A few moments silence, as if Harriet was waiting for me to say something else.
‘Evie has had a quiet first week,’ Miss Watson said. ‘She seems cautious when it comes to getting fully involved in lessons and mixing with her classmates. But I’m sure she’ll get into the swing of things before long.’
‘I don’t think she’s made any friends yet.’ Without warning, my eyes prickled. ‘She got upset again today, said she didn’t want to come to school on Monday. But she won’t talk to me about it.’
‘Evie doesn’t seem to be adjusting quite as readily as we’d hoped,’ Harriet agreed. ‘One of the reasons I’ve called is to tell you that I’ve included her in my small group work, to give her a little more personal attention. I hope that’s acceptable.’
‘That’s really good of you, Miss Watson,’ I said gratefully. ‘Thank you.’
‘I do hope you don’t feel I’m interfering, but in my experience it’s very important we do as much as we can in school to help children to integrate effectively right from the start, particularly when there have been . . . rather difficult personal circumstances,’ Harriet said. ‘I’m going to be running some after-school workshops two or three days a week. They’ll be one-to-one sessions, designed to build confidence and social skills and to prepare children for the challenges that may lie ahead. I can only take one or two pupils, but I have selected Evie because I believe she’ll benefit tremendously from attending. If you’ll agree to it, that is?’
There were a few seconds of silence as I processed what she’d said.
‘Absolutely,’ I said at last. ‘Thank you, that sounds ideal.’
I felt the weight on my shoulders lift. At last, someone was trying to help me instead of placing yet another obstacle in my path.
I listened as she gave me details of the forthcoming sessions.
‘It’s best if you don’t keep asking Evie about school,’ Harriet continued. ‘We can tell her she’s been specially chosen for the after-school club, which indeed she has, and hopefully we’ll see better results next week.’
This woman seemed to really understand my daughter. In just a week, she had noticed Evie’s reluctance in class and had already acted upon it. I felt quite overcome with gratitude.
‘Thanks so much for your help. Things are a little difficult at home at the moment and I really appreciate . . .’ My voice faltered.
‘Say no more. I do understand, Mrs Cotter,’ Harriet soothed. ‘I’ll be in touch with the days you’ll need to pick Evie up a little later from school.’
‘I’ll tell my mother,’ I said.
‘Sorry?’
I fell silent. For a second, I couldn’t remember what it was we were talking about.
‘Mrs Cotter?’
It came back to me.
‘Yes, I bring Evie to school each morning but her nanny picks her up at the end of the day,’ I explained. ‘I work until five o’clock, you see.’
‘I see,’ Harriet replied, a little tightly. ‘Perhaps you could change your hours? It’s very important we work together to help Evie settle in.’
‘Yes, of course,’ I said quickly, shamed by a flash of guilt. ‘I’ll ask at work but I’ve only just started, so it might have to be my mum for a little while yet.’
When Harriet ended the call I felt flushed and fidgety. She’d made me feel like Mum did, like I was making purely selfish decisions about working that would impact negatively on my daughter. I should have told her to mind her own business.
I shook my head to disperse the feeling of being got at. I had to remember that at least Harriet Watson was trying to help me. Although we were nothing alike, part of me felt she somehow understood me. Knew where I was coming from.
36
Three Years Earlier
The Teacher
Harriet replaced the phone in its charging cradle and turned to see her mother standing in the doorway.
‘When?’ the old woman croaked, hobbling over to the table where Harriet sat. ‘When are you going to get everything sorted out?’
‘Soon,’ Harriet said. ‘I keep telling you, Mother, everything will be sorted very soon.’
‘It had better be. I’ve waited too long, listening to you and your pathetic promises. She needs us.’
Harriet watched her mother as she stalked from the room. It wasn’t lost on her that it would be Halloween in a matter of weeks, and from the back, the old woman resembled a sort of living ghoul, her hair scraped over her scalp in a transparent bun, her voile nightdress floating above the floor as she moved.
Soon Harriet would creep upstairs herself and make some final preparations to the room on the top floor. She knew it wasn’t the right thing to do, but Mother had set her mind on what must happen and, as Harriet knew only too well, there would be no changing it now.
Harriet listened, waiting until the noise of the stair lift had abated and her mother’s feet hobbled across the landing above her. The bedroom door opened and then closed.
Silence.
Then the slap of a wheelie bin lid in next door’s yard, a group of young female students striding by the window, laughing and bursting with a confidence Harriet had never managed to conjure within herself.
Sometimes, in her quieter moments, she wondered what the future would bring. When her mother was gone and she was still here, in this big, old, crumbling house, alone. What then?
She yearned for a new start, a family of her own. Specifically a child, to give the love and affection she’d never experienced herself but that she’d seen other people give their offspring.
It just didn’t seem fair that there were people out there who had everything but failed to value it. They fully deserved to have their precious things taken away, given to someone who would care and cherish them.
Someone like Harriet.
37
Three Years Earlier
Evie
Evie lay awake in her bed, staring up into the darkness. The new starry nightlight that Nanny had bought for her birthday was supposed to make night-time friendlier. At least that’s what it had said on the box. But it didn’t seem to be making any difference at all here.
Even though Mummy was an adult, she had gone to bed at the exact same time as Evie because she had said she was very, very tired. Evie had seen that her eyes were doing the staring thing again.
Mummy was already asleep. Evie could tell just by listening to her breathing, which she could clearly hear because both their bedroom doors had been left a bit open. Sometimes Mummy woke her up, shouting in the night, but when Evie went into her bedroom, she was still asleep. When Evie sat on the edge of the bed, she’d wake up and say, ‘Have you had a bad dream, poppet?’ and Evie would reply, ‘No, it was you,’ and Mummy would say, ‘Ahh, you’ve had a bad dream about Mummy?’
Evie just didn’t know exactly how to explain it and she always felt so dreadfully tired in the middle of the night, so mostly she just went back to her own bed.
Deep and slow breaths like now meant Mummy was properly sleeping.
She wouldn’t know if Evie slipped out of bed and tiptoed downstairs for a biscuit or another glass of juice like she sometimes did, even though she wasn’t allowed more than one drink before bed because Mummy said she’d be up weeing all night.
Now the darkness was thick and heavy, like when she covered her eyes up with her comfort blanket. There were no streetlights shining in from outside, like there had been in her old bedroom.
She tried to focus on the tiny nightlight stars scattered on her ceiling but they seemed dull here, not bright and glittering like they used to be in her old bedroom. Evie sometimes wondered if Daddy was looking down on her while she slept, amongst the real stars in the real night sky. Nanny said he definitely would be.
‘But how do you know?’ Evie had asked her more than once.