Envy

by Amanda Robson

  Ms Tideswell leans across the table towards the sergeant. ‘We need to terminate this interview.’

  ‘I’m requesting a full psychological report before we continue,’ Sergeant Tiller says into the microphone. He switches off the recording machine. ‘Get a psychiatrist here as soon as possible,’ he barks at Constable Thackery. ‘And an appropriate adult.’

  Ms Tideswell puts her hand on my arm. I push it away. ‘Try to keep calm. We’re only here to help.’

  85

  Jonah

  I am sorting through a pile of post when the doorbell buzzes. I reduce Beethoven’s Ninth to background music, and pad through the hallway to answer it.

  I open the door to find a policewoman standing in front of me. Brown wavy hair cascades to her shoulders. She is young and pretty. Too young to be at work. She should be travelling the world weighed down only by a rucksack.

  ‘Do come in,’ I say.

  She steps into the hallway. Medium height. Medium weight. Medium breasts.

  ‘Hi there. I’m PC Linda Smith. I’ve come to talk to you about the child abduction you witnessed, if that’s OK?’

  ‘Of course.’ I smile at her. ‘Please follow me into the drawing room.’

  Through my small hallway. Through my Georgian dining room, down into my sitting room, which opens onto my landscaped garden.

  ‘Do sit down.’

  She sinks into my Regency sofa and crosses an elegant pair of legs. I sit in a chair opposite her.

  ‘I just want to ask you a few questions,’ Linda Smith says.

  I smile at her. ‘Please fire away.’

  ‘Could you run through what you saw again? If you don’t mind?’ she asks, vowels precise and clipped. Not just shapely. Well educated too.

  ‘I was driving past the school when I saw a woman leaving with a struggling child. The child looked really unhappy. I recognised the child: Tamsin Baker, the daughter of my close friends Faye and Phillip.’

  Linda leans forwards, breasts pressed together like a comfortable shelf. ‘And you decided to follow her?’ she asks.

  ‘There was no time to do anything else. If I had stopped to call the police no one would have known where they had gone.’

  ‘It’s such a good job you acted as you did, and telephoned us so quickly, after you had followed them. The parents were so grateful when we told them what you did.’

  ‘I hope so,’ I reply with a grin.

  ‘We’re all so very happy she’s all right.’ A pause. ‘I just want to take your formal statement for the record. Is it OK if we do that now?’

  ‘Fine.’

  She smiles. Not as special as your smile, Faye. Don’t worry, you put everyone in the shade. But a nice enough smile. Warm. Inviting. Men like to be invited. You know that don’t you, Faye? I expect my next invitation is already in your mind.

  86

  Phillip

  Georgia is in bed. I have just settled her and left her totally relaxed, lying flat on her back, arms splayed above her head. So pleased to have her sister home. She whispered that to me before she fell asleep. You and I are sitting in the living room, Tamsin dozing on your lap.

  ‘I know Jonah has been a pain lately, but maybe we should invite him over for dinner to thank him. Cook a special meal? What do you think? He is my oldest friend and we really owe him now.’

  Your face stiffens. But, ‘Yes. Yes. You’re right,’ you say. ‘He’s been making me feel very uncomfortable lately but I suppose that’s insignificant now he has helped get Tamsin back.’ There is a pause. ‘Invite him if you must.’

  ‘Mrs Enthusiastic.’

  You laugh an artificial laugh, letting me know my joke isn’t funny. ‘Just don’t leave me in a room on my own with him, and if the evening doesn’t turn out as you hope, don’t blame me.’

  You stand up, cradling Tamsin in your arms, ready to carry her upstairs and settle her. Your violet eyes catch mine. Violet eyes tangled with worry. Is inviting Jonah over a mistake? But I can’t stop myself. He saved our daughter’s life. He has been behaving strangely lately but I think we need to give him a break. Jonah and I go back a long way.

  87

  Erica

  Lying on a plank-like bed, in a cell at the police station, waiting for a psychiatric assessment. Waiting to be formally interviewed. The bastards are blaming me for this, but it is your fault, Faye. How many men have you been to bed with? How unsuitable are your values?

