Her Sister's Child Page 14

  ‘Okay, Marrie,’ he says with a shrug. ‘If it means that much to you, then let’s do it. If I’m firing blanks, I guess it’s my only option at the end of the day, whatever happens.’

  Marian decides against exploring the meaning of these last two words, instead beckoning Angela in from the garden and ushering her through to the sitting room.

  Sensing Tom’s reluctance, Angela says cheerily, ‘Sorry to spring this on you, but really it won’t take long at all. It’s really just a few questions, then I’ll have all I need and be out of your hair.’ She brandishes a clipboard with an official-looking form on it.

  ‘Might as well get the red tape out of the way, I suppose.’ Tom forces a smile and arranges himself stiffly upright on the sofa opposite Angela.

  A series of questions follows, aimed at both of them, and all fairly predictable. Marian has heard them all many times before in the course of her career. They’re asked about significant medical history, religious beliefs, support from wider family and employers, any specific concerns they have about their role as parents. This last question seems to faze Tom, who shrugs and turns to Marian. She produces her pre-prepared answer about not having sufficient energy as an older mother.

  ‘And what age of child would you like, ideally?’ asks Angela.

  ‘A baby!’ Marian exhales immediately, her eyes wide with longing. ‘Wouldn’t we, Tom?’

  He nods woodenly.

  ‘Although, of course we are aware there are fewer of them to adopt,’ Marian chimes in, reaching across to squeeze his hand. Her fingers are clammy with sweat and he recoils slightly.

  ‘Well, I think that’s everything,’ says Angela, gathering her things and heading for the front door with a quick, meaningful glance at Marian.

  After she has gone, Tom turns to Marian, frowning. ‘Is that normal – for someone you work with to do an adoption interview?”

  ‘As an employee of Haringey Social Services, I get fast-tracked,’ Marian says simply as she clears the glasses. ‘It’s a sort of professional courtesy.’

  Tom follows her into the kitchen and takes the tray from her, placing it on the table and turning her round so that she’s facing him.

  ‘Look. Marrie…’ He uses her pet name for the second time that evening, even though it’s a rarity these days. She stares back at him in alarm, her lip quivering.

  ‘I’m still not sure that adopting is the right thing for us at this point in time. Or at all, really.’

  ‘Why not? If you won’t use donor sperm, then it’s our only chance for a family.’

  ‘Because…’

  Because you’ve been seeing someone behind my back for months and you want to be with her.

  Marian feels the tears return. She clutches at the sleeves of his shirt. ‘Please don’t say that, Tom,’ she says, in a low voice that comes out as a croak. ‘At least give the idea a chance. Otherwise you’re taking away my chance of becoming a mother.’

  ‘Marian, this isn’t your only chance. You can have a child with someone else, a biological child. Just not with me.’

  Her crying intensifies, and she staggers, as though her legs are giving way beneath her.

  Tom grabs her under her elbow and helps her to a kitchen chair, handing her a glass of lemonade from the tray. ‘Why don’t I run you a nice hot bath?’ he asks, patting her ineffectually to try and stop her hysterical sobbing. ‘Then I’ll make us something to eat.’

  He goes upstairs to the bathroom and Marian hears taps start to run.

  ‘Bath’ll be two minutes!’ Tom shouts down the stairs.

  The loud gushing of the water almost disguises the sound, but not quite. Standing at the foot of the stairs, Marian can hear her husband talking in low, urgent tones. He’s on the phone. He’s talking to her.

  26

  Paula

  The summer term at Turnbull Comprehensive has finally ended, and for quite a few of Paula’s contemporaries, school is over forever.

  But not for Paula. In an attempt to please her parents rather than through any academic aspirations of her own, she is returning in September to start her A levels. Or she will be if her GCSEs are good enough.

  ‘A bunch of us are going down to Regent’s Canal,’ Paula’s friend Carly tells her. Carly is one of those who will definitely not be returning to school. She already has spray paint from the art department all over her school shirt and skirt, from creating wild technicolour graffiti.

  ‘Who’s going?’ asks Paula, though she has guessed the answer.

