Until You're Mine

by Samantha Hayes

  ‘Yes, but it’s really the only link we have between the two cases, apart from the similarities of the actual crimes, of course.’

  Lorraine thought for a moment. ‘Both women had wanted terminations but didn’t go through with them.’ The only sound was the hiss of the living-flame gas fire. The connection was a start, she supposed, albeit a tenuous one. ‘What about the results of the second DNA sample they got from Carla’s flat?’ A hair – a different colour to Carla’s or her friend’s – had been found on a piece of Carla’s clothing and sent to the lab for analysis.

  ‘There’s a chance we could have a result as soon as tomorrow. The results from Sally-Ann’s bathroom should have been back by now but there was some kind of delay.’ Adam pulled a face. There was nothing new about lab results taking too long. He sat up and flicked on the ten o’clock news. ‘And we’re also waiting on Carla’s fingernail scrapings, though the quality was debatable. Watch this space, basically.’

  Lorraine already knew this. She curled her feet beneath her and stared at her husband watching the news. She tried to understand him, to make sense of his attitude to Grace’s decision to leave home, and failed. And she convinced herself that if she allowed any more thoughts of Sally-Ann or Carla Davis or pregnancies or wayward teenagers to fill her head that night, she wouldn’t be able to sleep a wink. She stood up and said goodnight to Adam, praying that tomorrow would bring some different kind of news.

  28

  IT WAS FUNNY how James and I met. It was the most unlikely of circumstances, though such meetings happen to me every week of my working life. Except that James wasn’t your typical father-under-investigation and I hadn’t expected to fall in love with the man whose sons I’d been sent to assess.

  Had I known the full circumstances, I’d probably never have bothered visiting the suburban property in the first place. The babies were being cared for perfectly adequately. And I’d certainly never have felt the tingle of envy as I’d driven down the tree-lined road searching for the correct house. It was pretty much the street of my dreams – beautiful homes stuffed full of comfort and love and parents who doted on each other and, most of all, brimming with happy children.

  Any one of the grand period properties would have done – Victorian red-brick detached places with huge sash windows and monkey puzzle trees in curved front gardens, or white rendered Georgian residences with multi-paned windows reflecting the serene street scene as I drove past. It was the complete opposite to my modest flat. I appreciated my home, even in all its magnolia loneliness, but it wasn’t like this.

  Someone’s minted, I remember thinking as I pulled into the in-and-out drive of the property I’d been sent to. The homes I usually visited to do my assessments possessed nothing like the grandeur of this home. Of course, I wasn’t naive enough to think that money equals well-cared-for children. Rich parents are just as able to neglect their offspring. You just don’t see it as much. Or perhaps no one dares report them.

  I walked up to the front door, with no clue that three months later I would be moving in to this very home. I stood in the grand portico, clutching a thin, pristine file for twin baby boys named Oscar and Noah because their mother had died. It had been a whole week and their father was unreachable. Since we’d been informed the father was in the military, it was a routine visit to check on the family’s plan to care for the babies. Back then I didn’t understand why the father had gone away and left a sick wife. Now I realise he had no choice.

  ‘Please, come in,’ the woman who opened the door said resignedly. She was thoroughly elegant and stick-thin with not-quite-grey hair pulled back into a loose chignon. A pink cardigan hung off her bony shoulders. She told me her name was Margot and encouraged me further inside. The place reeked of grief but she fought it off with a dignity that made her seem cold yet utterly brave. The facts were heart-breaking. Her daughter had just died of pancreatic cancer. There was no one else to care for the baby twins except her. Her son-in-law was in the Navy and on a top-secret mission. The Navy refused to jeopardise national security by informing him of the news or anyone else of his whereabouts. He would simply have to wait until he got home to learn of his wife’s death. ‘It’s not as if Elizabeth and James weren’t prepared for the inevitable,’ Margot told me. ‘They just didn’t realise it would be this soon. The pregnancy finished her off, if you ask me.’

  That rang a few alarm bells with me. As their main carer now, did she resent the babies?

  We were in the kitchen and she was at the back door, wedging it open with a black patent pump. She lit a slim cigar. ‘I don’t do this near them, if that’s what you’re wondering.’

