Nowhere to Go (19 page)

Angela sighed and put her mug down on the carpet, where it slopped over again, the liquid joining the marbling of beige-y stains there. ‘Look,’ she said, frowning and slapping away some stray strands of escaped hair, ‘I don’t want you to think I’m being awkward or anything – and I did wanna see you, kid, honest – but, well, truth be told, I don’t have much I
can
tell you. Truth is, lad, I was out of it most of the time,’ she said, looking straight at Tyler. ‘I was in a bad place back then – when our Fi was a youngster. And I never got my head straight, not before she died, at any rate. I was a crap sister, basically,’ she added, shaking her head and looking genuinely regretful. ‘I should have been looking out for her and I didn’t. My problem – you know, the heroin and that – always came first. Before her, before my own kids –’

‘Oh, you have children?’ I said, my excitement at hearing this causing me to jump in before properly engaging my brain. Of course she didn’t.

‘Not no more,’ she said, as if discussing a used car rather than flesh and blood. ‘Got taken off me, both of ’em, soon as they were born. Not that I cared,’ she added. ‘Not a bit of it. I was that bad. Don’t you touch drugs, son, you hear? Never.’

Touching though her words were, there was no sadness there, however – not for the children she’d never know. The children were probably adults now and would never know her either. Just the objective regret of a life not well lived. As a one-woman drug awareness and prevention programme for Tyler, she couldn’t have been bettered. Her honesty was as refreshing as her surroundings smelled stale.

‘So you see, kid,’ she went on, ‘I’m not a lot of use to you. As bad as it sounds –’ She tapped her temple. ‘My pigging brain is messed up, isn’t it? I don’t even have any memories of my own, so I don’t have anything up there to give you. And I’ve only got one photo, so I can’t let you have that. Sorry, but I can’t. It’s all I got to remember. I got to look at it, you see, so I can.’

Tyler nodded his understanding, and I wondered if he was taking all this in. He certainly didn’t look angry or sad – just resigned. It was no more and no less than perhaps he expected. It was perhaps me who had hoped for a little more.

But I fixed on the positive. ‘The photograph you have. Could we take a look?’

Angela turned to me, looking puzzled, as though she had already forgotten. ‘Photograph?’ she asked. Perhaps she had.

I nodded. ‘Yes. You said you had one photo of your sister? Of Fiona? Can we look at it? I’m sure Tyler would like to see it.’

She stood up, and pulled the hoodie down, yanking it hard by either side. It felt so incongruous to see a woman of her age dressed the way she was. Incongruous, but what else should I have expected her to be wearing? Smart separates? Elegant footwear? She clearly only dressed to keep out the cold. ‘You can look at it,’ she said over her shoulder as she shuffled off to the back half of the room, ‘but I can’t let you take it. I’m sorry, kid, but it’s all I have left.’

‘That’s okay,’ Tyler said – the first thing he’d said in ages. ‘I can take a photo
of
it. I have a smartphone.’

‘A what phone?’ she said, looking back towards us while rummaging in a drawer in a pine dresser.

‘A smartphone,’ Tyler said again. ‘A BlackBerry.’

‘Oh, one of those,’ she said, heading back. ‘You’ve got one that takes photos, have you? I know about those. Never likely to have one, though. Some of us can’t afford such luxuries.’ But she said it in a way that was not at all provocative and accompanied by what was probably a wink, directed at me. In another universe she’d make a great aunt – even a kind of gran figure. But not this one. Which felt very sad.

Tyler held his phone up. ‘It was a present,’ he said. ‘I got it for my birthday.’

‘Ah, yes,’ she said. ‘I remember. You said you were 12. I thought it must have been recent, way you puffed up when you said it. Anyway, here you go. That’s your mum.’

I moved closer to Tyler as he took it from her, so I could get a better look myself. The photo was old and curled and, strictly speaking, it was only half a photo. It had been ripped down the middle – in an effort, I presumed, to remove some undesirable.

