Losing Me (26 page)

Finally it was all tumbling out of him.

Barbara wrapped him in her arms. “You’re a good boy. You did the right thing. Are you OK?”

“My shoulder still hurts. I want to see my mum, but the nurses say I can’t because she’s too sick. So when can I see her?”

“Probably not today. I think we’ll need to wait until she’s feeling a bit better.”

“So I’ll be able to see her soon?”

“I’m sure you will.” She tried to wipe away the streaks of mud from his face, but they weren’t budging.

In the end, Troy’s shoulder was only bruised. He would be in “discomfort” for a few days. If it got too much, he could be given Tylenol. He was free to go.

“Where am I going to stay?” Troy said to Barbara, as the three of them headed to the lift. “Can me and Lacie come and stay at your house?”

“I can’t think of anything I’d like more,” Barbara said. “But I don’t think I’d be allowed. You have to be a properly qualified foster carer to look after children, and I’m not qualified.”

“But you’re nice and kind. And you’re a teacher. You’re my favorite teacher, and I know Lacie would like you. It would be good fun.”

“I’m sure it would, but Maureen has found you a nice family to stay with until your mum’s better and I absolutely promise to come and visit. How does that sound?”

“I don’t want to sleep in a stranger’s house,” Troy said. “I want to see my mum.”

Maureen reached out and took his hand. She explained that Carole, the lady he and Lacie were going to stay with for the next few days, was a lovely, kind person. “And she has hamsters and guinea pigs. If you ask her nicely, I’m sure she’ll let you keep one of the cages in your room.”

“But what about my mum? I want to see her before I go to bed.”

“You’ll see her soon,” Maureen said, welling up.

“Good.”

He wasn’t happy, but he seemed to have accepted that there was no chance of seeing his mum today. He turned back to Barbara. “Miss, why did you stop being our teacher?”

“I didn’t want to stop. It’s just that the government couldn’t afford to keep me on. Then I got sick. So I left a few months before I was meant to. I’m sorry I didn’t have a chance to say a proper good-bye.”

“I was upset.”

“I know you were.” Barbara gave him a squeeze.

“Will you come back?”

“I very much doubt it.”

“I hate the gov’ment.”

“Yeah,” Barbara said. “Me, too.”

They stepped into the lift.

“The police have caught Wayne, haven’t they?”

“They have,” Maureen said. “And I promise you that he will go to prison for a long time.”

“Good. Is my mum going to die?”

“Oh, sweetheart, we hope not. The doctors are doing everything they can, and these days they can do some pretty amazing stuff.”

“Taylor at school—her mum died.”

“I remember,” Barbara said. “That was very sad.”

“They buried her in the ground. So now she’s all on her own in the cold and the dark. If my mum dies, will they bury her in the ground?”

Barbara’s heart was practically in bits. “Tell you what, let’s not think about that now. What we need to do is focus on her getting better.”

“I could pray,” Troy piped up.

“Good idea.”

“Will you pray, too?”

“Of course I will. Tonight. Before I go to sleep.”

“And so will I,” Maureen said.

“And what about if Wayne escapes and comes to get me?”

Barbara and Maureen exchanged glances.

“Wayne is locked up in a prison cell,” Barbara said. “He’s being guarded by lots of big, strong men. He isn’t going to get away—tonight or ever.”

“But on TV people escape from prison,” he said.

The lift pinged. They had reached the ground floor.

Chapter 11

B
arbara arrived home just as Ben was getting ready to go out. He was sitting at the bottom of the stairs doing up his Converse. “I’m going to put in a few hours at the food bank and then meet Katie from work. I’ll probably spend the night at her place.”

“Sure,” Barbara said, not really engaging. She hung up her coat. “Have a good time. Is there any wine left in the fridge?”

“I dunno. I don’t drink wine. Plus it’s three in the afternoon. Since when did you start hitting the bottle in the afternoon?”

Barbara kicked off her shoes. “For your information, I never
hit
the bottle. But since you ask, I’m having a crap day and I could do with a drink.”

“What happened? You’re not ill again, are you?”