  I close my eyes. I am back, lying in bed with my mother. I smell lily of the valley. I feel the soft skin of her cheek as she lies next to me. When she took me in her arms I wanted to stay there for ever. But I could never stay lying in her arms for very long.

  My mother had numerous boyfriends. I do not remember any of them clearly. I do not know which one was my father. They came and went, visiting her bedroom. The bedroom was a fresh lemon colour. When she had a boyfriend visiting in her bedroom I had to stay downstairs. I tried so hard to do as I was told, sitting downstairs watching TV.

  But one evening I thought one of Mother’s boyfriends was hurting her. She cried out in pain like an injured animal. I ran upstairs and burst into her bedroom to try to help her. She was lying on the bed naked. Her boyfriend was also naked, lying on top of her. Holding her wrists in his hands and forcing her arms apart above her head. He was pumping on top of her and she was screaming in pain. Another man who was fully dressed was standing above the bed watching.

  ‘Get off my mother,’ I shouted.

  I picked up one of his shoes, which was lying on the floor in front of me, and threw it at him. It hit the back of his head. He pulled away from my mother, turned around, threw it back at me and missed. He moved towards me, face hissing with anger. His face was red and purple. I had never seen such an angry face. I tried not to look at the rest of his naked body. It scared me. I had never seen an erect penis before. The end of his penis was purple like his face.

  ‘I’m not coming here again,’ he shouted.

  He picked his clothes off the floor, got dressed and left. The other man sat on the bedroom chair, waiting. I looked across to my mother. She had slipped her dressing gown on and was walking towards me.

  She slapped me on the cheek, so hard, I could barely breathe. I began to cry. I wanted to run away, but my feet wouldn’t move.

  ‘Don’t come in here when I’m busy with a man, ever again.’

  I know what it is like to have a promiscuous mother. I didn’t want you to damage your children, Faye.

  88

  Faye

  ‘I’m not going to school today, Mummy.’

  I groan inside. Tamsin is sitting at the dining table eating muesli, tucking in enthusiastically.

  ‘I’m staying at home with you,’ she continues.

  Georgia is eating chopped banana with her fingers.

  ‘You have to go to school,’ I tell Tamsin, as I wipe Georgia’s hands.

  ‘Why?’ she asks stretching her neat crocodile line of shiny milk teeth into a cheeky smile.

  ‘It’s the law,’ I reply, taking a sip of coffee.

  ‘What does law mean?’

  ‘Rules. The rules we have to stick to.’

  She shrugs her shoulders. ‘Why do we have to stick to rules?’

  ‘To keep safe. To make sure we do what is best for everyone.’

  ‘But Erica wasn’t sticking to rules when she took me.’

  ‘And look what happened to her – she’s in prison now.’

  ‘Will I go to prison if I don’t go to school?’ she asks as she continues to eat her muesli.

  I am so tempted to say yes, to frighten her into doing as I say. But if I frighten her she might freak out.

  ‘No you won’t go to prison, but the head teacher will be cross. And Parky will miss you.’

  I look at my watch and my stomach tightens. Ten minutes before we need to leave for school. Since the abduction, getting Tamsin to school has become harder every day.

  ‘Come on, Tamsin,’ I say in a bri
ght, buttery voice. ‘You’ve finished your breakfast. I’ll clean Georgia up. You get your hat and coat.’

  Tamsin folds her arms. ‘No.’

  I step into our kitchen area, soak Georgia’s flannel in warm water, and gently wipe her face. Then I smile sweetly at Tamsin, pretending I haven’t heard her.

  ‘Come on, darling. I’ll help you find your shoes and coat.’

  Arms folded more tightly. ‘No.’

  ‘I have some chocolate buttons for you – when you’ve got your coat on.’

  Her arms loosen. She slips off her chair and moves to stand in front of the coat rack by the door. I whisk her coat from its hook and help her into it. I hand her a few chocolate buttons from my secret stock.

  ‘If I put my shoes on, can I have some more?’

  ‘OK then.’

  She puts her shoes on as quickly as possible. I hand her a few more.

