I know something you don’t know.
That’s what I think as I wheel Noah’s pram past the elderly woman who’s sitting on the bench overlooking the sea, her little dog by her side.
Not that she’s paid me any attention. If she had a mind to study me at all, she’d just see a young woman with mousy-brown shoulder-length hair and dark shadows under her eyes. She might notice the baby weight I’m still carrying around my middle and my anxious expression as my daughter, Isabella, breaks away to chase a seagull.
What she wouldn’t see is the thing that sets me apart from the other people on Brighton seafront. Nor would she understand the relief I’m feeling at what I’ve just discovered. The release of tension. The easing of the intrusive thoughts that come into my head when I least expect it.
There are twenty steps between the lamp post we’ve just passed and the one before it. It’s a fact I know because I’ve counted the gaps between every lamp post since we left home. And now I am sure, I can relax.
Stopping the pram, I pull at the fine gold chain around my neck and lift out the heart-shaped locket. With my thumbnails, I undo the clasp. Inside, are two photos – one of Sophie and Isabella. The other Noah. Closing it again, I press the metal case to my lips.
‘I don’t want to go, Mummy.’ Sophie looks up at me and I see how pale her face is. How she’s bitten her bottom lip so badly it’s almost bled. Sophie is worried sick about starting school, and even though we’ve made a special trip to M&S to buy her brand-new uniform and the pencil case with Elsa from Frozen on the front, it has done nothing to help. If she had her way, she’d stay at home with me for the rest of her life.
I want to comfort her, to tell her that her first day at school will be fine, but a niggling doubt has wormed its way into my head. What if I’ve counted incorrectly? If I’ve made a mistake, will it mean something bad will happen? Before the feeling of dread can take hold, I force it away. We’re safe. Nothing is going to happen.
‘You’ll have a lovely time,’ I say brightly. ‘You’ve met Mrs Allen and you said you liked her. There will be lots of children to play with and, besides, you’ll have Izzy with you.’
Isabella is ahead of us, turning circles on the esplanade, her arms spread wide like a helicopter. Her dark hair is escaping its band and I wince as she nearly collides with a dog walker.
‘Look what you’re doing, Izzy.’
As we catch up with her, Sophie’s knuckles whiten on the pram’s handle and she seems paler than ever. ‘Are you all right, poppet?’
If she says no, I can take her home with me again. Postpone this horrible day. But she nods miserably and carries on walking.
Telling Isabella to hold onto the other side of the pram, we leave the seafront and head for the main road. When we reach the pelican crossing, I jab at the button with my finger. It’s early morning rush hour and a steady stream of cars pass by. A grey Fiesta, a white van, a motorbike, its rider anonymous under his leathers and helmet. Four… five… six… Another four cars drive past us. If the red man changes to green before ten more cars go by, it will mean bad luck for the rest of the day. Eleven… twelve… thirteen…
Don’t change. Don’t change.
Fourteen… fifteen… sixteen. With sinking heart, I see the green man light up, but I don’t move. I’m wondering if I should wait and try again. There’s a persistent beep and the green man flashes – warning that the lights will soon change. People are crossing. Some are looking at us strangely. Wondering why we’re not going.
‘For fuck’s sake.’ A teenager with a pink puffer jacket pushes past me, trying to get across before the lights change again.
‘Come on, Mummy. We’re going to be late.’ Isabella’s shaking the pram and it brings me out of my trance. She’s excited – was out of bed this morning before my alarm had even gone off. She’d pulled at my duvet and thrust her school pinafore in my face. ‘I can’t get it on!’
‘We’ve plenty of time,’ I say, glad we left the house a good fifteen minutes earlier than we had to, allowing us time to go the longer seafront route. Knowing that the prospect of being separated from the twins for the first time in my life could spiral my anxiety out of control and hoping the sea air might help.
‘Dad says that at the big school there’s a massive climbing frame in the playground and the boys will let me play football if I show them I’m not a sissy.’ She looks at me slyly. ‘He said I can kick anyone who bullies Sophie.’
‘I’m sure he said nothing of the sort.’
