either.’

  ‘Can you let me have her address? I’ll visit her at home,’ Lorraine said.

  The pair nodded and Tina suddenly rallied, fumbling for a pen and paper. Lorraine knew they worked closely with the police on a regular basis – just not usually with her department or about such serious crimes.

  Lorraine turned to leave. She paused. ‘I don’t suppose the name Sally-Ann Frith means anything to you, does it?’

  Mark and Tina glanced at each other and took a moment to think. ‘Only because she’s been on the news,’ Tina said. Then her eyes widened as if her thoughts weren’t far behind those of the detective.

  ‘Thank you,’ Lorraine said, leaving before they had a chance to ask questions. ‘I’ll see myself out.’

  *

  When she got home, the house was full of teenage girls. There were four splayed out in the living room, feet up on the sofa – shoes on – bowls of crisps balanced on bellies and cans of Coke lined up on the carpet within arms’ reach. A movie was blaring from the television. Two girls Lorraine didn’t recognise greeted her lazily from their perch on the stairs as they giggled at the screen of an iPhone, while a further cluster congregated in the kitchen. They were crowded round the cooker, deliberating over a big pot of something that actually smelt quite good.

  Lorraine dumped her bag and keys loudly on the kitchen table. She was taking off her coat when Grace turned round with a wooden spoon halfway to her mouth.

  ‘Mum,’ she said brightly. ‘Fancy some curry? We made it.’

  It’s as if nothing’s bloody well happened between us, Lorraine thought angrily. Grace’s apparent cheerfulness was clearly just for the benefit of her friends.

  ‘But what about . . .’ Lorraine trailed off. She could hardly say But what about your plans to move out, leave school, get married, the bloody talk we need to have? ‘Smells good,’ she said instead. ‘I’ll have some if there’s enough.’ She glanced out into the hallway. ‘There are a lot of mouths to feed.’

  ‘Oh, that. Yeah. You don’t mind, do you, Mum? I said you’d be cool about it. We won, you see. Twelve–four. It was an amazing match.’

  ‘Yeah, we slaughtered them!’ The girl had a mouthful of braces and, even though she’d changed out of her sports kit, her skin still glistened with sweat. Strands of dark hair stuck to her forehead.

  ‘Fab,’ Lorraine said, trying to sound vaguely cool. She didn’t understand how Grace could behave so normally: surely she understood she was about to throw her life away. ‘As long as you get it all cleared up by nine-thirty.’ They both knew that meant get rid of everyone by that time or there’ll be trouble, but, judging by Grace’s defiant expression, she wasn’t sure that was very likely.

  Lorraine swiftly pulled the cork on a bottle of wine. She’d promised herself a detox week soon, much to Adam’s amusement when she’d mentioned it to him earlier. She took the bottle and a glass upstairs to escape the mess of girls. She would eat later, perhaps with Adam if he got home in time and they were still actually speaking.

  On the way to the bathroom, she stopped at Stella’s bedroom door. She heard her youngest daughter talking on the phone.

  ‘I know, right . . . I’m gonna move into her bedroom as soon as she’s gone. She’s asked me to be her bridesmaid!’

  Lorraine shuddered. Apart from anything, she was painfully aware that she’d been ignoring Stella these last few days due to the trouble Grace had slung at them, not to mention the two investigations. But sometimes life was like that. In another few weeks there might be more time to spend together as a family. She hoped so, anyway.

  Lorraine took a sip of wine before tapping on Stella’s door.

  ‘Shit. I gotta go.’

  Since when did Stella use language like that? ‘Hi, love. Just checking in. All OK?’ Jesus, Lorraine thought, I sound like a text message.

  ‘Yep,’ Stella said, lolling about on her bed. ‘When are that lot downstairs going?’ She pulled a disapproving face.

  ‘Nine-thirty, with any luck. Have you got homework?’

  ‘Done it. I’m bored.’ She lay spread-eagled with her head hanging off the end of the bed. Her hair draped nearly to the floor.