  We set off down the road, Georgia’s face clean now, dropping off to sleep in the buggy. Tamsin is eating chocolate buttons. Not ideal. But at least she is going to school. I started off wanting to be the perfect mother, but these days everything is a bribe or a compromise, and I just manage. All the relationships in my life seem corrupt these days.

  The walk is taking for ever. Tamsin is walking so, so slowly. After a hundred yards, she stops. Feet locked to the ground.

  ‘I don’t want to go to school. I want to stay home with you.’

  I kneel down and hug her. ‘The bad lady won’t come again. It’s OK, Tamsin.’

  ‘I know the bad lady isn’t coming. I still don’t want to go to school.’

  ‘Come on. Let’s pretend you are a bird flying to school. I’ll carry you.’

  She giggles. I lift her up, beneath my left arm and try to carry her in a horizontal position, like a bird or an aeroplane, while pushing the buggy with my other hand. But she is too heavy. It doesn’t work. I have to give up for a rest.

  She sits on the pavement. ‘I’m a bird having a rest,’ she says. ‘In a moment I am going to look for worms.’

  Before she can do that, I find the energy to lift her up again. She flies for a while. We rest. She flies again. Finally we arrive at the school gates. She is still pretending to be a bird as I lift her past the School Gate Mafia, who look across at us and frown as we pass. We are late. They have already dropped their children off. The playground is empty. The children have gone inside.

  She finds her feet.

  ‘Bye bye, Mummy,’ she says, stepping into her classroom at last.

  89

  Erica

  The psychiatrist is sitting behind the plastic table in the interview room, waiting for me. She has black hair and looks tall above the table. Her face is long, and her hair falls shapeless and dark, like bland curtains on either side of her face. She smiles at me.

  ‘Hi, Erica,’ she says. ‘Please sit down. I am pleased to meet you. My name is Jane Harrington.’

  As I sit I realise that tears are streaming down my face. I attempt to wipe them away with the back of my hand. She passes me a tissue.

  ‘Thank you.’

  I sit wiping my face, looking at her. She has soft brown eyes, like Ashmolean’s at school. I try to remember the colour of my mother’s eyes, but I cannot. Were they violet like Faye’s and Tamsin’s? Is that why I have become so obsessed with them? No. I don’t know. I push that thought away. A young officer arrives placing a tray of tea and biscuits in front of us. Custard creams. Mouse’s favourites. What have I done? How long will it be before I see Mouse again? How is he managing without my support? I should have thought about that in the first place.

  The police officer disappears. I take a sip of my tea. So sweet it bites into my tongue. But it is soothing somehow. I take a custard cream.

  ‘Let’s start with your crying,’ Jane asks. ‘Do you often cry like this?’

  ‘No. It’s just been sparked by this arrest when I was trying to help Tamsin.’ There is a pause. ‘I feel so guilty.’

  Jane is making notes on a pad in front of her. She takes a sip of tea. She puts her head up to speak. ‘Guilty about what you did?’ she asks.

  I shake my head, confused. ‘No. Guilty I couldn’t help.’

  ‘We can talk about that later. First there are some questions I need to ask.’ She consults a printed sheet she picks up from her desk. ‘Have you ever been suicidal?’

  ‘No.’

  She ticks the sheet.

  ‘Have you ever had suicidal thoughts?’ she continues, looking up, eyes riddled with concern.

  ‘No,’ I repeat.

  Her mouth flattens. ‘But you have had a difficult past, haven’t you?’ she asks.

  ‘If everyone who has had a difficult past killed themselves the human race would have died out centuries ago. What are you trying to say?’

  Her mouth moves downwards. ‘I am not trying to say anything. I am just trying to ask a few standard questions in order to assess you.’

  What am I? A person or a protocol? ‘OK then, fire away.’ I grit my teeth and manage.

  ‘How do you feel you get on with others?’ she asks.

  I sigh inside. ‘Like who?’ I ask.

  ‘Well, let’s start with your parents?’

  ‘I can’t remember my father at all. I’m not sure I ever met him.’ A silent tear slides down my face. ‘And I can only just remember my mother, but I think she was a bit like Faye.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘I’d prefer not to say.’

  She swallows. She pauses. ‘Why did you take Tamsin?’ she asks.

