The Other Mother

  ‘Right, well, as you can see by the state of her, Mr Cooper, my daughter definitely did not take that money. She is not a thief.’

  There is an awkward silence. I watch his face, see how his eyes dart between Rosie and me. I remain silent. I have said my piece. For now, anyway. It’s his turn now. Let’s see what he has to say next.

  ‘Well, the thing is,’ he murmurs, his eyes dark and full of intent, ‘the money was found in Rosie’s bag. We had to ask the entire year group to empty their belongings on to the floor and the envelopes containing the money were found tucked into your daughter’s textbook, which was shoved down the bottom of her schoolbag.’

  I blink quickly and wiggle my jaw as I feel a headache set in at the base of my neck. It will creep its way up over my skull and stay there all day if I don’t catch it in time. I ask for a glass of water and rummage around at the bottom of my handbag for paracetamol. Pressing the blister pack with my thumb and forefinger I pop two out of the packet and throw them into my mouth, then pick up the tumbler that has been placed on the table in front of me and take a long drink of the cool water. It glides down my throat, a welcome reprieve from having to speak. It is giving me some thinking time. Not that I have any thoughts at the ready. The only thing I am sure of at this minute in time is that my daughter did not steal that money and that I will not be bullied or intimidated by this man.

  ‘OK,’ I say with a voice that is a little more delicate that I would like it to be. I want to appear in control, authoritative, formidable even; not some insipid little parent who will immediately kowtow to his accusations. ‘I am aware that the envelopes were in your drawer and it was the spending money of some of the pupils for the upcoming visit to York. Can I just ask why they weren’t taken straight to the office and put in the safe? Three hundred is a lot of money to keep in a classroom, don’t you think?’

  I watch his face colour up and his eyes darken until they are the deepest shade of black. Two spots of coal set deep in his face, they glitter menacingly at me. He is furious, a silent, simmering slip of a man who is barely holding it together. I don’t care. He doesn’t scare me. This is my daughter he is talking about; her reputation, our life. I will not tolerate her being blamed for something she did not do. She deserves better. We deserve better.

  ‘The money, if you don’t mind me saying, Mrs McLeod …’

  ‘Ms,’ I say rapidly, now infuriated by the sound of his voice, his slicked back hair, everything about him. ‘I am a Ms, not a Mrs.’

  ‘Indeed,’ he hisses, ‘I’m glad we’ve cleared that aspect of our meeting up, Ms McLeod, now if we can move on to the more important matter of the stolen money.’ He raises his perfectly shaped eyebrow at me and I am not sure whether I would rather stifle my laughter or slap his face. I am inclined to do both but instead manage a slight smile and nod in affirmation.

  ‘As I was saying,’ he continues through gritted teeth, ‘the money was in my drawer in my desk and it was locked up.’ He stares over at Rosie and then back at me. ‘The drawer had been broken into and ransacked in a bid to locate the cash.’

  ‘Which somebody planted in my daughter’s bag,’ I say abruptly.

  I have no idea where that thought came from but don’t much care. I do, however, know what sort of reaction it will provoke. I know exactly what type of rage my words will bring from this pathetic looking creature sitting opposite me. For all I try my hardest to live my life in the shadows away from any sort of scrutiny, I will not stand by and watch Rosie be verbally mauled by this man. I simply will not tolerate it.

  ‘Planted?’ he says incredulously, his voice going up almost a full octave. ‘You’re actually accusing somebody else of doing this?’

  ‘Why not?’ I shrug dispassionately, trying to come across as unperturbed when I am anything but.

  ‘Why not?’ he echoes, the volume of his voice increasing with every syllable that falls out of his mouth. ‘I’ll tell you why not. Because the money was found in your daughter’s bag. Nobody else’s. Just Rosie’s. Now if that isn’t evidence of her guilt, then I don’t know what is ...’