  ‘Smoking’s always a concern,’ I said as compassionately as I could. She’d just lost her daughter. I thought a cigar – I’d never seen a woman smoke one before – was forgivable.

  ‘They didn’t find out about the cancer until she was pregnant. She refused to terminate. After they were born, she began chemotherapy. They said she’d have a year, maybe two, with the boys.’ Margot blew out in a grey sigh that swirled right back into the kitchen on a warm breeze. Sheets were snapping on the line outside. It was one of those rare summer days that refused to be spoilt even by talk of death. ‘But they were wrong. I suppose now a part of her lives on.’

  ‘How old was she?’ I asked. I didn’t know what else to say.

  ‘Thirty-two,’ she replied. ‘You’ll want to see the twins.’ Margot held the half-finished cigar under the cold tap then tossed it in the bin. ‘They’re taking a nap but we can stir them. It’s time for their bottles soon.’

  ‘I’d love to meet them,’ I told her.

  I left the file and my handbag on the kitchen table and followed Margot up the stairs. The house was grand but retained a homely, slightly shabby feel. I remember noticing the heavily patterned carpet on the stairs – a crimson and navy Axminster, I later learnt – and it was well worn at the front of the treads from decades of use. The brass stair rods were tarnished and a couple were missing. I soon had them replaced and polished, but the carpet remains. I changed a few other things after I moved in, mostly the colour of a wall here or a pair of curtains there, but I didn’t want to erase the feel of the place completely. That would have been hard on James.

  ‘This is their room,’ Margot said, and gently pushed the door open. There were two cots side by side against the far wall, protruding at a right angle. In the dim light, I could see that one of the babies was already awake and wriggling gently, silently, beneath a fleece blanket. There was a vague whiff of dirty nappies in the room and Margot noticed immediately.

  ‘Which one of you little lambs needs changing?’ she asked, switching on a bedside lamp shaped like a hot air balloon.

  ‘Probably both,’ I said with a laugh.

  Standing between the two cots, I leant over each one in turn, eager to get my fill of new babies. It was a joy to actually do an assessment where the children were clearly not at any risk. I didn’t know which one to give my attention to first. The second baby had also begun stirring so I lowered a hand into each cot and swept my palm across their virtually hairless heads. ‘Oh, aren’t you both adorable.’ But, despite their contentment, I was filled with instant sadness – perhaps more so than if I’d had to put them into foster care. This unexpected feeling bored deep into my heart. These little boys had been born with everything – a loving family, a beautiful home, plenty of money, lives full of prospects. But they had no mother. Who would they grow up loving, I thought? Who would they call for in the middle of the night? Who would come to their school concerts, make their nativity costumes, run for them in the mothers’ race on sports day? Their eyes appeared almost black in the half-light, as big as pebbles, staring up at me. I sighed so heavily my throat felt sore.

  Their grandmother lifted each boy up in turn and sniffed at their nappies. ‘It’s you, Noah, isn’t it?’ Whisking him off across the room to the changing table, she muttered something about it always being him.

  ‘
And who are you?’ I said in the high voice that everyone reserves for talking to babies. I reached into the cot and scooped up the little bundle. He was heavier than I’d imagined and his head was last to leave the towelling sheet. I quickly supported it with my fingers splayed beneath his neck and brought his face to my lips. The soft down of his skin felt tender and warm as I kissed him.

  I was suddenly drowning in love, desire, emptiness.

  I caught Margot’s eye and snapped out of the ridiculous reverie. It was the first and last time I thought I felt – even smelt – Elizabeth’s presence. Was she pleased I was there to take charge of her babies? Did she know, even though I didn’t, that I would become their mother? All I knew was that when I had my own baby, no one would ever take it from me.

  Then there was a noise out on the landing. A throaty, soul-destroying moan accompanied by the heavy thumping of footsteps. I looked at Margot. She froze, mid-nappy change, and her face crumpled into a map of lines as a man appeared in the doorway. ‘Oh James, my darling,’ she said, and dashed across the room to him. She allowed herself to be engulfed in his arms as they sobbed together in what should have been a private moment of grief.

