It had been Liam, my brother-in-law, on the phone. A man with a big laugh and a fierce competitive streak that always emerges when his little brother Callum is around. In the twenty years I have known him I have never heard him sound frightened before, but a short time ago a car scattered our children like ninepins down Vicarage Lane.
While this was happening I had been hurrying through the nightly chores, still smarting from the latest pointless sarcastic exchange with Callum, grumbling to myself about the lack of help. I had planned to check my diary and case notes for tomorrow and, once finished, to put my feet up with a glass of wine, and decide whether it would be a book or television that would keep me company tonight. That is the extent of my choices, since our children live in their rooms nowadays, and my husband is usually volunteering at the Mountain Rescue depot – sometimes helping people who have got lost on Lakeland walks, sometimes filing paperwork and running training courses, and sometimes, I fear, simply avoiding me.
My mind replays the tremor in Liam’s voice. As a police sergeant, he has witnessed the aftermath of these accidents more than most. But tonight his panic is pervasive, and I drive like a maniac all the way down towards the main road, the car swinging wildly as I change direction. I speed towards the town centre, causing a neon ‘30’ sign to light up in reprimand as I whiz past, then take the one-way system towards Vicarage Lane.
I slow as soon as I see the flashing lights ahead. Where usually there is only a dark, quiet country road, the place is garish and bustling, the strobing colours reflecting over the church and graveyard, as though there might be a celebration going on beneath the headstones tonight.
I stop the car, fling the door open, jump out and break into a run, just as one of the ambulances starts up and accelerates past me. Behind me, I hear the siren begin to wail, and I swing around to watch it go. Who is inside? Who needs them to move in such a hurry?
Seconds later, a squad car emerges from a side road and chases after the ambulance. I get a flash of the person in the passenger seat; it might be Liam, but he is gone too fast for me to be sure.
I rush on, past a small crowd – how have they managed to gather here already? – towards the police car. I see a uniformed officer begin to raise his hand. ‘My daughter . . .’ I splutter, and as he looks at me his warning signal becomes a trusting wave forward, leading me round to the back of the other ambulance.
‘Does she belong to you?’ he asks, and I stop and stare.
My daughter is sitting on the steps of the ambulance, a stranger’s coat around her shoulders and a stranger’s arm pulling her close. He is beautiful, this boy holding her, and she is leaning into him, sobbing silently against his chest. For a moment she is as much of a stranger as he is, this girl I have held all through her life, this girl who used to fit into my arms as easily as she now fits into his. Before Georgia came along I thought that letting go was something you did when your child turned eighteen and decided to leave home. I didn’t realise how regularly your heart could be wrenched by giving them their freedom – the first time they sleep in their own room, or fall over, or go out on their own, or close their bedroom door on you. Each time this happened to me, I said goodbye to some part of my children, and to my power to control their world and keep them safe. Each time I was left feeling helpless and adrift, but none more so than this.
Upon seeing her, at first, there is pure relief. And then the most humiliating emotion descends upon me. Jealousy. She looks so safe, over there. I try to remember an occasion when Callum held me like this. I can’t think of any but he must have done, once upon a time.
My instincts kick in seconds later and I rush towards them. ‘Georgia, Georgia, are you okay?’
She looks up as though surprised to find me here.
‘Sophia . . .’ she says, and then breaks down in a torrent of tears.
‘Are you hurt, my darling?’ I ask, leaning in close to stroke her hair.
‘No, but I would have been. Danny saved me, Mum,’ Georgia sobs through her tears. ‘He lifted me out of the way just in time.’
The boy doesn’t move but he looks a little awkward. I rub Georgia’s arm while I talk to him. ‘I’m Georgia’s mum.’
‘Danny Atherton,’ he says.
I recognise him now, of course. I’ve seen him at school, but I’ve never come into direct contact with him before. Most of my counselling takes place with those who feel lost in some way – the outsiders. Danny is one of the popular crowd – much more rarely do they come knocking on my door.
The ambulance officer comes over to Georgia and gently pulls aside the blanket she is wrapped in. Only then do I see that her jumper is torn – the one she begged me to get her for her birthday. One of the woollen arms has been cut off and Georgia’s upper arm and elbow is a mess of blood.
‘Georgia!’
‘Don’t worry,’ the officer says, beginning to dab at the blood as Georgia winces. ‘It’s a nasty graze but not as bad as it looks. Be good as new in a couple of weeks.’
‘Not like Sophia,’ Georgia says through her tears.