‘That weren’t your dad,’ Angela said, presumably reading our thoughts as she sat back down again. ‘This was before that, and he was just some other shitty boyfriend she once had. Didn’t want to have to look at his ugly face, either.’

Not that you would, I thought. No, your eye would immediately be drawn to her. Because, just like Tyler, she had the sort of eyes that just pulled you in. And it was funny, having seen so much of Tyler in his father, to see someone who looked even more like our young charge; same petite form, same indefinable
something
– I didn’t know what it was, quite, but I hoped he could see it too.

She was dressed for the times, all early-nineties grunge-style, heavy eye make-up, pale face and hefty, mannish boots. She looked around 17, full of attitude, and reminded me of how Riley – just a little bit younger then – had gone on and on and on about N-Trance and Baby D, and how obsessed she’d been with having her hair permed. Not to mention how cross she’d been that I wouldn’t let her.

‘Go on, then,’ I told Tyler, ‘get your phone on the case. And take a few – maybe do a couple by the window with the flash off as well.’

I knew then, I think, that we wouldn’t be coming back. There was nothing for Tyler here, and he knew it. I think Angela did too, as we said slightly stiff goodbyes and she told us half-heartedly to keep in touch. There was no spark of kinship – the drugs had put paid to that – and no sense of unfinished business either.

But we had our photo, and as we pulled out into the road to drive away Tyler pulled it up and gazed at his collection of images, looking at the face of the girl who’d chosen drugs over him, and I don’t think he held it against her.

‘That social worker lady was right, wasn’t she?’ I said softly. ‘She was beautiful, love, wasn’t she? And so like you, too. That really took my breath away, that did.’

He nodded. And then, out of the blue, he laughed out loud.

‘What’s funny?’ I said, surprised. It was the last thing I’d been expecting.

‘Weren’t you terrified?’ he asked. ‘God, when she went to get that photo? Honest, Casey, I was thinking she’d look just like that lady did. That would have been just
awful
, wouldn’t it?’ He grinned at me then. ‘So I was, like,
majorly
, like,
phew
!’

We’d had bad days and worse days and absolutely appalling days. But today, I thought, as I tucked Tyler into bed that night, had been unequivocally, gloriously good. Which was not to say, I decided, looking at the glow from his new screensaver, that it wouldn’t provoke a weepy moment looking back.

‘We’ll get a print made from that,’ I told him, nodding towards the photo on the screen once I’d kissed his cheek, said night, night and hoped the bed bugs wouldn’t bite. ‘Then you can have it framed and keep it by your bed.’

‘That would be epic,’ he said sleepily, turning onto his side. ‘And Casey,’ he added, turning back towards me again. ‘I know you’re
not
my mum, but …’

He fell silent again, clearly undecided about whether to say what he wanted to say.

‘But what, love?’ I coaxed softly. ‘Go on. You can tell me.’

‘I love you like you
were
my mum. That’s all.’

Winter seemed to arrive all at once. Only a few days after we’d been on our visit to see Angela the temperature plummeted enough to turn all the remaining greenery in my garden to whiskery, rigid silver statues.

‘Do you want a lift to school this morning?’ I asked Tyler, eyeing the view from the kitchen window and imagining how chilly it would be outside.

‘I’m not a wuss, Casey,’ he said, laughing. ‘All my mates would take the mick out of me if I didn’t turn up to meet them cos it was cold!’

He shook his head at me as though I were quite, quite mad and, shrugging off my suggestion of a scarf, grabbed his coat and was away, presumably before I could find him a bobble hat.

The house felt cold too – as if caught by surprise, and not quite yet able to cope. So I took my toast into the living room and ate it in front of the TV so I could take advantage of the heat from the fire.