  I felt awkward and embarrassed. I knew nothing about these people yet here I was immersed in their lives. I turned to Noah, alone on the changing mat. Too young to roll off, but I didn’t like seeing the little mite so vulnerable so I went to him, still holding Oscar, with my back facing the doorway. It seemed right.

  I heard low mumblings, sobs that resonated deep in hearts, and crashing swearwords that cut through lives. The sound of a man crying is a piteous noise, almost worse than an infant’s cry. Babies are either hungry, sick or bored, or need changing. This man was none of these things. He was wrapped in grief as deep as the ocean, and no one could do anything to help him.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Miss . . .’ Margot trailed off.

  I turned round to see mother and son-in-law still in tight embrace. I was holding both babies, one in the crook of each arm. No mean feat. I jiggled up and down. ‘Miss Brown,’ I said. There seemed little point in telling her to call me Claudia. I would never see them again. This was merely a visit to tick boxes.

  ‘I’m so sorry you had to witness this. James has only just found out.’

  I was nodding profusely so she didn’t have to repeat exactly what it was James had just found out. But the man still had strength enough to approach me with an outstretched hand. His Naval training, I supposed.

  I kept on nodding. I couldn’t offer up my hand with a baby in each arm.

  ‘James Morgan,’ he said in a voice constricted by grief. ‘Thank you for coming.’

  In their low whisperings of a moment ago, Margot must have informed him I was a social worker. No one had ever thanked me for coming before. The people I visit usually hate me, want me to leave, throw things at me, accuse me of ruining their lives, of stealing their children or trying to cut off their benefits. If the parents I’m trying to help don’t destroy me with their vitriol, then the department itself or even the press will take a shot when things don’t go according to plan. The majority of cases, the children whose lives we change for the better, for ever, well, no one hears about them and all the good work we do.

  ‘It’s just a routine visit,’ I replied. ‘We work closely with the hospitals.’ I hoped that explaining how I had come to be there wouldn’t conjure too strong an image of his wife’s last days. Last days that he’d had no part of.

  James came close to me and we made the transfer of babies from me to him. It was somehow symbolic, and also about that moment when I fell in love with him. Seeing him holding his babies and being in his house and watching him in the midst of the most terrible day of his life, seeing it all play out in his unfathomable eyes (oh how the boys inherited those!), falling for him came as naturally as breathing.

  Two days later I was back in his kitchen. I’d left him my card in case he needed help. My love for him was firmly nailed in place at this meeting. He wanted to ask me what his options were, for the boys.

  ‘Options?’ I’d said.

  Under normal circumstances I’d have thought it a particularly lame excuse for asking me on a date. It was why I’d left my card after all, although I’d not expected to hear from him, at least not this soon. But James was swallowed up in misery. His wife had recently died. He wasn’t asking me out at all, rather he was genuinely wanting my professional advice regarding his sons. I’d already admired his stoicism for bearing up against the news of Elizabeth’s death; now my admiration lay in his realising he couldn’t do this alone.

  ‘I must tell you,’ he said as we stared into our coffees. His eyes were rimmed red. ‘Margot doesn’t want a piece of it.’ He waved his arms around. He meant his home, the boys, his family. ‘She lives in Jersey. With the rest of the Sheehans,’ he added with what I thought could be a twist of bitterness. ‘If I’m honest, Margot and Elizabeth never really got on.’ He managed a small laugh.

  ‘How come?’ I couldn’t help prying into the mother–daughter relationship.

  ‘Elizabeth was a free spirit, somewhat bohemian,’ he added with a tight laugh. ‘She didn’t live like the rest of the Sheehans, and she certainly didn’t believe in their lifestyle or morals. The whole lot of them are wrapped up in their trust companies and offshore finances and socialite goings-on. She was nothing like her three brothers. They all work in the family business. They are the family business.’

  ‘It sounds as if Elizabeth was quite a woman,’ I said. I admire anyone who stands up for what they believe. But James was being realistic, practical, frank. And I admire honesty in a man above anything. ‘Are you going to leave the Navy to look after the boys?’ With hindsight, that was a particularly stupid question. But I didn’t know.

