By the time she spotted the familiar little figures of Rosie and Noah in their brown and yellow tartan uniforms, she was red in the face and her breasts ached from all the bouncing up and down.
Catching her breath, she power walked over to the corner of the football pitch where she estimated their journeys would converge naturally.
‘Hello, you two!’ she puffed, slowing down to fall into step with them.
Noah replied a mumbled ‘hello’ while kicking his football in front of him. Rosie didn’t reply at all and sped up, which Mira thought was rather rude. Her behaviour reflected how poorly their parents had taught them manners, Mira thought petulantly.
Mira jogged to keep up with Rosie’s quickened pace. ‘Good day at school?’
‘Uh huh.’ Rosie tugged her school rucksack further onto her shoulder and checked behind her for her brother. ‘Come on, Noah.’
They turned left out of the recreational ground through a discreet hole in the hedge and ducked into a gloomy walkway. The bough of branches overhead stole the light and the oak-panelled fences that lined the mulch path seemed to push nature away with ugly, uniformed force. A little shiver ran down Mira’s spine, which she put down to the drop of temperature. Estimating that they were three back gates away from the Bradleys’ garden, she got straight to the point. ‘Was everything okay this morning, love?’
‘Uh huh,’ Rosie replied.
‘If you want to come in for a cup of tea and a piece of cake, just knock on the door or send a message in the blue bucket, any time, all right? My door is always open.’
‘No, it’s okay!’ Rosie cried, breaking into a run. ‘Come on Noah!’ she yelled behind her. Noah charged past Mira, almost knocking her over.
Mira understood that their parents had fed them their fear. She would try again tomorrow, and the next day, and onwards, so that they knew that she was there for them, and that she was on their side.
Chapter Eighteen
TOP SECRET
* * *
Dear Mummy,
* * *
INVISIBLE INK ALERT: Noah swore on our whole family’s lives that he would never EVER, EVER tell you that we talked to Mrs E (I do not know how to spell her weird name). If you found out what I did, you would kill me. I promise I didn’t do it on purpose. I was curious, like Alice in Alice in Wonderland going into a hole. (Curious is a word I used in my composition at school and I got a gold star for it).
* * *
This is how it WENT DOWN:
I went outside to get my school bag from the car (CHECK). SUDDENLY I saw the hole in the hedge that Noah uses to get his football (CHECK). Then SUDDENLY I was in her garden (CHECK) and then SUDDENLY I saw Mrs E in her bedroom window (DOUBLE CHECK).
* * *
In Noah’s Charles Dickens pop-up book Pip in Great Expectations is very brave when he visits Miss Haversham. She looks scary in the picture with a pointy nose and grey hair but she is nice really. Mrs E has grey hair too but it is short and sticks up at the front. I am not brave at all. Noah would say I am a big fat poo-head for not telling that police woman that you are a lovely mummy and that you didn’t mean to hurt my wrist.
* * *
Daddy says butt-head and wee-wee brain to make Noah laugh. When he thinks I am not listening he says shit a lot, like ALL THE TIME. I bet he would call that police woman MRS SHIT-HEAD.
* * *
Love you,
Rosie.
xx
* * *
P.S. When I go round to Mrs E’s house I hope she will have Mr Kipling battinburger cake. YUM YUM IN MY TUM.
Chapter Nineteen
Peter breathed slowly and heavily over my shoulder as we read:
* * *
PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL
South East Assessment Hub
Silway Centre
Greyswood
GU52 92L
* * *
Dear Mrs Bradley,
* * *
RE: Police response visit to 4 Virginia Close, 16 October 2016
* * *
I am writing to inform you that Social Services have been notified about the above incident that followed a concerned call from your neighbour. PC Connolly and PC Yorke made an assessment, after speaking to you and your children at the above address, concluding that there was no immediate cause for concern.
* * *
To ensure you feel appropriately supported, you can contact me at Children’s Services on the above number with regards to your child/ren.
* * *
Yours sincerely,
* * *
Miranda Slater
* * *
Social Worker South East Assessment Team
In an oddly disconnected moment, I inspected the outside of the envelope for signs that would give away its sender, like an ink stamp or a sticker, worried the postman would have guessed at its contents.
The gossip mill of a small town could be toxic. I imagined the mothers at school finding out. After all the years Rosie had been at that same school, I wasn’t friendly with any of them, except Vics. I liked them when I joined them for pub drinks at the end of each term, but I often came away paranoid that they judged me for my absence at the school gates. They seemed to know so much more than me about the ins and outs of school politics. Some of them were so involved in their children’s school careers they should have been on salaries. There were times when I had to repress the compulsion to tell them that my dedication to my children was as authentic and loving as theirs, just exposed differently. I was certain that I would be on Prozac or permanently drunk if I had stayed as a full-time mother. What would they make of this letter? No doubt, it would light up their school pick-up chatter.
The faded blue borough council stamp was the only clue to its contents. It could have been about council tax or the electoral role or any number of things. The fact that it wasn’t thudded in my gut.
‘What does this mean?’ Peter said.
The base of my spine ached with its new load and I rubbed there, pressing the stress away.
The memory of PC Connolly’s parting words resurfaced. ‘It’s standard procedure, apparently,’ I informed Peter, anger rattling through my voice.
‘Is it? They didn’t say anything about getting social workers involved, did they?’
‘I told you, PC Connolly specifically said there’d be no further action.’
I skimmed to the bottom of the letter to the name at the bottom. This Miranda Slater woman can fuck right off with her offer of help, I thought.
‘Maybe they searched their files at the station and found records of your stint in Holloway?’
I couldn’t laugh. I re-read the letter and it riled me further. ‘Appropriately supported? Jesus. I don’t feel very supported when two police officers turn up on my door accusing me of abusing my children. I feel totally unsupported.’
Peter gulped back his wine like water.
‘A hangover isn’t going to help anything,’ I snapped.
‘Don’t use this to have a go at me.’ Peter took the letter from me. ‘Let me read it again.’
I moved over to the window, peering out through hedge to the Entwistles’ house.
‘The thought of having to call a social worker makes my blood boil, seriously, don’t you think it’s insulting?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t know anything about this kind of thing. Can we ignore it?’
The flimsy inanimate letter in front of us seemed to be alive, radiating trouble.
‘I don’t need their help.’
‘Will it look bad if we don’t get in contact?’
‘Who cares?’ I snatched up the letter and crumpled it into a ball and threw it in the bin.
Peter and I looked at the bin for what seemed like a long minute, before he said, ‘That was a bit rash.’
We both burst out laughing.
‘A bit hasty, maybe,’ I snickered.
Gingerly, I picked it out and smoothed it onto the table.
Peter chuckled, peeling off an old piece of grated carrot. ‘And you didn’t even put it in the recycling.’
I searched his smiling eyes for that reassuring connection between us. It was there, but I also spotted my anxiety reflected back at me.
Our mirth subsided.