I glanced up at the fireplace as I switched on the heat, at the latest addition to my collection of family photos. It was the photo of Tyler’s mum, which I’d had him email me so I could download it to my laptop, in order that I could print off some physical copies. I’d then got a couple of frames, as I’d promised – one for his bedroom and one for here – and I knew it mattered to him greatly that I’d popped one alongside the kids and the grandkids. ‘It’s like she’s part of the family, too, isn’t it?’ he’d observed happily.

I’d also printed a third copy, for Tyler’s memory box. Almost all kids in care are encouraged to create memory boxes, and though it had been done in fits and starts – what with everything that had happened – Tyler’s was very much a work in progress.

A memory box is exactly what you’d expect it to be. Usually a robust shoe or boot box, covered in shiny paper and personalised, it was a place to store family photographs, any certificates or awards the child might have won, school achievements, family anecdotes (not to mention foster-family anecdotes, where applicable), letters and postcards, ticket stubs from shows, cinema stubs and so on. Pretty much anything, really, that serves as a reminder of something important in their lives.

As Tyler had only just come back into the system, he didn’t have one when he’d arrived with us, but Will had been helping him to address this lack, particularly as he would soon be moving on. This had been a watershed time for him, obviously, one marked with a degree of hurt and trauma, and it was important he had some good things to remember it by. Bits and bobs that would remind him of some fun times we’d had, to which end, whenever something struck me, or there was a photo that seemed apt, I’d print and/or pass it over to add to the box.

I continued to look at the picture as I sat back down with my toast. There was no doubt about it – Tyler’s mother had been a beautiful young woman and, in this picture anyway, bore no physical evidence of the drug-addled addict she was so soon and so tragically to become. What was her past? What was her story? I wished I knew. I was also struck, as I’d been quite a bit these past weeks, by a niggling anxiety – quite unlike me – which I couldn’t seem to shift, and whose source I couldn’t seem to put my finger on.

Was it some mad menopausal hormonal upheaval? Just a reaction to the stress of fostering again? A belated response to the anxiety surrounding Riley’s pregnancy after her previous miscarriage? Who knew? All I knew was that I was slightly out of kilter and couldn’t work out why.

You’re probably just getting stressed, Casey
, I told myself sternly.
It’s coming up to that mad Christmas rush time, after all.

But that was the funny thing. Normally by now I’d been in full-on Christmas excitement mode, but this year I hadn’t even really thought about it. Well, apart from telling Tyler we’d do a spot of Christmas shopping when we went to the cemetery – but that was nothing. I’d usually have half my presents wrapped by now.

My toast finished, I stood up, mentally shaking myself out of my funny mood. The truth was that I was also anxious about the cemetery trip. Despite Tyler assuring me it would be fine because he’d ‘done graveyards now’, I knew it would be emotionally charged for us both. And with it looming now – we were due to be driving there that weekend – I knew the best thing I could do right now was go and visit my daughter. There was no tonic better than being immersed in chit-chat and baby-talk, after all.

Levi and Jackson were both at school, of course, but when I arrived at Riley’s a couple of hours later Marley Mae was definitely making her presence known. Almost seven months old now, she’d found her preferred method of getting around, which consisted of a strange mixture of crawling, rolling and a sort of ‘bum shuffle’. It was as entertaining to watch as it was complicated to do and it struck me how much my grand-daughter reminded me of my daughter, who’d always gone her own way as well. Marley Mae had also found her voice, which was less agreeable at times, admittedly – a high-pitched scream followed by an indecipherable babble, which greeted me now, as I made my entrance.

‘Oh look, it’s Nanny,’ Riley cried, ‘and are we glad to see her!’

She bent down to pick up various bricks, blocks and toy cars so that I could step into the room unobstructed. She was still in pyjamas and I suspected David had probably done the school run. Bless her – it was a tiring time of life. ‘Come on in, Mum,’ she said, ‘and, seriously, I am
so
glad to see you. She’s been a right handful today.’

‘Today? It’s only 11 o’clock!’