  ‘I was going to have a bath but I can stay and chat if you like?’ Suddenly the idea of curling up on Stella’s beanbag, discussing make-up, magazines and boys, seemed utterly idyllic to Lorraine, taking her mind as far away from Carla Davis and Sally-Ann Frith as it could possibly be. Right now, she didn’t want to do anything else in the world. She stepped inside the messy room and took another sip of wine.

  ‘Sorry, Ma,’ Stella said. ‘But, you know. I’ll just go on Facebook or something.’

  Lorraine felt a pang of disappointment, and then her phone rang. It was Adam. Stella had opened her laptop and was already tapping away at the keys as if she didn’t exist. Lorraine stepped back out onto the landing, feeling somewhat bereft.

  ‘What?’ she snapped too hastily.

  ‘Carla Davis has woken up. She’s given a description.’

  ‘Oh?’ said Lorraine keenly. This was a big development. ‘That’s sooner than they expected.’ Adam had waited as long as he could at the hospital after Carla had been brought back from theatre, but he’d eventually had to assign another officer to continue the vigil.

  ‘Can you come to the office? I’ve called a meeting in half an hour.’

  Lorraine peered down the stairs. The two girls she’d climbed over on the way up had gone but there was a steady stream of kids carrying plates of curry and rice into her living room. She sighed. ‘OK. But tell me some good news. Tell me you’re bringing the suspect in as we speak.’

  ‘I wish I could,’ Adam said.

  23

  ‘TAKING A BABY or child away from its mother isn’t as easy as you’d think.’ I’m telling this to Zoe as she sits there, watching me, shivering, her mouth slightly open and her cheeks developing a summery shade of rose pink even though it’s freezing in the house. Her expression gradually gives way to shock as I tell her about my work. To add to a bad day, the boiler has packed up so we’ve pulled our chairs close to the Aga and layered on an extra sweater each. Zoe did the same for the boys then lit the fire in the sitting room, snuggling them under a blanket with their favourite cartoon to watch.

  We finger mugs of tea. I’ve been holding a bag of frozen peas to my head but they’ve melted now. Zoe reaches over and takes the dripping pack from me.

  ‘I mean, how can you do that? Legally take someone else’s child?’ She emphasises ‘legally’ as if there’s another way to do it.

  ‘It’s not easy. Children are referred to our team by a number of people – the police, GPs, hospital doctors, health visitors, midwives, teachers, friends, relatives, neighbours, you name it.’

  Zoe pulls an interested face. She sips from her mug like a timid bird, watching all around her constantly.

  ‘Then we do an assessment. Basically that’s lots of meetings with and without the parent or parents, as well as making surprise and planned visits to their home. We have to decide if the child or children or babies, even unborn ones, are safe to stay in their environment. If not, we apply to the courts to have them removed to a safe place, usually temporary foster care, until a permanent home can be found.’

  ‘So the baby’s taken away from its mother,’ Zoe says in a vapid voice. I’m not sure if it’s a question.

  ‘It happens,’ I say, trying not to crush her with the reality. ‘But what you have to understand is that it’s always done with the child’s best interests in mind. Why let a kid grow up in a violent, abusive, dirty or neglectful household when he or she could live in a contented, loving one?’ My head is still throbbing.

  ‘But what about the mothers? What happens
to them?’ She seems upset and distressed, as if it might one day happen to her.

  ‘Well,’ I say carefully, feeling as if I’m trying to explain something horrific to a small child, ‘some of them are hopeless cases from the start. Even with support, they don’t try to change their lives. Sometimes they’re actually relieved if their children are removed.’

  ‘More money to spend on drugs and booze.’

  I nod. ‘But some of them turn their lives around and get their children back.’ I gently rub my stomach. The thought of anyone taking my little girl away from me when she finally arrives is unthinkable after all the years of longing and disappointment and trying and loss. I shiver again, unsure if it’s from what I’m thinking or the cold.

  ‘Is she kicking?’

  I nod and smile. ‘Feel.’ I take her hand and place it on the spot. Zoe frowns a little and moves her hand to another spot. I notice the tremor. ‘I think she’s gone back to sleep,’ I say when Zoe’s face registers nothing.

  ‘You don’t think . . . well, you don’t think the accident . . . upset her, do you?’

  I laugh. ‘Oh no, not at all. She’s been kicking loads since we got home. Don’t worry.’