  ‘Jason Shepherd… Adil.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Go on, Paul!’ Carly says, plucking at Paula’s sleeve. ‘It’ll be fun. Everyone always goes.’

  The school tradition is for the fifth years to sneak out as much as possible in the way of textbooks and classroom equipment on their last day, then dump it all in the Regent’s Canal while getting drunk on a cocktail called ‘Headfuck’, made of White Lightning and blue WKD.

  ‘No, you’re all right,’ Paula says, extricating herself. ‘There’s somewhere I need to be.’

  The truth is, she’s had a weird, nagging feeling of dread all day. Her mind automatically connects that feeling with her sister. She saw Lizzie a few days ago and she seemed fine; managing to stay sober at least some of the time. But some instinct tells her she needs to go back and check on her.

  She doesn’t even go back home to change first, but gets straight onto a bus to Tottenham.

  There’s no answer when she first knocks on the door, so she lets herself in. Lizzie gave her a spare key long ago, which she keeps on the chain around her neck with her own house keys.

  ‘Hello?’ she calls into the gloomy flat. It’s airless and suffocatingly warm. The cat shoots between her legs, desperate to get outside.

  From nowhere, the tall figure of Macca appears, blocking her path.

  ‘Where’s Lizzie?’ Paula demands.

  ‘In the bedroom. She just needs a bit of a nap.’

  Paula cranes her neck past Macca. Through the half-open bedroom door, she can just see Lizzie. Dressed only in a T-shirt, she’s gripping the bed frame and rocking rhythmically to and fro. Her belly looks alarmingly large from this angle, as though it contains a Spacehopper.

  ‘You okay, Lizzie?’ Paula asks.

  ‘Fine,’ she says, through gritted teeth. ‘Just a few cramps. They happen all the time.’

  ‘D’you want me to fetch someone?’

  ‘No!’ Lizzie says, then forces a smile. ‘It’s nothing, honest.’

  ‘See? You heard her: she doesn’t need anyone. She just needs a rest. Come on now, best we leave her to it.’

  Macca has his battered, grimy rucksack in his hand, and is shoving his roll-ups and lighter in his jeans pocket, indicating that he’s heading out. He holds the front door of the flat open, waiting for Paula to leave.

  ‘I’ll pop back later, Lizzie,’ she shouts down the corridor, before reluctantly following Macca to the stairs. He bounds ahead of her and out to the street, climbing into the back of a waiting car, its engine running. The three other men in it look as though they’re on a mission, and Paula knows instinctively that it’s not a trip to the supermarket or the park, but something altogether darker.

  She glances up at Lizzie’s window, then turns and heads for the bus stop. You may as well join Carly and the others at Regent’s Canal, she tells herself. If last year’s party was anything to go by, it should be good fun.

  27

  Marian

  Marian is shocked when she receives the call. Shocked but inwardly thrilled. It’s Lizzie Armitage calling from the communal phone box in her building, to tell her that her waters have just broken.

  ‘Are you alone?’ is the first thing Marian asks. ‘Is your boyfriend there?’

  ‘He went out.’

  ‘Good. Don’t let anyone else in, okay? I’m getting a cab over now. I’ll be about fifteen minutes.’

  By the time she arrives, Lizzie is clearly well into her labour. Sh
e’s crouched on her hands and knees in the bedroom, bellowing like a cow. Marian takes some plastic sheeting from her bag and spreads it on the mattress, with a layer of cotton wadding on top. Then she heaves Lizzie onto the bed and props her against the headboard. Her face is bright red, and she’s sweating.

  ‘Have you been drinking?’ she asks.

  ‘No, but I need some vodka,’ Lizzie wails at the top of her voice. She leans over to the messy nightstand beside the bed and rummages amongst the overflowing ashtray and empty lager cans. ‘I can’t handle this!’

  ‘Not now,’ Marian says, calmly. ‘It’s bad for the baby.’

  She glances up at Lizzie’s anguished face, then checks between her legs again. A dark shape is already bulging there, becoming gradually more visible. Taking a deep breath, Marian positions a clean towel on the bed and reaches forward to touch the slimy crown of the baby’s head.