‘Yes, and my day started at 5, Mum! God, she so should have been a boy, this kid.’

I laughed as I watched my grand-daughter follow her mummy round the room. Riley was right; that there was not a doll or pram or anything pink in sight wasn’t quite the point, no – she had older brothers, so was living in a house full of boy-toys. But something told me she wouldn’t become a girly-girl anyway; she was a tough little thing with a fondness for rough and tumble, and I suspected she might stay that way too.

‘Go on,’ I said to Riley. ‘You go and have a soak in the bath – and take as long as you want, love. I’ll deal with all this and with madam here for a bit.’

‘You know what?’ she said. ‘If Justin Timberlake himself walked in right now, offering to whisk me off and ravish me, I think I’d turn him down for that, Mum.’

I knew exactly what she meant.

An hour or so later, with the little madam worn out and snoozing on a blanket in her play pen, Riley and I chatted over bacon sandwiches in the kitchen.

‘So,’ Riley said, ‘what’s going on in
your
life? I feel I’ve been a bit out of the loop the last few days. How’s Tyler doing now?’

I filled her in – telling her about the auntie and the upcoming cemetery visit and, being the astute girl that she was, she frowned at me.

‘And?’ she said.

‘And what?’

‘And what’s on your mind, Mum? Is there something else? Something you’re not telling me?’

I laughed. ‘What are you like?’ I said. ‘No, no, nothing at all, honest. I think I’m just a bit angsty about our visit at the weekend, that’s all.’

‘Hmm,’ Riley said, looking at me suspiciously. ‘Really? It’s not like you to fret over something like that. I think you’re hiding something from me.’

‘Don’t be daft, you silly sod. Hiding something? Why would I hide something from you?’

Even so, even
she
had noticed that I wasn’t quite myself. Weird, I thought. Because she was right, it wasn’t like me. And as we talked – mostly about the new bathroom suite David was putting in – I only half-listened, really, now somewhat fixated on my odd mood. The mood for which I had no explanation or answers. Perhaps I was sickening for something. Was that it?

I didn’t seem to be; not if the rest of the week was anything to go by, it passing via the usual round of grandkids (Mike and I took Tyler and Jackson swimming while Levi was at a party), of kids (Kieron and Mike took Tyler to football, which meant a machine load of disgusting kit to deal with), of parents (I took Mum and Dad to the supermarket to get some groceries) and paperwork, none of which sent me into a state of malaise.

All in all, it was a drama-free, nice, happy week, so by the time Saturday came around I had to conclude that I was not ill, merely slightly askew. But there was a job to do, and Tyler and I were off to do it.

‘One other job first, though,’ I told Tyler as we parked in the big city-centre shopping mall we’d be visiting again later. ‘Operation Billy Bear the second.’

He giggled as I pulled my purse from my handbag. ‘Right, young man,’ I said, pulling out a crisp ten-pound note. ‘Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to find a small blue fluffy thing that resembles Billy Bear the First. You must also find some flowers, and we have half an hour in which to complete. Should you fail to comply or complete the mission, however, that money will, of course, self-destruct.’

‘Let me guess,’ Tyler said as he listened increasingly incredulously, ‘that’s something cool from the olden days, right?’

‘Cheeky beggar,’ I chastised playfully. ‘It’s actually from
Mission Impossible
. You know about
Mission Impossible
, don’t you? Tom Cruise? Though you’re right, it is from the olden days – originally, that is. It’s … Oh never mind. Come on, we don’t have long for this, do we?’

The flowers were no problem, there being a big stand close by, from which Tyler chose a colourful mix of lilies and chrysanthemums, to place at his mum’s cross along with his letter. ‘I’ll let you read this when we get there,’ he’d said as he’d patted his pocket on our way out of the front door. We still had a blue bear to find somewhere, however, and this understandably took a little longer, blue bears coming in many shapes and sizes. We finally settled on one that he deemed very similar. ‘Though mine had a white T-shirt on, so it’s not quite the same,’ he said. ‘D’you think my mum will mind?’

