by PN Moore
Back to work
I arrived late for my first day back. Walking through the lobby I could feel people trying not to look at ‘her’
The one from HR who’s daughter was knocked down’
‘Hasn’t she split from her husband?’…
‘You must have read it in the paper. It was the accident with that gorgeous doctor and the drunk wife oh yes, the poor girls hands….’
The receptionist smiled ‘welcome back’ a little later Roger my boss came into my office after a little while and said How sorry he was, how I should take things easy and not push myself. Things had changed, moved on.
I felt frightened and lost, I felt I had been left behind. I resisted the urge to run as I was introduced to the new staff. I was to return part-time Tuesday to Friday lunchtime so I could have a long weekend with Emma.
I had blocked out everything during those six months, including my work. The daily work routine seemed long ago. Staying at Guy’s and Emma’s transfer to rehab made work appear far away and a little pointless. Work knew of my break-up with Kenneth, but I was determined to return, married or not. It was Kenneth’s refusal to accept the accident and it’s consequences that finally made the break. He was living back with his elderly father, me still living at the house. We would eventually sell it, but at the time I couldn’t cope with the stress of a house sale on top of everything else. I felt better now that I was off the anti-depressants, only taking sleeping tablets if things got too much.
I worked in Human Recourses for an overseas charity in the West-End of London. I was taken on mainly due my linguistic skills. I had studied Spanish and French at university and taken up a post as a trainee interpreter. My main claim to fame was being filmed in Paris with a junior MP who I had worked for in what was later called the Common Market. After having Emma I didn’t want to travel as much and got the job at the Charity as most of the countries we were involved with were French speaking.
It’s funny, I thought working for a care agency, a charity for the worlds poorest people would take me away from the cutthroat business I had seen in Europe. How wrong could I be, the charity was obsessed with money. Every meeting was how we could get more and more of the stuff, it dominated everything. Of course it was all for a good cause, but at what cost. It was difficult to deal with at first. I would have to draw up short contracts for students to come in the office in the evening and badger old people into taking out covenants. I would hear the young students calling the old people just as they would just settle down for the evening after their tea.
‘Do you know that by the end of this conversation 3 three children will be dead due to starvation?’
‘let me put you down without obligation for X amount. If I don’t hear from you in 10 days we will continue with the donation’.
The old people would either forget, or feel guilty to cancel the donation.
Emma asked me to let her do the cold calling, as it would top up the pay from her job John Lewis. I would have liked to say to her that it was immoral, but how could I when I worked there and had even set up most of the calling sessions. At 7pm one night she started the calls. Almost immediately, she found the practice distasteful-this pleased me. She told me later, that she would ring and not ask for money, rather just enquire how the people were and thank them for donating in the past. She found it hard to ask for money. Emma was relieved to finish the shift, and didn’t go back. Ironically, Fund-raising said she had collected the most donations ever. They begged me to ask her back. I just said she did not have the time due to her studies. Emma was pleased to go back selling nets at John Lewis’s, and so was I.
There had been changes at work; a shift in world policy and a ‘review for change’ programme had been introduced for charity staff. I had missed out on all this and was now required to attend a training course. It was to be on a Tuesday evening at 6-8. Before I wouldn’t have even thought about this as being an infringement on my time. I remember barking at people for not attending staff development. I knew exactly what courses everyone had done and what they should do. I would write to them in the strongest terms if they tried to miss out, now, I didn’t see the point in any of it, but I did get to meet Maureen.
Maureen was in her fifties, quiet and pleasant. She had three grown up daughters and had returned to work when the last one got married. She worked part-time and enjoyed the work. We got on, doing our silly group exercises on the course. Over the weeks we would go to coffee break together and just chat. One evening I just happened to mention that it was difficult sleeping with the noise next door. She was interested, I mean very interested. I told her about the noise and the boys blocking the drive, just having a moan really.
‘You don’t have to put up with this‘ She said. I remember thinking
‘it’s ok for you, you don’t have to live next door to them’
Still irritated, I drank my coffee and went back to do a ‘board-blast’.
On the train home I thought about Maureen, she was very much like me, middle aged middle class, we even liked the same things. But there was something she was not telling me. This was acceptable as there was much I wouldn‘t tell her, in my book it was bad manners to wash your dirty linen in public. Anyway every detail of my family had been in the paper, so to have some secrets felt comforting. The next week during the course break, she looked round the café to see if anyone was listening
‘Would you like this to stop’? I looked at her, she looked serious, ‘yes’ I answered, she leaned forward and spoke.
Maureen’s husband had left her for another woman.