“No, nothing like that. I’m fine.” She perched herself on the edge of the hall table and told him about Troy and Lacie. “The mother’s on life support. They don’t know if she’s going to make it.”

“Shit. Poor kids.”

A text landed on Ben’s phone. As he read it, he grinned.
Bound to be Katie,
Barbara thought. His fingers hit the keypad. “OK, I’d better get moving. You going to be all right? I can stay if you want.”

“I’ll be fine,” she said. “I might have a lie down.”

There was no wine. Or Scotch. She made a cup of tea and took it to bed. She got under the duvet without bothering to get undressed and watched
Deal or No Deal
. She wasn’t sure when she drifted off, but when she woke up the seven o’clock news was on. She realized she was starving.

She made scrambled eggs on toast and wondered how Troy was getting on in a strange house surrounded by strangers. Maybe she should call the hospital to see how Tiffany was doing, but Maureen had warned her they probably wouldn’t tell her anything as she wasn’t family or from social services. Maureen had promised to call as soon as she knew anything. Barbara finished eating, put her plate in the dishwasher and wiped the toast crumbs off the worktop. Then she wandered around the house, picking up newspapers and magazines, plumping up cushions. She didn’t know what to do with herself. She needed somebody to talk to. She called Jean, who said she’d literally just walked in. Jean had been teaching her prenatal class for single teenage mums. She’d been doing it free of charge for twenty-five years.

“It wasn’t just social services who fell short,” Barbara said after she’d finished telling her what had happened. “I did. I should have gone round there to check they were OK. Then there was the school. Why weren’t the staff keeping a lookout for signs that he was distressed? Every adult in that child’s life has let him down. Not one of us could help him. It’s pathetic. No—you know what? It’s not pathetic. It’s wicked—that’s what it is. Absolutely bloody wicked.”

“Come on,” Jean soothed. “Nobody’s been wicked. People just took their eye off the ball. And you have absolutely nothing to feel guilty about. You’ve been sick. You’ve had enough on your plate. If anybody was to blame, it was social services and possibly the school.”

No sooner had she hung up than Jess called. “Ben just phoned me. He told me what happened to that poor woman and that you seemed pretty upset. Do you want to come over?”

“That’s kind of you, but I’m fine. Just tired. It doesn’t help that there’s been no more news from the hospital. I can’t help feeling that I let the poor kid down.”

Jess said much the same as Jean. The responsibility lay firmly with social services.

“I know,” Barbara said. “But you have no idea how hard-pressed they are. . . .”

“That’s their problem. They should campaign, go on strike, lobby the government for more funding.”

Barbara was too tired to argue—to make the point that most of them were probably too worn-out to campaign.

She took a shower and went back to bed. Afterwards she said a prayer, not simply because she’d promised Troy that she would, but because she felt a genuine need. “Please, God, don’t let Tiffany die. Please.” Barbara wondered how many atheists sent up prayers to the god they didn’t believe in when they or somebody they cared about was in desperate need.

Maureen called first thing the next morning to say she’d been on to the hospital and there was still no change. Three of Tiffany’s girlfriends from the estate were taking it in turns to sit with her.

“Would you mind if I went to see Troy?” Barbara said. “I feel like I’m all he’s got right now.”

Maureen said she didn’t have to ask. “Go whenever you like.”

A few minutes later, she texted Barbara the address.

Carole, the emergency foster carer who had offered to take Troy and Lacie for a few days—until a more permanent placement could be found—lived less than half a mile from the Orchard Farm Estate. What a difference a few streets made. The three-story Victorian house was bang in the middle of a row of smart, gentrified houses. There was barely a house without plantation shutters, bay trees in zinc pots and a muted Farrow & Ball front door. Then there was Carole’s: seventies aluminum window frames, the walls covered in crazy paving cladding. It stood out like a garden gnome in the Conran Shop.

Carole, fiftyish, baggy tee over equally baggy jeans, opened the door carrying Lacie on her hip. The toddler, all clean and glossy of curl, was chewing on a half-peeled apple.

“Hi. You must be Barbara. Maureen said you’d be popping over. Come on in.” The women shook hands, and Barbara chucked Lacie under the chin. “Hi, noodle. How you doing?”

