I switch on a smile. ‘Lovely. We had a fantastic time. How was yours?’
And then Millie wanders over, and Charlotte Grunden looking ready to drop her third baby, and Amber, dressed for work in a smart trench coat, high black boots, hair caught up in a ponytail, and suddenly it doesn’t seem so bad any more. These are my friends. I can slot back into my old life, reprieve in hand. The relief makes me feel giddy.
‘Good morning!’
Amber scrutinizes my face. ‘Good morning to you too. Did you get any sleep last night?’
‘Not much. He woke up at two.’
The four of them chip in with suggestions, all of which I’ve tried before. In fact, I’ve tried so many things that I’ve made matters worse. Josh and I are as confused as each other. Pick him up. Don’t pick him up. Go to him. Don’t go to him. Say something so he knows he isn’t forgotten then leave. Let him see you but don’t speak. Ignore him entirely. Never ignore your baby. Sometimes I think I’m going out of my mind.
And then there they are; David and Hellie North with Astrid between them holding their hands. My smile dies. I should have thought of this. Parents who both work and aren’t able to do the school gate stuff often make an exception at the beginning of a new term.
I have done the worst possible thing and allowed myself to be drawn into a relationship with the father of one of my pupils at the school where I both work – although I am on maternity leave – and send my children. Never mind that we didn’t go the whole way, or that the reason we desisted was because I pulled the plug, it was still a crappy thing to do. Grey Coat School is within walking distance of where we live; a sweet one-class-entry local primary. I have pissed in my own backyard, as they say. I am a teacher. Families rely on me for support and guidance. They do not expect me to destroy them.
Imogen and Charlotte wander off to greet other friends but I keep Millie and Amber talking until the Norths leave the cloakroom and cross the playground to the back doors of the school. Then I take my two in, divest them of coats, scarves and gloves, fold up their brollies and stick them under the pram, wrestle Josh out of his straps and into my arms and whizz them up to their classrooms. I hover near the door to Emily’s class, waiting until I’m sure the coast is clear, and then hurry down the stairs and run smack-bang into David coming up the other way.
We stare at each other, both of us pressing into the wall to let others get by.
‘Sorry.’ I try and move on but he blocks me.
‘It’s good to see you,’ he says. ‘You look lovely.’
I know perfectly well that I don’t but my lips give a traitorous twitch. Josh stares at him and reaches for his nose. ‘I’ve got to go.’
‘I want to talk to you.’
I shake my head. ‘No. That wouldn’t be a good idea.’
Hellie appears and smiles at me. ‘How are you, Vicky?’ Her accent gives everything she says a formal twist. I wonder if she suspects, especially since David has done this before. For a horrible moment I imagine I intercept a look between them. Is this the latest one then? Is this her? Not a beauty, is she?
‘Oh, I’m good.’
‘And the little one?’
She looks at Josh, whose cheeks are red and stained with tears.
‘Not a morning person.’
‘I see that.’
‘I’d better go. I need to put him down for his nap.’
Amber is waiting for me. I give her an uncertain smile but hers is at full volume when she returns it. Relief at being forgiven for keeping secrets floods me. We set off towards the corner where our paths will diverge, me going home, her off to Tennyson Street where she works three mornings a week for an estate agent.
‘Are you all right?’ she asks, pushing the button at the pedestrian crossing. The green man flashes and we start walking. ‘You’re very pale.’
I can’t tell her who I bumped into. ‘I hate myself.’
‘No you don’t. You’re just exhausted. Try and sleep when Josh does. Promise?’
‘I promise. I’ve got Magda cleaning this morning. She’ll keep me sane.’
A text pings at me as I’m unlocking the front door. I pull my phone out of my bag and read it, not understanding at first and then getting it.
Hello Vicky. Sorry but much vomit this morning and diyareorr. Will make new later. I call. Magda
I read it again and cry where I stand, in my thick coat, still holding the pushchair.
Fairhaven Young Offenders’ Institute
July 1992
ADULTS WHISPERED WHEN they talked about her. Why did they bother? Did they think she was too thick to know what they were on about? The child psychiatrist had arrived. He wasn’t how she had expected. She’d imagined him in a suit and tie, with silver hair and glasses and that she would have to call him Doctor Someone-or-other. This bloke had brown hair and no glasses, and wore jeans and a stripy shirt with a jacket over it that he’d taken off. When she asked, he said he was a doctor – Doctor Adam Kozlowski – but he didn’t expect her to remember all that and she could call him Adam.
Katya sat on the squeaky black leather sofa in her grey tracksuit and hoodie, feeling frightened and alone. She wasn’t talking to anyone. Why should she tell them anything? No one listened to her before, so why would they listen to her now? Adults only heard what they wanted to hear, otherwise they were stone deaf. Where was Maggie? Why hadn’t she come?
She was starving. She could smell the canteen; boiled greens and chips and maybe burgers. Her mouth watered as she wrapped her arms around her shins and hugged her thighs into her belly. She squished her nose down on to her knees and tried to think about being somewhere else. She was good at that. She used to do it when her mum was busy in her bedroom: curl up and take her mind right away, into a fairy tale usually. When things got bad there was always a prince to come galloping over the horizon on his jet-black steed. She wished he would hurry up, but sometimes she wondered if she would even recognize him if he did come. Because princes didn’t exist in real life, or if they did, they didn’t usually know they were one.
Somewhere in the building someone was laughing, the sound bouncing round the walls. And inside that sound, wrapped in it, the clatter of cutlery and a boy yelling and swearing, the language going on and on like a poem. Fucking, you fucking. Fucking cunt I’ll fucking have you, you shit head wanker you.
Adam put his head out of the door and shouted, ‘Could somebody please keep him quiet?’
Silence fell like a slap and he closed the door again.
‘Would you like some lunch?’
Her stomach rumbled but she shook her head. She wasn’t going out there. Not with all those kids. She wondered if they knew, if word got round.
‘Has Maggie come?’ she asked.
It hadn’t been many days. Only a week, she thought, although she wasn’t sure. So much had happened.