‘Hardly a woman at all, more a girl really. This is what upset my girls the most. He met her at a conference, the usual mid-life crisis type: young, blond, bit screwed up. Pretty enough in a airhostess sort of way. I was crushed, kept asking myself ‘was it me that made him look elsewhere?
‘Well look at me, I’m not pretty, never was really, but I thought we were happy. We had had our ups and downs. He was very ill some time back and that sort of brought us close. Then our first grandson came along and we were happy and settled.
‘Then bang, came home and told me he was ‘in love’, in love at his age. I had no idea what to do; I hated him, more for hurting the girls anyway he went and lived with her. The girl’s father got pretty up-set too, seeing his pretty daughter living with an old granddad. Everyone knew at work and even at my church, I had a bit of a breakdown. Now my dear, what I am about to say is very important and it should never ever go any further than this table.
She gave another look round the café, then continued.
‘My eldest daughter’s husband Gavin spoke to me one night. He asked me very nicely if I would like the girl ‘taken care of’ Of course I was shocked, but even I knew what he meant. He didn’t seem that type, he worked in IT, some sort of communication projects. Contracts with all sorts, the BBC the Police, everyone. To my great surprise, I said that I would prefer it to be my husband’.
I looked round the room to see if anyone was indeed listening. I felt a little frightened, not sure if this was true, or if she was teasing me, either way I didn’t think it was funny.
‘Don’t be shocked dear’ she said smiling, ‘it happens much more than you would imagine, it can be done, anything can be done, accidents happen’.
‘I think I should go now’ I said putting my coffee down, wishing to end this stupidity right there and then. We said our goodbyes yet, just as I stood up Maureen whispered ‘it’s a little help for us who are trodden over, us who can’t hit back, when a letter of compliant is not enough, think about it’.
I never wanted to see her again, this was madness. Who would have thought such a thing happened outside of the cinema. She was bloody mad. No more course for me I thought, I ought to call the police. Unwilling to walk home I took a taxi from the station, everything seemed sinister now.
‘Someone’s enjoying themselves’ said the taxi driver as we pulled up at the house. The music blaring out from next door
and several cars parked on the pavement around my house, somebody’s car was actually parked in my driveway. With fear and anger welling up inside me I opened the front door and immediately saw them in our garden. The fence panel had been knocked in and four or five of them were playing football in our garden. I came out and shouted at them,
‘Get out, get out’.
They just laughed bending their hands down to look like Emma’s poor arms. I ran into the house to phone the police, one of them followed me inside standing defiantly in front of me. I could smell the alcohol on his breath
‘You go to bed now darling and forget all about it-just a bit of fun’
This was said with such menace it frightened me to the bone. I knew I couldn’t stay. He laughed as he pushed me back. The others started to call him, saying filthy rude things. With one last leering look, he walked back to the others. I found my car keys, locked up the house and drove to a small hotel near the station, this could not go on.
‘All a big misunderstanding’ the WPC said,
‘Said they kicked their football over the fence, saw you were not in, so jumped over the fence and got it back. The chap said you looked upset so went into check you were ok. They said you have suffered a trauma recently, your daughter, is this right’?
I was standing in my hotel room listening to this police officer explaining that I imagined it all. I had called into the police station the next day before I went to work following the garden incident. I told the police about the break in and the guy coming into the house to challenge me. Now they had made it out that I was some hysterical woman, wasting police time on the helpful people next door.
‘ Would you like me to drive you home madam’? Asked the slightly patronising WPC.
‘Would you like me to contact your doctor? We are so very sorry about your daughter. You know there are people you can talk to about this’?
I saw her out of the hotel room. I felt like I was going mad and not for the first time. Was I dreaming it all, was it my imagination, was I really so traumatised that I was living some sort of illusory life? I had alienated just about everyone I knew: my mother, my husband, people at work, and now the ‘helpful’ boys next door. I sat on the bed in the little hotel-room overlooking the car park through the haze of net-curtain. I felt safe there, I never wanted to go home, but knew I couldn’t stay there. I remembered the photo of Emma next door had sent to the paper, a filthy image, and knew that I had not made all this up.
‘I should have a little word with your neighbours before I start to show people round. It’s a lovely house in a sought after location, but next door may put some people off with the music and the cars’ said the over-smart young man with the clip-board
‘When I was looking round the back garden, one the people next door asked if I was an estate agent. I didn’t want to say too much but I didn’t them to think I was a burglar so I said ‘yes’. Well they laughed and threw food at me; an egg ruined my suit jacket. It would be a good idea to get that sorted out before I print up any details’.
That was it, I was stuck. Couldn’t stay, couldn’t leave. Late in the night with the music thumping through the wall I decided to call Maureen.