  When she and Tom were trying to conceive she read every pregnancy book going, and watched endless childbirth videos. As a result, she’s more than confident about the stages of labour and delivery.

  ‘I need you to give a strong push,’ she tells Lizzie, echoing words she’s heard the midwives say on screen. ‘Push down as though you need the toilet.’

  Lizzie gasps, and with no warning the baby slithers out of her. Marian wraps it and rubs its body briskly, until the crumpled face turns pink and emits a cry. Only then does she gingerly open the towel and take a look. The baby is small – smaller than Lizzie’s massive stomach would have suggested – but seems healthy.

  ‘You were right, it’s a little girl,’ she says, quietly, even though Lizzie does not appear to be listening. She wraps the baby tightly again and lays her on the bed. Marian knows that there’ll be the afterbirth to deal with now, and Lizzie is already bearing down again, whimpering with pain, pleading for her bottle of vodka.

  A few seconds later, another dark shape emerges, along with a little gush of blood. Marian feels a quiver of panic, concerned that the placenta has somehow ruptured, but realises with a jolt of shock that it’s not the afterbirth.

  It’s a second baby’s head.

  ‘Oh my good God,’ Marian whispers, grabbing one of the stained towels that she has spread out. ‘It’s twins.’

  Her mind races. Two babies, just as she and Tom had imagined when her embryos were implanted. It’s a sign: this was meant to be.

  The second baby is smaller, and takes longer to cry. ‘You’ve got a brother,’ Marian observes to the first baby, who is pursing her lips and looking up at her with an unfocussed gaze. She examines the baby boy, checks that he is breathing adequately. His size makes her nervous and she feels a rush of anger towards Lizzie, stunting her babies’ growth by drinking through pregnancy. Not even being aware that she was carrying two babies.

  She fetches soapy water and cleans Lizzie as best she can, helps her into a clean nightshirt and underwear with a sanitary pad, then makes her tea with plenty of sugar. Changing the water in the bowl, she takes swabs of cotton wool and carefully cleans the two tiny bodies, then dresses them in the newborn nappies and clothes that Paula Armitage bought. The 0–3 month sleepsuits are a little too big, and the feet hang empty. But at least the babies being small means that they both fit into the Moses basket together.

  She tops and tails them, then tucks a blanket around them. The boy baby is crying. A faint plaintive squawk. They need feeding, but Marian is not willing to risk Lizzie’s breast milk, which could be laced with the alcohol still in her system. She’ll have to go to the shops, but she can’t exactly take the babies with her. On the other hand, leaving them with their mother while they’re so vulnerable is far from ideal. Anyone might come to the flat while she’s gone; Paula, or even the useless Macca.

  ‘I’m going out to get some formula,’ she tells Lizzie, who is half asleep herself, the mug of tea cooling beside her. ‘I’ll be as quick as I can.’

  ‘Phone Paula,’ Lizzie mumbles. ‘She came by earlier. Tell her to come back.’

  ‘I will,’ says Marian, who has absolutely no intention of doing so. She runs all the way to the local shops, the first time she’s done so for years. It’s unfamiliar and uncomfortable and makes her sweat, but she’s terrified of leaving the babies for longer than she has to. She buys formula milk, bottles and teats, hurrying back again with a growing sense of unease. Sure enough, as she pushes the flat door open, she hears both babies crying.

  ‘Lizzie?’ Marian calls, although as soon as she reaches the bedroom door, she knows there will be no answer. Lizzie is passed out on the pillows, the empty quart of vodka beside her on the bed.

  Marian sits down slowly next to her, trying to order her thoughts. First she must make up some formula, and feed the babies. Once they’re settled, she needs to clear away the mess and paraphernalia of delivery completely, so no one will be alerted to the fact that Lizzie has just given birth.

  She bought plastic refuse sacks in the corner shop and, after feeding the babies and putting them down to sleep, she sets about clearing away the bloodstained pads and sheets and double-bagging the placentas. All the waste is taken downstairs and dumped in the communal dumpsters.