He probably did, though. Mitch can speak without thinking at times and Isabella’s gung-ho enough without his encouragement. I feel a twinge of guilt. He’d offered to come with us for the girls’ first day, but I’d put him off. I’m their mum; it’s something I need to do on my own. I think of my own first day at school. How my mother had asked Mrs Ringrose from next door to take me in as it was on her way to the newsagent’s. I was the only one not to have a parent kiss me goodbye. I feel my eyes fill with tears, but Isabella is tugging at my sleeve.
‘We’re here, Mum.’ Isabella is pulling at the pram handle again, trying to make us go faster. ‘It’s the big school.’
We’re approaching the school gates and I feel Sophie’s body push hard against my side. She’s crying openly now, clinging on to my hand as though to a life raft.
‘There’s nothing to be scared about, darling.’ I drop a kiss onto the top of her fair head. Her hair smells of the detangling shampoo I used last night, in preparation for her big day. The action gives me time to close my eyes and count to twenty. When I reach my goal, I start counting back down again.
‘Mummy, come on.’
People are filing in through the gates and gathering around the classroom doors. Isabella has left us and is already halfway across the playground. We follow, but as we get closer to the building, Sophie’s feet start to drag. Already, I’m dreading the moment I must leave her, but I can’t put it off. The best thing, I know, would be to slip away as soon as possible so as not to prolong the separation, but it’s going to be hard.
The girls’ classroom is in a new extension that’s attached to the original Victorian building. Mrs Allen stands at the door, welcoming each child as they arrive. She’s young and pretty and looks barely old enough to be a teacher, let alone married. As I wheel Noah’s pram up to the classroom and push the brake on with my foot, I can’t help wondering if she’ll still look that way after a day of Izzy.
Bending to the tray beneath the pram, I take out the girls’ lunch boxes – Sophie’s Elsa one and Isabella’s, which has Bob the Builder on the front. I turn it so I don’t have to see the picture – I used to have one just the same when I was a child. I’d tried to persuade her to choose something different, but she’d insisted I buy it as it reminds her of Mitch. I’m just straightening up when a leaflet is thrust at me. Turning to ask what it is, I find I’m too late; the woman has already moved on to the next group of parents, and all I can see is the back of her black coat and a peacock blue scarf. On the front of the leaflet, in big letters, are the words South Downs Tree Survey. Below it is a picture of a large beech tree, with a dense green canopy and smooth grey bark. A small box to the side shows a magnified leaf and a beechnut for identification.
My breathing becomes shorter. Hating the sight of it, I ball the leaflet in my hand and toss it into the nearest bin.
Isabella glares at me. ‘What are you doing? I wanted to look at it.’
I don’t answer as Mrs Allen is approaching, a big smile on her face. ‘Ah, my twins are here. Welcome! At least I’m not going to get the two of you muddled up.’ Crouching down, she helps Isabella with her coat.
Isabella brushes her hand away. ‘I can do it. I don’t need help.’
I’m mortified. ‘Isabella! Don’t be so rude. Say sorry to Mrs Allen.’
She folds her arms. ‘I don’t want to.’
‘It’s all right. It’s all new and exciting,’ Mrs Allen says, and I’m relieved that she seems unconcerned. ‘I’m sure Isabella can be a very polite girl when she wants to be.’
Sophie is hanging back. She’s yet to cross the threshold. Children push past her, and she flattens herself against the wall as though hoping they won’t notice her. She’s as white as a sheet. I hold out my hand to her, but she ignores it, her eyes fixed on the ground. Outside the classroom, Noah begins to cry, and a wave of exhaustion engulfs me. I know how I must appear to their teacher. A mother who has no control over her children.
‘Please, Sophie. Don’t be difficult.’
Not sure what to do for the best, I do nothing and am thankful when Mrs Allen comes to my rescue. ‘Do you like Lego?’
Sophie nods. ‘Well, that’s very lucky because we just happen to have a huge box of it waiting to be played with before I take the register. Our classroom assistant, Miss King, is trying to make a fairy castle, but she’s not very good at it. Would you like to help her?’
She holds out her hand like I did, and, to my surprise, Sophie takes it.
‘You go,’ Mrs Allen says, with a smile. ‘They’ll both be fine.’
