Just What Kind of Mother Are You? (32 page)

She picks up a couple of parsnips from the florist’s – they do a sideline in root vegetables this time of year – and nips into Boots for some last-minute bits and bobs.

Neither of them gets much in the way of presents. Jackie’s son hasn’t sent anything for the past couple of years, so they’ve taken to spoiling each other a little. Joanne puts some overpriced body butter in her basket and, as an afterthought, a Scholl foot spa.

She studies the box and gets a vision of Jackie sitting in her carer’s uniform, half a pint of Baileys in her hand, steam rising up around her ankles. And Joanne decides that, yes, this is exactly the right gift.

The clouds are low and brooding as Joanne leaves the shop. They’re in for another covering of snowfall this afternoon, so there’s a frisson of excitement in the village, of wanting to get
home, to close the door and shut the world out. Wait for Christmas to arrive.

A tuba-, trombone- and trumpet-player are tucked into a sheltered spot just by the Abbey Bank; the last few bars of ‘Joy to the World’ are audible as Joanne approaches the butcher’s.

There’s a queue inside, but it moves quickly. Everyone’s already pre-ordered and paid for their birds, so it’s just a case of picking them up. Joanne wanted to go for a turkey crown – what with there being only the two of them – but Jackie would hear none of it. ‘Brown meat’s the best bit,’ she said.

Joanne is about to cross the street and head home when she sees someone reverse into one of the spaces right in front of her. She stops, recognizing the driver. She can’t see inside the car too well – the windows are obscured by steam as the car is filled with bodies – but she knows who it is.

Joanne approaches and taps on the window. Lisa Kallisto cuts the engine and opens the driver’s side door. Joanne leans in and sees Lisa’s three kids in the back, squashed together, the excitement of Christmas clear in their faces.

Joe’s in the front passenger seat, the Bedlington Terrier that Forensics used sitting in the footwell between his knees. Both of Joe’s lower legs are in plaster.

‘Hi, Lisa,’ Joanne says. ‘How you doing?’

‘Good. You?’

‘Fine, thanks.’ Joanne looks past Lisa to Joe. ‘They let you out of hospital for Christmas, then?’

Joanne heard on the grapevine that Joe’s taxi left the motorway and ended up in a ditch. He survived but fractured both his feet.

‘Came out on Wednesday,’ Joe says. ‘I’ve got a wheelchair to get about with,’ and he gestures behind him to the boot of the car.

Joanne smiles. ‘They any idea what caused your blackout, yet?’

Joe looks shiftily from side to side.

When he doesn’t answer, Lisa rolls her eyes, leans sideways towards Joanne and lowers her voice away from the kids. ‘He’d been having TIAs – transient ischaemic attacks – mini-strokes.’ She glances at Joe. ‘And for reasons best known to himself he decided to keep that little piece of information from me and the kids.’

Joanne raises her eyebrows.

‘He thought it was better if I didn’t know about it,’ Lisa says, and Joe looks rueful.

‘You know why,’ he says quietly.

Lisa gives him a soft dig in the ribs. ‘Daft sod thought I’d leave him if I found out … Anyway, they’ve put him on Warfarin, so he should be okay.’ She reaches behind Joe’s seat for her handbag. ‘What’s the word on Kate? You got any more news?’

‘She’s been charged.’

‘What with?’

‘Kidnapping, false imprisonment and perverting the course of justice.’

Lisa takes a long breath in. ‘Shit,’ she says. ‘Shit, that’s worse than I thought.’

‘You did the right thing, Lisa.’

‘Did I?’

‘You didn’t have any choice. She was hurting her children – you couldn’t let that continue, you know that.’

Lisa swings her legs around, makes to climb out of the car. ‘If I did the right thing, why do I feel so lousy about it? … Do you think she’ll lose the kids?’

‘A prison sentence is more than likely.’

Lisa digests this and sighs out sadly.

‘Will she not try and plead … will she not plead mentally unfit – or whatever it’s called?’

‘She might, but then there’s less chance of her keeping the
children in the long term, if that’s the way they decide to play it. Have to wait and see.’

‘What a mess,’ Lisa says, standing and closing the car door.

She looks past Joanne’s shoulder at the Christmas lights slung low across the street. Joanne watches as Lisa tries to shrug off what she’s just been told. It’s Christmas Eve, Joanne can feel her thinking, it’s all about the kids now.

