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.
I folded the grubby sheet back into its envelope. ‘I’ll call her and tell her politely that we don’t need any help.’
The smile fell completely from both of our faces after I said it. In the space of a few seconds, Peter looked like he hadn’t slept or eaten in a hundred years, as though the laughter had wrung him dry of every tiny last bit of optimism.
He rubbed his face and sighed, ‘What are we doing so wrong?’
‘What am I doing so wrong, you mean?’
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘Mum and Jacs think I don’t spend enough time with her. Like it’s an attention thing.’
He looked almost hopeful again. ‘Do you think they have a point?’
‘You and I both made the decision to have a joint income, Peter.’
‘I’m not blaming you.’
‘It seems like it.’
‘We’re on the same side.’
‘Sorry.’ I rubbed my fingers at my hairline, hearing the scratch through my skull. I didn’t want to be obstructive.
‘D’you think we should make some lifestyle changes?’
‘Like what?’
‘We could sell the house? Reduce our overheads?’
‘I don’t know,’ I moaned, feeling my brain hurting.
Peter looked around him. ‘I love this house.’
‘The kids would be devastated. And Rosie might get worse.’ But I didn’t say what would sound selfish and un-motherly, that I loved my job, that I didn’t want to stay at home filling the hours before pick-up with tennis lessons and coffee mornings.
‘But at least Mira wouldn’t be listening next door.’ Peter shot a filthy look in the direction of Mira’s house.
‘That is not a good reason to move.’ However much I detested her being so close, I was not going to run away from the life we had worked so hard to create.
Peter poured more wine and cleared his throat. ‘Maybe this social worker woman might be able to recommend someone to talk to?’
‘What kind of someone?’
‘A counsellor or something.’
‘No,’ I barked, sounding like my mother. My heart was beating in my eardrums.
‘Don’t fly off the handle, okay? You always bloody fly off the handle,’ he snapped with a rare flash of anger.
I breathed in, as though sucking back an unexploded grenade. ‘I don’t like the idea of strangers knowing our business.’
He flashed his palms at me, surrendering, ‘Fine.’ He stood up, knocking the stool over, leaving it and weaving out.
I wrapped my arms around my middle, and imagined the tiny curl of a baby there. Perhaps when it was born, Rosie would realise that the world didn’t revolve around her, that her tantrums wouldn’t get her anywhere. I might consider asking her to help me transform the spare room into the nursery. If she engaged with a project, she might forget about her own dramas for a change.
In the meantime, if she had a tantrum again, I would put her in the television den, where the noise would bounce off Mr Elliot’s garage wall. We could fix a lock onto the door, take down the oil painting and cover the dangerous edges to keep her safe in there while she screamed it out. Or give her a cream egg. Anything to keep the police and the Social Services away.
Deep down though, I hoped it wouldn’t come to that. I hoped she had been scared by the police visit as much as we had and I hoped that our day out in London would heal us, temporarily at least.