I want to hug Sophie to me, but scared of spoiling things, I blow her a kiss instead. Isabella has already disappeared, clearly no longer needing me.
‘I’ll see you later, Sophie, and you can tell me all about your day.’ Without waiting for her to answer, and fighting back tears, I quickly walk out of the door and into the playground, relieved that Noah has stopped crying.
I turn to where I left the pram and pull up short. It’s not there. With racing heart, I look around wildly, fear gripping my stomach. I parked it here. I know I did. As though it will miraculously appear, I look back to where I think the pram should be, but there’s nothing there but a dropped book bag. I’m properly scared now – all sorts of things going around in my head. None of them good.
‘Is anything the matter, Mrs Thirsk?’ Mrs Allen is holding open the door, looking at me questioningly.
‘My baby. The pram.’ I’m trying to calm my rising panic. ‘It’s gone.’
Mrs Allen turns back and calls across the classroom. ‘Miss King. Could you hold the fort for one minute?’ She comes outside and stands next to me. ‘Where did you park it?’
‘Just here.’ I point to the wall. My voice rising. ‘Someone has taken him. I don’t know what to do.’ People are looking at me. I’m crying now and don’t care who sees. ‘Where is he?’
The playground is still full of parents, standing in groups chatting or looking in the classroom windows, waving to their children. I stare at those who have prams and buggies. Is one of them Noah’s? Could someone have taken his pram by mistake? I know it’s a ridiculous thought, but I’m not thinking straight.
‘Mrs Thirsk. You need to calm down.’
I barely hear her. The wall where Noah’s pram should have been is constructed of red bricks. I start to count them under my breath. If there are twenty bricks along the top of the window frame, my baby will be safe.
‘Mrs Thirsk.’ Mrs Allen has her hand on my arm. ‘There must be a simple explanation. Are you sure you parked him here?’
I’m about to shout at her. Tell her that of course I’m sure and that we need to call the police, when I hear a cry. It’s coming from the covered porchway of the next classroom, just out of sight. I run in the direction of the sound, a cry of relief breaking from me when I see Noah’s pram parked against the wall.
Picking him out of his covers, I clasp him to me. ‘Oh my God. Thank heavens.’
I look around me, trying to comprehend. Did I park Noah here? I didn’t think I did, but now I’m not sure. I was so worried about Sophie. Concentrating so hard on how I was going to be able to leave her, that maybe I did.
Mrs Allen comes up to me. ‘It’s an easy mistake to make,’ she says sympathetically. ‘These classrooms all look the same when you’re not used to them. I’m just glad everything’s all right.’
I feel ridiculous now. ‘I’m sure I didn’t park him here.’
‘Tiredness can make your mind play tricks. He’s safe and that’s all that matters.’
I nod. Knowing that my sleepless nights are written in the dark circles under my eyes. She must be right. My mind’s playing tricks on me.
‘Would you like me to take you to reception? Lorraine can make you some tea.’
‘No. I’m fine now. Really.’
‘Well, if you’re sure. Go home and get some rest. You look exhausted.’ With a parting smile, she walks back into the girls’ classroom.
Noah is getting restless, squirming in my arms. Quickly, I place him back in the pram, but as I tuck the blanket around him, my hand touches something cold. Picking it out from the covers, I see it’s a locket.
My first instinct is that it’s mine. That the clasp must have come undone and the necklace fallen into the pram as I picked Noah up. My hand rises to my chest, but immediately my fingers make contact with the telltale heart shape of the locket beneath my jumper.
I stare at the one in my hand, not understanding. It looks just like mine.
Easing my thumbnails into the crack, I prise the two sides apart. Even though I know it’s not possible, I half expect it to contain photographs of my children, but of course it doesn’t. Both sides are empty.
I turn the locket over, a feeling of unease creeping up my spine. On its smooth surface, someone has scratched a word.
Sister.
The necklace slips through my fingers onto the tarmac. I know this locket. I haven’t seen it in fifteen years. It’s the one Freya was wearing the day she died.