Lisa turns to Joanne. ‘You got your man, though, didn’t you?’ she asks, brighter now. ‘You got the man who took the other girls?’

‘We did.’

‘That’s good.
Was
it that same guy who’d been talking to Lucinda after school? Was it him?’

‘He’s not admitted it, but yes, we’re pretty sure. From what we gather, Lucinda came home and told her mother about him, and Kate hatched the fake-abduction plan … Then she was just waiting for the right opportunity—’

‘Waiting for me,’ Lisa cuts in resignedly. ‘Kate was waiting for me to screw up so she could pretend Lucinda was gone.’

Joanne can sense the hurt still fresh in Lisa.

After a moment Lisa asks, ‘Are her children all right? I know I should probably get in touch, but I can’t seem to bring myself to do it.’

‘They’re with their dad.’ Joanne touches Lisa’s elbow briefly. ‘They’re going to be okay … don’t be too hard on yourself, eh, Lisa? With Kate’s state of mind the way it is, who knows what she might have done next?’

44

I
WISH
DC A
SPINALL A
merry Christmas and leave Joe, the kids and Bluey inside the car while I nip to the butcher’s. This is our last call of the morning. Once I’ve got the turkey we can go home, get the fire going and curl up and watch a daft film. Wait for Christmas to come to Troutbeck.

The butcher’s window is filled with good stuff. Pheasants, guinea fowl and some ready-stuffed partridges sit on the left side of the display; a stack of game pies, terrines and pâtés are on the right.

I loiter for a moment before going in.

The news about Kate has hit me harder than I thought it would. And, yes, I know she’d completely lost it. And, yes, I know someone that deranged cannot keep their family. And don’t get me wrong, I am still angry. There’s this hot ball of fury I’ve been carrying inside my stomach since last week, I am so fucking mad about it all. But then I’m also saddened for her.

I’m heartbroken by the fact that she pushed so hard to keep her family together she ended up losing all of them. She’s lost everything.

I look back to the car. My whole life is inside that car. And I couldn’t imagine losing any of it. Not one bit.

I push open the door to the butcher’s and take my place in the queue. The line is winding its way along the back wall. I glance at the people waiting to be served, and it’s then that I see Alexa.

She stands second from the front. Her back is to me, but I know it’s her.

I close my eyes. I let my weight fall against the cold, tiled wall. For a second I think about ducking out to avoid her, but then what’s the use? This is a small place. I’m going to run into her sooner or later.

The butcher’s son is serving today. He’s fifteen, a quiet lad. You tell him your name and he retrieves the turkeys from the cold store at the back.

He hands over a small package in wax paper to an elderly lady at the front and she passes him back a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black Label. ‘For yer dad,’ she says, and the boy takes it shyly. Tells her ‘Thanks.’

Alexa moves up and clears her throat. ‘Mrs Willard,’ she tells him officiously. ‘I’ve ordered a large, free-range Bronze.’

The lad blanches and averts his eyes. After what seems like an eternity, he stammers out, ‘I’m sorry, but we don’t have a turkey for you, Mrs Willard.’

‘What do you mean?’ she laughs. ‘I ordered it in November. Of course you have it.’

He shakes his head. ‘I’ve been told to tell you we don’t have one.’

His distress is visible. He moves from one foot to the other. The shop goes deadly quiet as everyone watches. I straighten my spine. I can almost feel the rage building inside Alexa from here.

‘Get me your father,’ she snaps. ‘I’m not accepting this.’

He nods, swallows and steps away. Seconds later, his mother, Kath, appears. She’s a buxom woman with thick arms, a bloodied apron and a no-nonsense look on her face. She was in the year above me at school. We played senior hockey together. Me as right back, her as goalie.

‘Mrs Willard,’ she acknowledges without emotion.

‘What’s going on here?’ Alexa demands. ‘Your son tells me you’ve forgotten to place my order.’

‘Not forgotten. Cancelled.’

‘Cancelled? Why? I didn’t authorize any cancellation.’

‘No. I did.’

I shift over slightly so I can get a good look at Alexa in the mirror that runs behind the counter.

Her mouth is gaping open. ‘I don’t understand,’ she says.

‘Nothing
to
understand. I just cancelled it.’

