They weren’t out of school until five o’clock on Thursdays. She regarded the other children’s outfits and chatter and random cartwheels, and she guessed the afterschool club had been gymnastics. In a world full of vulgarity and ugly sights, this vision of innocence was always a delight.
She noticed that the majority of children released from this club were girls. Noah would surely feel out of place. Mira thought it was rather strange that this strapping six-year-old boy would do gymnastics, and assumed Gemma used it as childcare rather than a response to his burning desire to do handstands. From her experience at Woodlands, this was typical of this sort of mother.
Rosie and Noah were last out. Their rucksacks bounced on their backs as they ran out of the gate. How pretty Rosie was, she reflected, surprised by this rise of affection for her.
As Mira jogged towards the point where they would meet, at the corner of the rugby pitch, she noticed that her breathing was less laboured when she said hello. It made her smile to herself, that the by-product of her do-gooding was added fitness. What goes around, comes around, she thought.
‘Come on Rosie, let’s go,’ Noah said quietly, frowning at Mira.
Rosie’s arm was being pulled by Noah, but her body didn’t follow, and Noah jerked back as though on elastic.
Mira stopped jogging and fell into step with them. ‘How was your day at school?’
Rosie looked up to Mira briefly. There were black rings around her eyes and her expression seemed guarded and suspicious. There was a change in her, Mira sensed.
‘Not good?’
‘School was fine,’ she said, almost shouting it, and then she hung her head. She twirled a section of her hair at her scalp, twisting it into a knot.
‘I wouldn’t do that, pet. You’ll only have to brush it one hundred and one times at bed,’ Mira said. Mira’s paternal grandmother would say this to her when she and Deidre visited her in Wales once a year.
‘I don’t ever brush my hair at bed time. I do it in the morning.’
‘You don’t do it. Mummy does it for you,’ Noah jibed.
‘Shut up,’ she snapped back, elbowing him.
‘You should do it yourself. You’re quite old enough. It makes all the difference in the morning. One hundred brushes at bedtime. One hundred brushes in the morning.’
‘You’ve got short hair.’
‘I do now. But when I was younger I had long hair down to my waist.’
‘Mummy won’t let me grow it any longer.’
‘That’s a shame,’ Mira said, although she knew that having waist-length hair was impractical for children, and the only reason she had been allowed to have it long when she was young was because her mother couldn’t be bothered to take her to the hairdressers.
‘My mum is super mean,’ she said, glancing up to Mira, checking for a reaction.
‘Is she?’
‘She’s not mean,’ Noah cried.
‘Why did the police come round then?’ Rosie asked.
Noah shrugged, but his little face was filled with fear.
Rosie jutted her head forward at her little brother and pulled her hand free of his. ‘She isn’t mean to you,’ she spat.
Mira sucked in her breath. Something had definitely happened. Not that Mira had heard any screaming since the weekend.
‘How about some Battenberg cake at mine?’ Mira asked, looking from Noah to Rosie, her heart racing in anticipation of Rosie’s reply.
‘No!’ Noah cried and ran off.
‘Yes, okay,’ Rosie said casually, and she took Mira’s hand.
The child’s touch sent goosebumps rippling up her arms.
‘I’ll just have to tell Harriet that I’m going over to Beth’s at number two,’ Rosie said.
‘What a sensible little girl you are,’ Mira said.
Rosie tugged her hand free, crossed her arms and hunched her shoulders as she walked. ‘But you can’t come into my house,’ she said.
‘Of course,’ Mira said. ‘I’ll meet you round at mine then in five minutes.’
‘Okay,’ she said and charged off through the hedge.
* * *
The cellophane on the cake shone on the table like a slab of gold. Mira didn’t want to unwrap it yet in case Rosie changed her mind. She wondered if Rosie’s nanny had believed Rosie’s lie.
Although the thought of Rosie lying sat uncomfortably with Mira – who believed herself to be an honest soul and encouraged it in others – she felt the end justified the means. A ribbon of thrill wormed through her insides at the prospect of Rosie opening up to her and confessing something that would confirm her suspicions.
The stripes of the tea cosy matched the pastels of the cake. With the smart plates, forks and tea cups laid out neatly, the table was a pleasing sight. The only niggle was whether it was right to serve tea in the kitchen, or whether the dining room would have been more appropriate. The piles of photographs were suddenly a potential embarrassment to her, and she jumped up to make sure the door was tightly closed. She had made slow progress with her album this week.
It was half past four. Barry would be back in an hour and a half, roughly. It still gave her time. Not that it mattered hugely if he found Rosie at his kitchen table. He liked children. He wouldn’t scare her. And Mira could tell him a little white lie about how their little tea party had come about.
The doorbell rang and Mira jumped up, smoothed her skirt and answered the door. Never could she have imagined being so nervous about a child coming to tea.
‘Hello, dear, come in,’ she said, and she led Rosie, straight-backed and arms crossed over her chest, into the kitchen.
Mira poured the tea and sliced the cake. Neither of them talking. For some reason, it didn’t feel awkward for Mira.
Within minutes of Rosie sitting down, she had wolfed down a whole slice of Battenberg.
‘Can I have another slice,’ Rosie asked.
‘Sure,’ Mira said casually.
She would delay the second slice of cake.
‘So, how was your weekend? You and your mum went somewhere special together did you?’
‘How did you know that?’ Rosie asked.
‘I saw you in the car remember? Your mum seemed to be in a bit of a hurry.’
‘We went to London to see a show.’
‘How splendid. It must have been nice to have a day out with mum.’
‘Mummy loves musicals.’
‘What were your favourite bits?’
‘I loved the bit where he does that amazing acrobat show.’
‘Acrobats? Well I never. That sounds marvellous.’
‘It was awesome!’ she cried. Her eyes were dead behind the stage smile.
‘You’re a very lucky girl to get to go up to London and see a show.’
Rosie’s eyes narrowed. ‘Can I have more cake now?’
‘In a minute, Rosie,’ Mira said, sternly, deciding to get straight to the point. Mira didn’t believe in this wishy-washy protocol that the teachers at school believed in, where you had to let the child take the lead, wait for them to say something or ask them to draw a bleeding picture. Nonsense, Mira thought. She knew that the very nature of abuse encouraged secrecy in a child.
‘Is there something you want to tell me, pet?’
‘No?’
‘I know you’re a smart little girl and I know that your mum would not like you coming round here, which makes me wonder why you did.’
‘I wanted some cake.’
‘Did you and your mum have another fight?’
Rosie’s gaze was fixed on the cake in front of her.
‘I think that maybe you did.’
‘Mummy is very clever, you know.’
‘Yes?’
‘She, like, runs this massive company and she can even fire people.’
‘That sounds very impressive.’
‘Yes, it is.’
‘She must be very busy.’
‘Yes, really busy, like a VIP.’
‘It must be exhausting being so very clever and important all the time.’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Is that why she gets so cross?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Has she ever hurt you, pet?’
Rosie stayed silent.
‘You can tell me you know. I am on your side.’
Rosie stared at Mira. ‘Why?’
‘Maybe because my mum wasn’t very nice to me when I was little and I know how it feels.’
‘Why wasn’t she nice to you?’
‘I don’t really know.’ Mira couldn’t tell a ten-year-old the reasons.
‘What did she do?’
‘She slapped me once,’ Mira said, surprising herself with the confession, while also maintaining a safe disconnectedness from it.