  I can see his nostrils expanding with rage and watch as his skin grows redder and redder by the second. I suddenly feel euphoric. I am in control of this situation. I can do this. I have rattled his cage and now have the upper hand. I can keep my daughter safe from all the horrors of this incident. I will shield her from this and we will live to fight another day. She will not go through what I was subjected to. I will make sure of it.

  ‘Mr Cooper, since starting at this school my daughter has been bullied. She has reported this to her form tutor and nothing I repeat NOTHING has been done to stop it. It was only a matter of time before something like this happened. There are pupils in this school who are targeting her, making sure she gets into trouble for something she didn’t do. And do you know who I blame for this entire event, Mr Cooper?’ His jaw tightens and I watch a small pulse take hold in the delve just below his cheekbone, ‘I blame you, Mr Cooper. For the past four weeks, you have stood by and watched my daughter suffer at the hands of these pupils and not once have you intervened or helped her.’

  I hear a small squeak come from Rosie but ignore her. She will be horrified by my outburst, fearing a backlash from this man at some point in the future. It won’t happen. I would like to see him try. Any repercussions from him will bring a swift and hefty response from me and I will make absolutely certain he doesn’t forget it in a hurry. I may have spent my life being bullied but I will make absolutely sure it does not happen to Rosie. Over my dead body.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ he says, his lip curling at the edge as he speaks.

  I straighten my jacket and tug my sleeves down over my wrists. ‘I believe that one of the pupils, or perhaps even more than one, maybe a whole gang of pupils in this school, is trying to set my daughter up. She is relatively new here and has struggled to fit in. Some of the other children here have—'

  ‘Just a moment,’ he says, holding his hand up to block what I am about to say. ‘Only yesterday we received a report from Rosie’s previous school stating that although she was a bright and happy pupil, there were occasions when she was rather surly towards staff,’ he coughs for dramatic effect before continuing, ‘and on her final day she had been involved in an argument with another pupil that ended with an injury which required the other pupil needing hospital treatment.’

  I feel my face begin to burn. Does he think I don’t already know about these incidents? Has he not realised that behind every incident, every occurrence, every fucking dreadful lie, there is a story? A reason for it all. I am incensed, incandescent with rage. Probably not the best frame of mind with which to conduct what should be a formal meeting with my daughter’s teacher, a senior member of staff, but what the hell. I have only one chance to clear my daughter’s name and this is it.

  ‘Right, well, if you want the details of those incidents then I am more than happy to enlighten you. Rosie became surly towards staff when the ongoing bullying from a certain pupil wasn’t taken seriously, which eventually resulted in Rosie fighting this girl off after she dragged Rosie to the ground. The other girl bumped her head and yes, she needed stitches. Oh, and in case you’re interested, Rosie lost a chunk of hair and ended up with a black eye. It was an act of self-defence after months and months of bullying. Is that enough information for you, Mr Cooper?’

  There are a few seconds of silence before he speaks again.

  ‘Right, well back to the issue of the money, Ms McLeod,’ he says, with as much authority as he can muster, ‘there needs to be some kind of sanction for Rosie’s behaviour.’

  ‘I’m still in the room!’ Rosie’s voice is shaky and tears continue to roll down her face as she leans forward to remind us of her presence in all of this. ‘I’m still here, you know!’ she sobs and I watch as Mr Cooper eyes her with complete scorn. If he looks at her like that once more, I fear I might just throw something at him. The old-fashioned paperweight sitting next to m
e on the desk looks tempting. I squeeze my eyes shut and visualise the large, glass orb hitting his head with force and knocking him sideways onto the floor. When I open my eyes again, he is staring at me. I shiver slightly and look away. His pupils are pitch black spheres and contain more than a hint of menace.

  ‘I’m afraid we have no other option than to exclude Rosie for the next two days. A meeting will be arranged with Mrs Paxton, the headteacher, a meeting which you will both have to attend before Rosie can return to school.’