‘Mind? No, she’ll
love
it, sweetie. Trust me, she’ll be thrilled,’ I said, figuring that, with a lump already forming in my throat, it was a lost cause hoping to spend the day dry-eyed. But how could anyone? I reasoned as we got back on the road. Still, that was par for the course. This was an emotional day in Tyler’s life – making contact with a mum about whom he knew so little.

I wasn’t even sure how much he did know about his mother; what, if anything, social services had told him. He knew how he’d been found, of course, but what did he know of his mum’s life before him? I knew almost nothing about any of it. Did he? Surely at some point he would have demanded answers from his dad. I decided to ask him.

‘Love,’ I said, ‘we’ve never talked that much about your mum, have we? I know you were very young when she died, but has anyone ever talked to you about her?’

He looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘What, like my dad?’

‘Yes, your dad. Or maybe your social worker – you know, when you first went to live there?’

‘My dad never did, really. He was always, like, you don’t want to know. But there was this lady who used to come – though I hardly remember her – and she was the one who said I was wet and starving when they found me. I don’t remember any of that myself, though.’

‘I know about that bit,’ I said, nodding, ‘and it’s good you don’t remember, don’t you think? That would be such a horrible memory to have, wouldn’t it? But did she tell you anything about your mum’s life? Like if she had a job? Or the sort of things she liked? Liked doing?’

‘No. I don’t think she worked,’ he said. ‘She was on drugs, so she couldn’t. I used to tell Cam that, did you know? That if he turned into a druggie, he’d never be able to get a job, because he’d have to be taking drugs all the time. There was one thing, though, that the lady told me. She said I used to have a nan – well, a lady who would’ve been my nan if I’d been born yet. But she died of something – she was my mum’s mum – and that woman Angela’s too, I suppose. I think it was cancer. And she said that’s why my mum became a druggie. Because she and her sister didn’t have anyone to look after them any more.’ He gazed out of the window for a bit, but was suddenly galvanised. ‘Hey, Casey?’ he asked, just as I was about to respond to what he’d said previously, ‘d’you think that’s why she ended up doing drugs, because that Angela made her do it? Cos she was like,
loads
older, wasn’t she? And that’s what happens, doesn’t it? Like you and Mike saying to me I shouldn’t hang out with older boys, really – even if they are friends, because they can lead you astray.’

Once again, I was struck by the way he’d thought it through. And, yes, I thought, it could well have happened just as he’d suggested. I wondered how old Fiona and Angela had been when their mum had died. What might have happened? Might they have been left in some council house somewhere, the older sister being charged to take care of the younger? If Fiona had been in her teens, that could well have happened – if 16, it was really quite likely.

I’d probably never be able to find the answers, and neither would Tyler, but perhaps it wouldn’t help to know anyway – not really. And that feeling only intensified when he made his next utterance. ‘You know something?’ he said, as if having discovered a great wisdom. ‘I know lots of dead people, don’t I?’

I sighed then and nodded. ‘It seems that way, love, doesn’t it? Let’s hope that from now on it stops, eh? Let’s hope that wherever you end up, it’s a happy, happy place. One where you don’t have to see any more drugs and sadness.’

And I felt so sad, even as I said it.

We arrived at our second cemetery in roughly as many weeks and it occurred to me how similar these places always seemed to be. The long drive through a pretty landscape, the presence of water … only this time it was a small lake, rather than a stream. Then, at the end of the drive, the cemetery building – in this case a crematorium with a chapel adjacent, both buildings whitewashed and well bedded into their surroundings.

I took Tyler’s hand as we walked from the car to the reception, where a man in a grey suit introduced himself as a Mr James, and explained that Tyler’s mum’s death had been recorded in the book of remembrance, which he then showed to Tyler. It was just a line – a simple entry that recorded her death and the date of her cremation.