  ‘I really think I should have taken you to hospital. I couldn’t bear it if anything happened—’

  ‘She’s fine. I’m fine. Trust me.’ I pat Zoe’s hand. She feels very cold. ‘I’ll call the plumber again.’ I dial the number and this time he answers. He promises to be round within half an hour.

  Zoe makes the boys a late supper and I decide to read through some case files to take my mind off everything that’s happened. The last twenty-four hours have been a torrent of emotions and occurrences beyond my control. It’s not been the best day, that’s for sure, I decide, settling at James’s desk with my battered leather messenger bag. James bought the bag for me last Christmas. It’s perfect for hauling chunky files between meetings.

  ‘It’s second hand,’ I’d said to him curiously after pulling off the wrapping paper and running my fingers across its worn surface.

  ‘It’s vintage,’ he’d corrected with a laugh. ‘It’s an old mail satchel. I thought you’d like the idea of all the good news it’s delivered.’ He’d wrapped his arms around me, as if I was his Christmas present.

  All I could think of was all the bad news the bag would now be conveying.

  ‘What’s that?’ I say out loud, shoving James’s spare study key back in my bag. There’s something on the floor. I bend down and pick up a button. It’s unusual – a dark green toggle with a purple swirl running through it. It’s certainly not from anything James wears and I don’t recognise it as my own. Shrugging, I stuff it in my pocket and get on with the pile of reading I need to do before tomorrow. Though I have no idea if I will go in to work after my antenatal class. I’m taking it one day at a time when it comes to this baby’s arrival. No one can blame me for that.

  Twenty minutes into a shocking read – the handover of a teenage girl from another area – the doorbell rings. I listen as Zoe answers it. She deals with the plumber courteously, showing him to the utility room.

  I go back to the tragic life of the fifteen-year-old, pregnant by her step-father. She refuses to name and shame him when every professional who has been dealing with her knows he is the one delivering the assortment of bruises and broken bones. Emergency foster care has been found for her two brothers but not the pregnant girl. She is due to give birth any day and her baby is on my priority list. I stop and imagine her young body bulging with new life – a life created from hate and fear. How will she ever be able to love that baby? I doubt she’s capable of loving herself, let alone anyone else. The psychologist’s report confirms a long history of self-harm, starvation, cutting, head-banging, substance abuse – it all swims off the page. There is a photograph of her clipped to the inside of the file. She is slight and pale with shoulder-length mousey hair. She’s wearing a red and blue striped top and her eyes are huge and brown, filled with utter despair.

  But, nestled in the corner of each eye like tears she can’t let go, I see glimmers of hope. I desperately want to help her.

  There’s a knock at the door. ‘Come in,’ I say, and before I know it, Zoe is standing in front of James’s desk with the plumber at her side. Her eyes flick all around James’s study.

  ‘Hello, Mrs M-B.’ He’s been calling me that ever since he refitted the bathroom a year ago. ‘Good to see you.’ He notices my stomach. ‘Heavens, Mr M-B’s been busy!’ He roars with laughter and wipes his hands down his boiler suit.

  ‘Thanks so much for coming out, Bob. We’re all freezing.’ I’m still shivering, despite the extra sweater.

  ‘Not good news about the boiler, I’m afraid. I need a part that I won’t be able to get until mid-morning tomorrow. Will you survive the night?’

  My heart sinks. ‘Do we have hot water?’

  ‘I’ve made sure the immersion heater is on, so yes, you do. But you’ll have to keep the home fires burning for the night, I’m afraid. I’ll be back about eleven. Will someone be home?’

  I nod and make arrangements with Zoe. I have no idea what tomorrow will bring for me yet.

  There’s a yelp from the kitchen where the boys are eating supper. Zoe dashes off while I see Bob out.

  ‘Thanks again.’ I click the door closed and gather up an armful of the numerous coats, jackets and woollies hanging in the hall, deciding we all need another layer. ‘Here,’ I say, dumping them on the kitchen sofa. ‘Let’s all look like Michelin men.’ I burst out laughing at the same time as Zoe. Her look says it all: you already do . . .