“Not been a moment’s trouble—have you, my darling?”

Lacie grinned at Carole and threw the apple on the floor.

Carole laughed. “Actually, I take that back. She seems to get a real kick out of dropping her apple and watching me bend down to pick it up.”

Carole stood Lacie on the worn needlecord and retrieved the apple. She went over it with her fingers, pincering off bits of fluff and schmutz. Finally she handed it back to Lacie, who trotted off down the hallway, making a beeline for the living room. Carole quickened her step.

“No, not in there, poppet. Your brother’s napping on the sofa.” She took Lacie’s hand and pulled the door closed. “We had him up half the night,” Carole said to Barbara. “He just lay in bed sobbing for his mum. Poor little mite’s exhausted.”

She led Barbara into the kitchen. “Excuse the chaos,” she said as Barbara dodged a spinning top, a bumblebee kiddie walker and a jar of what looked like homemade chutney. “How on earth did that get there?” Carole said, bending down to retrieve the jar. She placed it on the worktop next to a line of similar ones, all hand labeled and with pretty gingham covers. By now Lacie was making little “eh, eh” noises and lifting her arms to be picked up.

“Let me take her off you,” Barbara said, but Lacie wasn’t having it. The moment Barbara went near her, she howled.

Carole scooped up the child. “Not to worry. She might need changing.” She pulled Lacie’s diaper away from her back and sniffed. “Nope. You’re still good.” She blew a raspberry on Lacie’s tummy. The child burst out laughing. Carole blew another and another. In the end, Lacie was laughing so much she began to hiccup.

“Right,” Carole said to Barbara. “Sit your body down and I’ll put the kettle on.” But all the kitchen chairs were occupied by bits of domestic detritus: a bag of potatoes, assorted cardboard picture books and a pile of clean laundry.

With her spare hand, Carole slid the laundry—along with a fat ginger tom who’d been fast asleep on top of it—off a kitchen chair and onto the floor. The cat let out the meekest of protests—as if he was used to being evicted from warm, comfy spots. He scratched a war-torn ear and ambled to his cat door.

Carole got busy making tea. Barbara offered to help, but Carole insisted she was used to doing things one-handed. As if to prove her point, while she waited for the kettle to boil she bustled around picking up a bowl of half-eaten, soggy Coco Pops left over from breakfast, mugs of coffee that had been abandoned after one sip because there hadn’t been time to drink them.

Barbara sat taking in the display of children’s art. Every inch of spare wall space was covered in drawings and paintings. There were odd-shaped heads sprouting arms and legs, handprints galore—each with somebody’s name. Then there was the corkboard with its patchwork of overlapping, curling photographs—some badly faded with age. They were all of children: babies, toddlers, older ones, teenagers.

“So how long have you been fostering?” Barbara said.

“Since the eighties, but it feels like forever. Mike and I have never actually sat down and counted how many children we’ve had through our door, but it must be in the hundreds.”

She explained that she and Mike, a fireman, hadn’t been able to have children, so they’d decided to foster. Along the way, they’d even adopted two girls who’d been sent to them.

“Of course they’re both grown up and married now, with children of their own.” For a moment she looked wistful. “But raising them wasn’t easy. Both of them came from wretched backgrounds. They couldn’t trust adults or believe that anyone could love them. It took us years to gain their trust. When I think back to the tantrums, all the kicking and punching . . .”

“How on earth did you cope?”

“You just have to keep reminding yourself that the hell they’re putting you through is nothing like the hell they’ve come from. Still, I’m guessing that doing the job you do, you know all this.”

“Actually, I’m not teaching anymore—at least not at Jubilee. I just got made redundant. Cutbacks.”

“What is it with the bloody government? They make a short-term gain by getting rid of special-needs teachers like you. But in the long run, uneducated, unemployable kids become out-of-work adults—some of whom will turn to crime and will cost them a fortune.”

Lacie was nodding off on Carole’s shoulder. There was a playpen over by the French doors. Carole laid her down on the soft foam floor and covered her with a blanket.