Noah has cried all the way home and my nerves are jangling. Who could have put the locket there? When I reach the house, I’m weak with relief. More so when I see Mitch’s white van still parked outside. Ours is an ordinary house, one of several in a small Victorian terrace, the number twenty-seven almost obscured by the pyracantha we never seem to get around to pruning. Ignoring Noah’s screams, I search in my bag for the key and let myself in, pulling the pram behind me into the hall.
‘Mitch,’ I call.
As I try to take off my boots, Charlie, our Border Terrier, jumps up at my legs and I push him away, not wanting any more demands on me.
‘I’m in the kitchen.’
Lifting Noah from his covers, I go to find him, the dog at my heels.
Mitch is at the table, finishing his breakfast. Reaching for the bottle of ketchup, he upends it and bangs on the bottom to release a dollop of red sauce onto his plate. I watch as he wipes a slice of white bread through it and then through the congealing yolk of his fried egg.
He looks up at me. ‘You’re back late. Isabella didn’t play up, did she?’
‘No. Nothing like that.’
I want to tell him about the pram. About finding the locket… but I can’t. What could I say? He doesn’t know anything about Freya or even that I once had a sister. He’d say I was imagining things – that the locket could have belonged to anyone. He’d tell me I was exhausted. Hormonal. That I’d simply forgotten where I’d put the pram.
Noah’s cries are getting louder. Mitch puts down his fork and holds out his arms for the baby, but I ignore him. Pulling out a chair, I sit and undo my blouse so Noah can feed. As he latches on, I close my eyes and try to enjoy the sensation of giving sustenance to my child. It’s hard to believe that my mother would have done this once, held me in her arms and whispered special things only a mother would say to her child.
‘You look done in.’
I open my eyes again. ‘You would too if you were up all night.’
Mitch pulls another slice of bread from the packet in front of him, there’s a smear of ketchup on the bristles of his chin. ‘If you gave him a bottle, I’d be able to do some of the night shift.’
I look away. ‘I told you. I don’t want that. The midwife said—’
‘I know what the bloody midwife said, but I’m worried about you, Kel. Surely your health is as important as the baby’s. If you’d just let me do my bit, it would make life easier for you.’
I feel the pull of Noah’s little mouth on my breast and tell myself that this is what being a mother is all about. Nurturing. Being there whenever your child needs you. Keeping them safe. Without realising it, my fingers have strayed to my locket. ‘There’s nothing wrong with me.’
He doesn’t reply but gives a look that tells me exactly what he’s thinking. Popping the last piece of egg-soaked bread into his mouth, he looks at his watch.
‘I have to be on-site today, but I can leave early. At least let me collect the kids from school.’
It’s as though he hasn’t been listening to a word I’ve just said.
‘I told you I don’t need you to help.’
It’s said too quickly, and his eyes register his hurt.
‘For just once in your life, Kelly, can’t you think about what I might need?’
Mitch looks so dejected that I feel my guilt rise. It’s easy to forget he’s a parent too. I force myself to say the words.
‘I’m sorry. Of course, you can collect the girls if you want to.’
Taking his hand with my free one, I link my fingers with his. It’s a practical hand, the pads of his fingers roughened and the nails short. At the moment, they’re crusted white with whatever he’s been working with these last few days and he hasn’t done a very good job of cleaning them.
I don’t mind really. It’s proof of how hard he works. Five days a week plus Saturday morning and it’s all for us. For his family. One day, he likes to say, we’ll have a big house with a garden with enough space for the children to play on the trampoline they so desperately want – not a scrap of grass with a high brick wall and a tiny shed like we have now. He doesn’t realise that I’m not bothered. That it’s my family’s love I care about. Nothing else.
As I stroke his hand with my thumb, I wonder what I would have done if Mitch hadn’t found me that night in the bar. Hadn’t fallen in love with me. This house was Mitch’s before I married him and there’s no way I would have afforded a house of my own. I could barely afford the rent on my grotty bedsit by the station. We’ve done little to the house since then. The white patch on the back of the door, where a dartboard used to hang, has never been painted over and the oversized plasma TV is the same one that was there the first night I stayed. It’s never bothered me.
He beams. ‘That’s great. I’ll take the baby too. That way, you can go for a run. You haven’t been since you found out you were expecting. It will do you the world of good.’