  ‘That’s my coat,’ Oscar complains when Noah snatches the padded jacket from him.

  ‘No, here’s yours, Oscar,’ I say. ‘The one with the badge, remember?’ I nip the battle in the bud. I pull out an oversized chunky-knit cardigan I don’t recognise from the pile. ‘This is nice,’ I say, examining it, wondering if it’s a long-forgotten garment or something Pip left behind.

  ‘Oh, that’s mine,’ Zoe says gratefully with a histrionic shiver.

  As I hand it over, I notice the row of green and purple toggles stitched down the front. One is missing.

  *

  Pip gives me a little wave from the floor. I want to talk to her but I’m late and the class is already under way. Compared to my house, it feels so warm in the usually freezing church hall. I struggle down onto my yoga mat and ease myself onto my side. It’s an effort. Mary is telling us about centring and aligning our chi and how it’s all linked to breathing. It’s a bit too New Age for my liking. When I think about bringing my baby into the world, all I can imagine is screaming and pain. There’s nothing peaceful and balanced about childbirth as Mary is suggesting.

  I begin the low leg raises that she’s demonstrating. Even these gentle exercises begin to pull my useless abdominal muscles after only a few seconds.

  ‘Breathe through the movement: in and out . . . in and out . . .’ Mary’s voice is rhythmic and soothing. ‘You’re strengthening your core ready for the big day . . . in and out . . . that’s right. Claudia, make sure you keep your knee straight and don’t lift too high.’

  I glance over at Pip. She winks. She can hardly lift her leg. I swear she’s bigger than me now.

  Are you OK? I mouth at her.

  She nods. You?

  I wrinkle my nose. She frowns and taps her watch. I nod. I’ve missed seeing her since Zoe took over the school runs.

  ‘On your feet now, ladies, and we’ll continue with our core exercises. It’s important to keep your balance on this one. Foot down if you feel a topple coming.’ Mary laughs in her automaton voice and begins a forward lunge that looks impossible with the great weight at my middle. She eyes us all individually. I wonder if she actually has any children of her own. She doesn’t look the type.

  Ten minutes later, as we’re lying on our mats relaxing, tears fill my eyes. Any moment, one of them is going to drip down my cheek and onto the floor. I clench my fists to fight
the emotion but I can’t help it. I’m imagining James God knows how deep in the sea, practising drills and procedure in a submarine crammed full of husbands, brothers, sons. Come home safely, my love, I say in my mind, even though I know it’s just a routine mission. I focus on the baby I will have waiting for him upon his return, how we will be a family of five, how he will be so very proud of me. Me, the woman who has suffered countless miscarriages and stillbirths; me, the woman who was told she’d never be able to carry a live baby full term; me, the woman who only ever wanted the chance to be a mother.

  *

  ‘Are you sure it’s hers?’ Pip says.

  We are both stuffing our faces with carrot cake. We can’t help it.

  ‘She admitted it was.’ My mouth is full and I wipe crumbs from my lips.

  ‘Look at us greedy pigs,’ Pip says, laughing. ‘I’m always losing buttons. It probably just fell off when she was in there chatting with James or something.’

  ‘Maybe,’ I say. ‘Though I found it by the window, near where James sits. I don’t understand what she was doing over there. James is very protective of his study.’

  ‘Oh Claud, stop it! Maybe it fell off in the doorway and got kicked.’ She crams in more cake and hungrily eyes the delicious display of pastries on Brew-haha’s counter.

  ‘Kicked?’ Bismah says, eavesdropping. She was talking to Fay, who’s been feeling sick all morning even though she’s five months now. ‘Who’s kicking? Let me feel.’ Her dark shiny hair is ponytailed down her back and I’m convinced her huge eyes are going to burst at the thought of feeling a baby’s foot or hand.

  ‘No baby kicks, I’m afraid,’ I say, wondering what Zoe would make of that. She’s been paranoid about me since the car accident.

  ‘And how is that nanny of yours, Claudia?’ Bismah continues. ‘I wish Raheem would agree to get me a nanny, then I could go back to teaching.’ Her laugh is gentle and tells me she has no real intention of going back to work, nanny or not. She’s just saying it for my benefit.