  I remain silent. The decision has been made and fighting it is futile. I grab Rosie’s hand and drag her up out of the chair. She follows me wearily, her head almost touching her chest as I stalk towards the door. My head pounds with fury and exhaustion. My legs almost buckle as I turn to face the young teacher, who is now looking rather too smug for my liking. My voice is far louder than it should be as my words explode into the silence of the room.

  ‘You haven’t heard the last of this, Mr Cooper. Rest assured I will be back in touch. My daughter did NOT steal that money.’ Barely keeping my anger in check, we head out of the room, past the office where a sea of bewildered faces are staring out at us, and into the car park.

  CHILD B

  Her stomach was in knots as she watched it all unfold. All through the night, a steady stream of people traipsed through the house, an army of official looking individuals wearing dark uniforms and even darker expressions. They questioned her for what felt like hours and hours. Where had she been? Why were her clothes torn? Who had she spoken to? Who was with her during the night? On and on it went until she felt light-headed and woozy with it all. Her answers were always the same even though she had been told to stay in the house at all times, she had been out. How long for she couldn’t remember, but she had definitely been out of the house for a good part of the evening. She had come back in, checked on him. He was fine. No, she hadn’t seen his face and yes, he was under the covers. What else was she supposed to say? What was it they wanted her to say?

  It twisted in her stomach, the worry and fear, the thought of what she had done. Or hadn’t done. At one point during the questions she went dizzy. They had told her to place her head between her legs, instructed her to breathe deeply, to close her eyes, to not panic. How could she possibly not panic? Such a stupid thing to say. Her little brother was dead and it was her fault. Somehow, he had slipped away whilst in her care and she hadn’t even noticed. What kind of a sister was she?

  They would be checking her story, they said. Asking around to see who had seen her. They wanted her friend’s address. They would be going round there to talk to her, to get her side of the story. She felt sick at the thought of that. Her friend would blame her, tell them she was gone for hours, that it was all her fault. And in a way, it was. She had neglected him, left him alone to die. She was the worst big sister ever. A complete monster.

  They eventually left them alone at 4 a.m. Her mother had been sedated; her father was sitting quietly at the kitchen table, his large, clumsy fingers draped across the wooden surface, his eyes black with anger and hurt. He kept asking her what had gone on, how had it happened? She shook her head miserably. She had no answers. If she had them, she would have gladly given them to him, turned the clock back, made everything all right again. But it wasn’t all right and never would be again.

  The two of them sat in the dim light of the early morning sunrise, their misery and horror so thick and tangible she could practically taste it. It was implanted in the back of her throat, the sour tang of guilt.

  No words were spoken as they watched the watery, orange light filter in through the window and listened to the birdsong in the garden beyond, signifying a new day was upon them. A day without their beautiful little boy; the first for the rest of their lives.

  The police came back just as sleep decided it would have her. Through the fog of an exhausted brain, she went with them to the station to be questioned again, her father at her side. She told them once more what had happened, reiterated her story, went through it, step by painful step, going into as much detail as she could until, at last, exhaustion swamped her and the tears finally came. Only then did they let her go home with the caveat that further questions would follow and, should her story change in any way, shape or form, then trouble would ensue. She couldn’t imagine that things could get any worse. Whatever trouble they threatened to put her way would pale into insignificance compared with what she and her family were about to face for the rest of their lives.

  By the time they got home, she was beyond exhausted, fatigue seeping out of every pore, guilt swallowing her. Her last thought as she placed her head down on her pillow was one that involved death. Not her brother’s, but her own. She closed her eyes and hoped to never wake up.

  Beverley

  The drive home soothes my jagged nerves. Not that I have anything to feel anxious about. Everything is about as good as it can be. Never perfect. Life will never be that. Perfect was rudely snatched away from me many years ago. I have no idea what perfect even feels like any more. But I have no real reason to feel nervous or anxious. Everything is going swimmingly. I am simply over thinking things as usual. One of my less attractive traits. It’s difficult for me to stop over analysing everything. I always expect the worst from people, from each and every situation I find myself in. Life has taught me to be suspicious.

