‘Just to confirm we’ve made the visit and that everything seems in order,’ PC Connolly explained.
‘Oh good,’ I said, letting out a huge breath and a little nervous laugh.
I felt an overwhelming desire to hug her, relieved that they had not seen into my mind to witness my imaginary hand striking my child to stop the screaming. Instead they had seen the woman who would never, ever intentionally hurt Rosie, even in those desperate moments; they had seen the better part of my nature, where I had danced with Noah to Luther Vandross; they had decided that everything was in order.
My obvious relief elicited a small smile on PC Connolly’s face. ‘And we’ll be notifying Social Services about our visit.’
I crossed my arms over my chest. ‘Why ever would you need to tell Social Services?’
‘It’s standard procedure, Mrs Bradley.’
Pursing my lips, I answered with a clipped, uptight, ‘Right, okay,’ holding back a show of panic.
Once they had gone, I shook my head in disbelief, unsteady on my feet, unable to sit down. I blew out a few deep breaths, and then worried I might faint. The stress felt dangerous for the baby. I sat down with my head between my legs and stayed there for who knows how long.
‘What are you doing, Mum?’ Rosie said, standing right in front of me side by side with Noah.
‘Have the police gone now?’ Noah said, running around the kitchen shouting, ‘Nee-nor, nee-nor.’
‘Yes, they’ve gone. Calm down, Noah. I’ll make a pot of tea. Noah, you can watch telly now.’
‘Can I too?’ Rosie asked.
‘I just want a quick word.’
Rosie groaned.
Ignoring her, I filled the kettle and flicked it on. ‘So, what did PC Connolly ask you?’
‘Not much. Just about what happened and stuff.’ She picked at the bandage on her hand.
‘Is it still sore?’
‘It’s okay.’
‘So you told her about how it happened, yes?’ I was trying to sound light-hearted, to tease it out of her as though we were having a gossip about something.
She shrugged.
I placed the milky cup in front of her and inspected her face for something that would give me a hint about how she felt.
‘Are you okay? It was probably a bit scary talking to a real-life policeman, wasn’t it?’
She put her fingertip into the tea and started swirling it around and then licking it, goading me, knowing I hated her doing this. I resisted telling her off.
‘Police woman,’ she said.
I took in a deep breath and counted to ten in my head.
‘It didn’t worry you at all, talking to her?’
‘She was nice.’
‘Fine. Good. I just wanted to check you’re okay.’
‘Can I go watch telly now?’
After our ordeal, I decided that I might need to flop in front of the television too. I craved their bodies next to mine, secure and safe in my arms.
‘On one condition...’
‘What?’ Rosie sulked.
‘That you watch a Wildlife on Four with me.’
She beamed. ‘That’s a deal.’
* * *
We both snuggled up next to Noah and listened to the soothing cawing and buzzing of the hot savannah as we watched a leopard cub gently paw his mother’s face in play and affection. The cub’s mother licked him briefly, looked around her, and licked her baby again.
‘... possibly the injury that the cub has sustained in the attack might be fatal.’
‘Is he hurt, Mummy?’
‘I think he might be.’
‘Don’t worry. His mummy will look after him,’ Noah said confidently.
I kept my fingers crossed, hoping the poor little cub would get better.
There was a close-up of its bloody leg.
I gasped. ‘Maybe we should watch another show?’
‘No, no! I want to see if he’s okay.’
Knowing Rosie would worry all night if she didn’t find out what had happened to the cub, we continued watching.
The leopard mother tugged at the scruff of the cub’s neck, trying to drag him through the grass. It was clear the cub’s back legs were paralysed as they flopped lifelessly behind him. I looked at Rosie, whose face was slack with horror.
‘Poor cub,’ she murmured, close to tears.
‘Five hours later,’ flashed up on screen. I braced myself.
Sheltered under a bush, the leopard mother is tearing meat from a carcass. There is a close up shot of a severed cub paw.
‘Oh God,’ I said, fumbling around for the remote control, ‘LA LA LA!’ I cried, trying to shout over the narration while dodging in front of them and covering their eyes. The narrator continued in rueful, soft-spoken tones, ‘Perhaps in a mercy killing, knowing her cub would suffer, the mother eats her own young.’
‘Mummy, what’s happening?’ Rosie was recoiling from the screen with the cushion over her head.
Noah darted around me, ‘I want to see! I want to see!’
Abandoning the frantic search for the remote, I stood in front of the screen and switched it off by the mains. ‘Phew! Gosh! That was a bit traumatic, wasn’t it?’ I laughed, trying make light of it.
Rosie’s eyes were stripped with fear as she emerged from the blanket. ‘Did the little cub die?’
‘I’m afraid so.’ And the rest, I thought.
‘His mummy ATE HIM!’ Noah screamed gleefully.
Rosie shouted back at him and hit him, ‘Shut up, Noah! No, she didn’t. She would never ever do that.’
‘She HIT ME!’ he wailed, cradling his arm.
I couldn’t believe I had made this day worse, with the best of intentions, but I was relieved that we were in the television den at the back of the house where the noise was less likely to carry to Mira’s pricked ears. The one small window in the room faced the garage belonging to our other neighbour, the quiet widower Mr Elliot, who owned the bookshop on the high street.
‘Enough of that you two. No hitting, Rosie. Noah, of course she didn’t eat him,’ I said, rolling my eyes at Rosie.
Rosie smiled, ‘It’s okay Mummy. I know why she killed him. Because he was in pain and she knew the other animals would get him if she didn’t and then she ate him because she was hungry. It’s survival.’
‘That’s right. You’re a smart cookie, aren’t you?’
Our eye contact lingered, her blue eyes telling me she loved me, as mine told her the same, a mutual apology maybe.
And somehow that brief moment between us was enough to remind me of both the lightness and depth of our bond, the highs and lows, the tears and the laughter.
‘No more tantrums now, Rosie.’
‘Let’s not talk about it ever, ever, ever,’ Rosie cried burying her head in my tummy.
‘Okay, that’s a deal.’ I liked the idea that we could wipe bad things from our memories that easily.
After a day from hell, after the worst of us, we could still have the best. A private, impenetrable moment between mother and daughter. We had bounced back from an intense fight and I felt connected to her deeply.
* * *
I had been restless, knowing Peter would be home soon. When he finally arrived, he weaved into the kitchen, clearly drunk.
‘What’s going on in here then? Cooking me a curry, eh?’ he slurred.
I continued emptying all of the spice jars out of the larder cupboard, creating groups for each letter of the alphabet, and he stumbled as he took off his biking shoes. His eyelids were heavy. The smell of stale sweat mixed with the dried spices turned my stomach.
‘Where have you been?’
‘At Jim’s?’ he said. He washed his hands in the sink, losing balance as he pushed the soap pump.
‘You said you’d be home by two.’
‘I sent you a text.’
‘I don’t even know where my phone is right now.’
I shoved the allspice jar and the anise jar into the left-hand corner of the top rack.
‘Ooops,’ he sniggered. ‘Vics was there. She made Pimms. Our swansong to summer! We sat on the terrace wrapped in blankets. We missed you.’
‘I can’t believe you were two doors down all this time.’