“Like I said, this one hasn’t been a moment’s trouble, bless her, but I’m really worried about Troy. He’s distraught. I’ve been cuddling and comforting him as much as I can, but the poor mite’s inconsolable.”

“I’m not surprised, but I’m not sure there’s much else you can do—or any of us can do.”

The ginger tom reappeared with a clatter of his cat door. He moseyed over to the pile of washing and stepped onto it. Afterwards he performed the customary feline round-and-round-in-circles ritual before settling himself down again.

Just then Carole’s mobile rang. “OK, Doreen, don’t panic. No . . . please . . . you have to calm down. I’ll call them to find out what’s happened. The van’s probably stuck in traffic. No, of course you won’t go hungry. They’ll be there. I promise.” She ended the call and explained that her elderly neighbor, whom she kept an eye on because the poor soul had no family, was in a panic because Meals on Wheels hadn’t turned up. “If you could bear with me for a sec, I need to make a call.”

Carole was making quite an impression on Barbara. The woman had been up half the night trying to comfort a severely traumatized little boy—not to mention look after his baby sister—and here she was the following morning, full of beans and taking on even more problems. She’d even found time to make chutney. Barbara was no shirker, but Carole was in a different league. Right now Barbara felt she had more in common with the cat dozing at her side.

Carole was still on the phone to the Meals on Wheels people when Troy appeared, spent with exhaustion. He climbed onto Barbara’s lap. She wrapped her arms around him.

“You OK? How’s your shoulder?”

“Still hurts a bit, but it’s getting better. . . . Last night when I had a bath, Carole put bubbles in the water. We don’t have bubbles at our house.” He paused. “Have the doctors called from the hospital?”

“No, my darling, they haven’t, but I’m sure they will.”

“When I’m a big man, I’m going to kill Wayne. I’m going to shoot him and bash him to bits.”

“And who could blame you,” Barbara muttered under her breath. “So, how do you like Carole? Have you met the hamsters yet?”

“She’s nice. She let me have the hamster cage in my room, and Dave the cat slept on my bed. I like it when he purrs.”

Barbara asked Troy if he was hungry. He shook his head.

“Have you eaten anything this morning?”

“Toast.”

“And he left most of that—didn’t you, poppet?” Carole said, off the phone now.

“I just want to see my mum! I wanna see my mum! I wanna . . .” Troy threw himself onto the floor and began kicking and hitting it with his fists.

Carole sat down beside him. She made no effort to restrain him. Instead she stroked his head and gently shushed him. His body shook with sobs. “I want to see her. Let me see her.”

“She’s still not well enough, my darling. I know you’re sad and angry and missing her, but the doctors are doing all they can, and as soon as she’s feeling a bit better, they will let you see her.”

“When will that be?”

“I don’t know. A few days maybe.”

“You promise?”

Carole hesitated. “No, sweetie. I can’t promise.”

This set him off again—kicking and howling. The two women looked at each other, eyes filling up. Barbara felt heartbroken and powerless. One look at Carole told her that she felt the same.

Finally Troy wore himself out and his tears dried up. Carole held him in her arms and rocked him. Suddenly he pulled away.

“Have you got any crisps?”

Carole looked bemused. “I’ve got some salt and vinegar Hula Hoops,” she said.

“Salt and vinegar’s my favorite.”

She got up and went over to the kitchen cupboard. Troy followed her.

“Tell you what, hon. You eat these, and when you’ve finished, you can help me feed the hamsters. OK?”

He nodded and wandered back to the living room to watch TV.

“Poor little sausage,” Carole said. “Give him an hour and he’ll be throwing himself on the floor again. He’s been like this all morning.”

“It’s how he deals with stress,” Barbara said. “He often had tantrums in school.”

“It breaks my heart to think what he must have been through—even before yesterday.”

Barbara glanced over at Lacie, who was still sound asleep. “Listen, I know Maureen should be asking you this, not me, but would you consider having Lacie and Troy for more than just a few days? Even if Tiffany makes it, she’s going to be in hospital for weeks. After that she’ll need time to convalesce. And you’re so amazing with them.”