  I message Warren as soon as I get in the house. His plane is due in at 8 p.m. I will be there waiting for him like the dutiful wife that I am. I have missed him and always look forward to the times when he is home; even though he leaves wet footprints all over the bathroom floor and damp towels slung over the side of the bath. Living on your own means you have a routine, a set way of doing things, and an extraordinarily tidy house. Warren being home is always a compromise but we somehow manage to get along rather nicely. We work out a way of rubbing along together, without any of the friction that many couples encounter after living apart for weeks at a time, and then just when we start to get it right, the time arrives for him to leave again. We spend weeks getting used to being an item once more and then we have go back to living our separate lives. Having a husband who works away is a double-edged sword. Love and stability without having to endure toenails clippings all over the floor and whiskers sticking to the side of the sink every morning. And of course, when he is away, my routine also includes my secrets. We all have them, don’t we? Warren thinks he knows everything there is to know about me. How wrong he is. What he sees isn’t the real me. It never has been. I am an actress playing at being me. But just lately I have developed even more of a clandestine lifestyle. While he is home I will have to make sure I play my cards even closer to my chest. I don’t want him getting the wrong idea. He wouldn’t understand. His upbringing was starkly different to mine. He had a close, loving family. The worst thing that they had to endure was the death of their gran. She died peacefully in her sleep at the ripe old age of ninety-seven. He couldn’t ever begin to comprehend how difficult my life has been, how much we have struggled to leave the past behind us. Nor would I expect him to. So, I will just have to be extra vigilant; be on my mettle. Clear all my text messages and lie low until he goes back abroad. Only then will I be able to relax and continue with my crusade, get the job done.

  Once I am inside the house, I carry out a quick check. Don’t want any incriminating evidence hanging around. Not that my plans leave a huge paper trail. It’s been mainly text messages and emails. Safer, cleaner, easier to keep track. I shuffle a pile of receipts and bills into a folder. Warren rarely looks at any of these things. They are only monthly direct debits and bank statements, anyhow. Nothing that needs hiding away. I just prefer being in an orderly environment, and I like the predictability of having everything tucked away. It gives me some semblance of normality; less chaos to deal with. I like order in my life and am not a fan of surprises.

  I cook a meal of salmon and potatoes with a white sauce and leave it to cool. We can eat it later, once he gets
home and has unpacked; we can have a late supper before bed. The kitchen is spotless as I head upstairs for a shower. I like to look good for Warren, to show him that I cope well in his absence. He is often under the illusion that I stumble through life, a gibbering wreck of a woman who collapses in a heap at the first sign of a problem, but that is simply not true. Admittedly, there have been times in the past when I have buckled under the strain of it all, but I’ve changed, grown stronger, become my own person. I now have a goal, something to work towards. An endpoint.

  I choose my best outfit to reflect my positive mood. It may only be an airport run but I prefer to feel clean and smart whenever I am out and about. Perhaps it’s all part and parcel of my need to be organised, to have everything shipshape. I slip into my navy court shoes and am just about to leave the house when my phone rings. I consider ignoring it but then think perhaps it could be Warren telling me about a delay. He would normally give me more notice than this, but then again, the flight only takes forty minutes from Schiphol Airport so it is certainly a possibility.

  I grab it out of my bag and smile as I see the number flash up. A small flush of excitement grips me.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘How is everything coming along?’ the voice asks softly.

  ‘Perfectly well,’ I murmur. ‘But my husband is home for the next few weeks so—'

  ‘We’ll keep contact to a minimum,’ the voice cuts in before I have chance to finish.

  ‘Yes please. That would be better.’

  We talk for a little while longer before saying our goodbyes and hanging up.

  I stride out to the car feeling more in control of my life than I have done for many, many years. Any lingering doubts I had about this undertaking immediately evaporate into the ether as I stare up at the clouds, and speak silently to whoever may be listening that this is definitely the right thing to do. It’s the only thing to do. It’s just a pity I have left it this long. Still, better late than never.