‘Because of what?’

‘I’ll explain,’ the butcher’s wife says, matter-of-fact, ‘but, to be honest, I think you’ve got a bloody cheek coming in here. Showing your face after what you and that crackpot sister o’ yours done to this community … Our husbands put their lives at risk searching for that young girl, out in that snow and ice. These shops lost
business
on account o’ you – no folk wanting to come here and spend – and what when we’re already struggling for trade. If I were you I’d think long and hard about moving. No one round here’s going to want much to do with you—’

‘But that wasn’t me!’ Alexa exclaims. ‘I didn’t have anything to do with what my sister did, I didn’t know—’

‘The word is you
did know
.’

‘I didn’t—’ Alexa says. ‘Honestly, I really didn’t.’

Alexa looks around the shop helplessly, perhaps hoping someone will speak up at this injustice, but everyone looks away.

The butcher’s wife wipes her hands on the dishcloth she has threaded through the belt of her apron. ‘You’ll have to excuse me,’ she says, ‘but I need to crack on. A lot to get through today.’ But she stays standing right where she is.

Alexa turns on her heel, and we come face to face.

She glares at me for an extended moment and I watch as she thinks about yelling some abuse my way. But the eyes of the shop are upon her. She realizes this, and struts out.

When she’s gone, the butcher’s wife catches my attention. One quick nod in my direction and she returns to the back of the shop.

Five minutes later and I get out to the car, slinging the turkey into Joe’s lap. ‘Hang on to this,’ I tell him, and turn around to look at the kids. Sam’s in the middle, cheeks red and scaly from the cold; Sally’s on one side; James is on the other. They’re almost bursting they’re so excited to get home.

‘I just saw Alexa,’ Joe says. ‘She didn’t look too happy.’

‘She wouldn’t,’ I tell him, putting on my seat belt. ‘They said they’re not serving her. Told her to go and shop elsewhere.’

Joe is tickled pink by this.

‘What?’ I say to him.

‘Nothing,’ he replies, but he’s smiling broadly.

As I put the car into gear he reaches forward and gives the curls on top of Bluey’s head a quick ruffle. They’ve become almost inseparable since Joe came out of hospital on Wednesday.

I check my mirror and pull away, head off towards home just as the snow begins to fall again.

I glance at Joe.

You watch, he’ll have the bloody dog sleeping on the end of our bed before the week’s out.

A Note from the Author

This book came about after watching an episode of
The Oprah Winfrey Show
. One of Oprah’s recurring themes is getting the right balance in life, and after treating countless exhausted working mothers in my physiotherapy practice, it was at the forefront of my mind as well.

The programme showed school administrator Brenda Slaby. It’s 6 a.m. and Brenda’s driving her two young children to separate childminders, then continuing on to work. It’s the first day back after the long summer break and a particularly busy time lies ahead. Eight hours later, a co-worker rushes into Brenda’s office to break the news that her baby is still inside the car. Brenda has had so much on her mind that she has forgotten to drop her youngest child off, and little Cecilia has died of heatstroke in the hot August sun.

I was heartbroken by this woman’s story. At the time, Brenda described herself as ‘the most hated mother in America’; she received death threats, and outraged mothers wanted her tried for murder.

As I watched, all I could think was:
that could have been me
.

I, too, had once been so overwhelmed with balancing children and full-time work that I could have missed the one thing no person wants to miss.

This preyed on my mind and I was certain I wanted to write about it – I just didn’t know how. I write thrillers. I knew I
couldn’t possibly do Brenda’s story justice. As time went on, though, I couldn’t stop thinking about how women push themselves nowadays. How they push themselves to be perfect mothers and perfect employees, often at the expense of their health and their relationship with their spouse, frequently putting other women down for not operating at such a high level.

A few weeks later, I was in the supermarket car park and bumped into a woman I’d not seen for a while. As I walked away from her, I was left feeling slightly crappy about my life – she’s one of those women who’ll subtly put you down, put your children down, too, given half a chance. I sat in my car, thinking,
who is friends with that woman?
She must have
some
friends. But for the life of me I couldn’t fathom why anyone would want to put up with her.

Suddenly it struck me: what if you were to lose
her
child? What if you were so overwhelmed with work and life that you took your eye off the ball, and it was
her
child who went missing?