I know he doesn’t mean to sound patronising and force a smile. He’s right. I used to run every evening and I miss it.
‘All right, but make sure you don’t leave him. Take him with you if you go into the classroom.’
Mitch frowns. ‘What do you think I am? An idiot? He’s only three months old, of course I wouldn’t leave him.’
But I did. Just for those few minutes. I left my baby and someone moved him. Holding Noah closer to me, I feel the weight of my guilt. It was my job to keep him safe and I didn’t.
Mitch gets up and takes his plate to the sink and Charlie follows him, hoping to get a treat. Leaving the plate on the draining board, he goes over to the calendar on the wall and looks at it.
‘I’ve been thinking,’ he says casually, rubbing his hand over the top of his stubbled head. ‘Next weekend, we should do something different for a change. Invite some people over for the afternoon.’
I stare at him as though he’s mad, but he carries on.
‘I could fire up the barbeque, buy a cake – we never have cake. Maybe we could invite your family.’
The last words are said breezily. He has no idea of the effect they’ll have on me. My throat tightens and, as if sensing a shift in atmosphere, Noah bats at my breast with his outstretched hand and begins to squirm. There’s so much I want to say, but I can’t.
Instead, I burst into tears.
Kelly sits at the polished table at the far end of the living room and waits. In front of her is her birthday cake with its eight mismatched candles, and three small plates – one for her mum, one for herself and one for her dad when he comes home. There are no holders on the candles. They’ve been pressed haphazardly into the cake and the wax has dripped down, leaving pools of colour on the fudge icing that she’d watched her mum spoon from a plastic tub.
She hates the cake. She hates chocolate. What she’d wanted was one from the supermarket like the one her friend Carly Freeman had, with smooth pink icing and a unicorn on the top. She’d also wanted a party in the village hall with a Disney princess to do the party games, but she hadn’t been allowed to have that either. Parties were for spoilt girls her mum had said.
‘Mummy?’ When she doesn’t answer, she climbs down from the chair and goes to get her comfort blanket, which she’s stuffed down the side of the settee. She knows it’s babyish, but she can’t sleep at night without it.
Kelly stands in the doorway and listens. The house feels different – as if it’s waiting for something. Even Ben, their dog, is lying with his eyes glued to the door that leads into the hall, as though expecting something exciting to happen. Kelly calls to him and clicks her fingers like her dad does if he wants Ben’s attention, but he ignores her, rubbing his nose with one of his paws and letting out a little whimper. It’s past his supper time. She hasn’t seen her mum since the phone call that sent her running from the room. Where is she?
‘Mum?’ she calls again.
The big hand of the clock on the mantelpiece has crept to the top and the little hand is on the eight. Eight o’clock. It will soon be time for bed, but her mum has said that as it’s her birthday, she can play one of the games from the high shelf in the cupboard in the playroom. It’s what she’s been waiting for all day. She could get a game out ready, but that would mean standing on a chair, which will get her into trouble. Anyway, she isn’t allowed to touch these games without asking first and she doesn’t want to make her mum cross. Not after she took the time to ice the cake.
On the table is a box of matches, a used one mixing with the crumbs on her mum’s plate. She’d left the room so quickly, Kelly hadn’t had the chance to tell her what she’d wished for. But she’s heard that telling someone your wish will stop it from coming true, so it’s probably a good thing. This wish is one she wants to come true more than anything.
Thinking she should do something, Kelly goes into the hall, dragging her blanket behind her, and stands at the bottom of the stairs. After a few minutes, she climbs halfway up and sits on the threadbare carpet worrying at her wobbly front tooth. She can hear her mum now through her closed bedroom door. She must still be on the phone.
Should she go and knock?
From their cheap brass frames on the wall of the staircase, the faces of her brothers and sisters look down at her. Her mum doesn’t like her calling them that, telling her that foster children are not the same as real brothers and sisters, but she does it anyway.
Some of the faces Kelly doesn’t know, because they lived in her house when she was too young to remember, but even these children feel like they belong to her. She’d asked her mum once why she never talked about them once their stay had ended, but all she’d said was it wasn’t good to get too attached. Then she’d pressed her lips together and that had been an end to it. Kelly had known better than to ask aga. . .
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