  ‘She needed to get away.’

  ‘Like you did, Erica?’

  ‘Yes.’

  In the distance of my mind I am back in my council house. My mother has been taken away in an ambulance and my social worker is helping me pack. My clothes. My small golden teddy bear that I have had since I was three. A photograph of my mother. The one I still have, and treasure. Mother is standing by the sea wearing shorts and a T-shirt, wind funnelling her long black hair. Her grin is so wide, so cheeky. She loved the sea. She once told me watching the waves roll in made her feel free. I now understand the tragedy of her life. This picture encapsulates her before tragedy took over. If only she could have stayed like this.

  Jane is talking to me, over the thin thread of my memory.

  ‘We are going to help you. Antidepressants. Dialectic Behavioural Therapy. A form of CBT, which is very successful. The results we now have with talking therapies are phenomenal.’

  Her words spin in my mind on automatic repeat. There but not there; swimming in the ocean with a young version of my mother.

  90

  Faye

  School pickup. Parky’s dark eyes burning with concern. I know he is devastated about letting Tamsin go off with Erica. He looks older, smaller, diminished in every way.

  ‘We need to have a meeting with the Head.’ He pauses. ‘The classroom assistant is letting the children out and looking after Tamsin. Would you like her to look after Georgia too?’

  After what happened, I don’t want either of my girls looked after by a classroom assistant. But I have no choice. I can’t have them listening to us discussing the abduction.

  ‘Yes please,’ I say.

  Parky takes Georgia’s buggy and wheels it into the classroom, then he comes back to fetch me and lead me across the playground. The School Gate Mafia’s eyes light up, searing into my back, as I follow Parky, into the main entrance of the school, through the waiting room, resplendent with class photographs, and bold finger paintings. Past the school secretaries. He knocks on the Head’s door.

  ‘Come in,’ she shouts.

  Parky opens the door and we step inside. Mrs Worthington, the Head of School, is about forty years old, slim with sculptured hair, riddled with expensive two-toned highlights. Dressed like the lady captain of a golf club. Chinos. Tailored jacket. She is sitting legs crossed, to the left of her desk, in the sofa area of her spacious office. Her shoes are golden, soft leath
er pumps. Comfortable and expensive.

  ‘Thank you for coming.’ A pause. A smile. ‘Do sit down,’ she says, gesticulating to the sofa opposite.

  I sit down; Parky sits next to me. The sofa looks comfy but the cushions are hard, pressing into my back.

  ‘No one regrets what happened to Tamsin more than I do,’ Mrs Worthington says.

  Anger knots in my stomach. I am sure Tamsin, Phillip and I regret it more. Her attitude is too calm and complacent. ‘School procedures are being investigated by the local authority, and I, as head teacher, face suspension if we are found to be at fault in any way,’ she continues. ‘I just thought you ought to know what was happening. Also, we are worried about Tamsin. We are having a few problems with her.’

  Problems. The knots in my stomach rotate like pounding fists. What do they expect after their negligence? Problems they need to deal with.

  I glare across at Parky.

  ‘Would you like to explain, Mr Parkinson?’ Mrs Worthington says.

  ‘She isn’t eating at school,’ he starts.

  I sigh inside. That isn’t much of a problem – she eats so much at home. ‘Maybe she isn’t hungry in the day because she has been having a large breakfast,’ I snap.

  ‘Not eating is the tip of the iceberg,’ Parky continues. ‘She is ignoring her friends Tom and Ashmolean, staring through them all the time as if she is in a trance.’ A pause. ‘She isn’t concentrating in class. She won’t even sit still at story time and that used to be her favourite.’

  My stomach feels as if it is about to implode. Parky’s voice is soft and flat. Maybe story time is monotonous. Maybe he needs to make a bit more effort.

  ‘She pinched Ashmolean’s bottom three times and made her scream,’ he continues. Another pause. Raised eyebrows. ‘Then she sat screaming in the Wendy house, throwing plastic fruit.’

  I cannot put up with any more of this. I stand up.

  ‘She has just had a bad experience,’ I shout, ‘due to your negligence. Now she needs love and understanding. She gets it at home and I expect her to get it here.’