  ‘I won’t be leaving my job,’ he said matter-of-factly. ‘I need to arrange childcare for the times I’m away. It’s going to be hard.’

  ‘But you want to keep the boys, surely?’ All kinds of thoughts were racing through my mind. Did he want to have them adopted? Was he going to look for a live-in nanny? Perhaps get them signed up for boarding school as soon as they were old enough?

  ‘Of course I want to keep them,’ was his reply. ‘I just don’t know how to do it.’ It was apparent that James had no idea how to go about hiring nannies or au pairs or any kind of domestic help. ‘Elizabeth was marvellous,’ was all he said. ‘She did everything.’

  The man definitely needed help, just not the kind I was able to provide professionally.

  ‘I can put you in touch with some reputable agencies,’ I said. ‘You can interview live-in nannies. It won’t be easy, but you’ll find someone, I feel sure of it.’

  ‘I do hope so,’ he said, and I forgave him that his hand crept across the table onto mine because he didn’t know what he was doing.

  Within three months, I had moved in. And within a year, we had married.

  29

  I’VE BEEN HERE for little more than a week, and the cleaner is coming again this morning. An old house like this seems to sigh out dust, and every few days Jan comes to make it right again. This is the first time we’ve really chatted; the first time she’s set down her vacuum cleaner and bucket of sprays.

  ‘I knew Elizabeth well.’ She buttons up her cardigan. ‘She was nothing like Claudia,’ she confesses from over the froth of her cappuccino. I’ve finally learnt how to use the coffee machine. ‘You wouldn’t think the same man chose them both as his wife.’

  My ears prick up. I don’t know much about Elizabeth outside the information learnt during my snooping session in James’s study – although none of that proved exactly what I needed. All I really know is that she was James’s first wife and the twins’ birth mother.

  ‘Elizabeth was different to the rest of her family, that’s for sure.’ Jan lets out an approving chuckle. ‘She absolutely adored James. She was madly in love with him and wilted for at least a fortnight after he left on a mission. She distracted herself with he
r work and would catch the bus to her office completely barefoot. She was a lawyer,’ Jan added almost proudly, as if Elizabeth had been her own daughter. ‘Fought for the rights of parents whose children had been abducted by family members, she did. Fancy that. One man stole his daughters and took them to Oman. His English wife would never have seen them again if it wasn’t for Elizabeth. She had lovely clothes,’ Jan went on. ‘Bright and dreamy, like her.’ She drained her cup.

  I’m shocked that Jan is telling me this. I suddenly feel protective towards Claudia, as if she needs all the help she can get competing with the colourful memory of Elizabeth.

  ‘And then there was the money,’ Jan continued. I can tell by the way she’s standing now that she thinks she ought to be working but can’t resist telling me just another snippet or two of gossip. ‘Elizabeth’s family is extremely wealthy. More money than the likes of you or I could ever imagine. Ever,’ she stressed. ‘Thing is, she didn’t seem to want any of it. Elizabeth didn’t agree with all their banking deals and trusts and all the kind of stuff that goes on in those tax heaven places.’

  ‘Haven,’ I correct. ‘You mean tax haven.’

  ‘Whatever it is, she was . . .’ She paused and thought, leaning on the hose of the vacuum cleaner. ‘Elizabeth was purer than that. She’d hate to live off money that wasn’t fairly earned or ethically gained. Sometimes she did her work for free, for mothers who couldn’t afford her services.’ Jan gives a succinct nod. ‘Between you and me, I think James had pound signs in his eyes when he married Elizabeth. He spent a lot of time trying to build bridges between her and her family – her brothers especially. They liked James, approved of his Navy career and his politics. But ooh, listen to me. Can’t stand here nattering all day.’ She picked up the vacuum cleaner. ‘It’s a different world with them lot though, but you didn’t hear it from me.’

  ‘No,’ I say pensively.

  ‘Worlds apart,’ she almost sings, and is about to leave but thinks better of it. ‘Elizabeth always gave me a Christmas bonus, mind.’ Jan leans forward on the vacuum. ‘Two hundred pounds cash,’ she whispers with a sly nod. ‘Nothing like that from Claudia, you know. Just a box of Quality Street and a cheap card.’