  The babies are still asleep and Lizzie is sleeping heavily, so Marian has some time to think. The issue of transport needs to be resolved. She has far too much to carry to use the bus. She took a taxi straight here when Paula phoned her, but taking two newborn babies in a taxi would draw far too much attention. She’ll need the car, which she will have to fetch from home, and once again she’ll have to be as quick as she can to avoid the possibility of someone arriving at the flat while she’s gone.

  Grabbing her handbag and the makeshift delivery kit she brought with her, she runs out onto the street and hails another cab.

  As it turns into her street, she notices with relief that Tom’s car is not outside. She doesn’t want him to know: not yet. It’s going to be the most wonderful surprise.

  ‘Everything okay, love?’ asks the cabbie.

  ‘Fine,’ says Marian, forcing a smile as she hands him a ten-pound note. ‘Everything’s perfect.’

  When Marian arrives back at the Tottenham flat with her car, Lizzie is still deeply asleep, but the babies are stirring, starting to whimper. Marian changes their nappies, mixes more formula and feeds them. The girl sucks greedily, but the boy fusses and squirms, spitting out the teat repeatedly. She sits for a while watching them sleep as the sky outside turns dark, waiting for Lizzie to wake up. As soon as she does, Marian will tell her that unfortunately she has no choice, and that the babies are being taking into care. But Lizzie doesn’t wake. In fact, her breathing is so faint that Marian has to check her pulse a couple of times.

  She can’t leave the babies here: that would not be an option whatever the circumstances. Lizzie is in no fit state to look after them and, whatever happened, would never be able to keep them. It’s better, surely, that they’re with someone Lizzie already knows and trusts? And no one could dispute that she, Marian, is better placed to care for them.

  She knows, of course, that what she should really do is remove them now and take them straight to the local hospital, report the birth. But isn’t this the perfect solution? A ready-made family for the Glynns, no questions asked. A secure and comfortable home for the babies that will be better than any foster care social services could provide. One that will keep the twins together.

  The ugly thought that Tom won’t want them because he no longer wants her, bobs up in her brain like a piece of cork she’s tried to force underwater. She ignores it, moving around the flat in a brisk, organised fashion. She drops the dirty nappies down to the communal bin, then loads the Moses basket containing both babies, all of Paula’s baby purchases and the milk and bottles into the back of her car. She goes back upstairs one more time to make sure that there is no remaining evidence of the babies’ existence, then drives slowly and carefully back to Muswell Hill.

  It’s late enough for there to be no sign of activity on her street
. Marian gets out of the car and checks that none of her neighbours are around before lifting the Moses basket out of the car. Four tiny sets of fingers wave up at her and the discontented whimpers start up.

  ‘Shhhhh,’ she whispers to them. ‘No need to cry now. We’re home. Home to see your daddy.’

  28

  Paula

  Someone has brought a ghetto-blaster to the banks of the Regent’s Canal, and it’s playing Lil’ Kim loudly and with too much bass. A handful of soggy exercise books floats on the scummy water, their pages catching against an upturned supermarket trolley. Paula sits and watches as a two-litre bottle of cider is spiked with 95% proof vodka from the Polish shop.

  This lethal cocktail is passed around and gulped down amid giggling from the girls and raucous chants of encouragement from the boys. Carly is drunk, singing in a slurring voice and flashing her knickers, before stumbling and falling over on the sun-scorched grass verge. Debbie Ashcroft is already vomiting.

  ‘Here, Paul.’

  Adil passes the bottle to Paula but she shakes her head, standing up and smoothing down her school skirt. ‘No, I need to get going.’

  ‘Pau-ulll!’ Carly slurs, reaching to grab her hand, but missing.

  Paula ignores her and stomps down the tow path. She can’t quite get the sight of Lizzie out of her head, or the sound of her. The catch in her throat as she gasped with pain.

  She has to wait ages for a bus, and by the time she reaches the flat in Tottenham it’s almost dark. She rings the bell a couple of times, but the lights are off and there is no reply.

  ‘Hello? Lizzie?’

  The silence is ominous. She looks around the door of the lounge, but there is no one there. The cat is curled up on the grimy sofa and raises its head to look at her, its eyes glowing like tiny headlamps.

  In the bedroom, she can just make out the shape of her sister, curled up under the duvet. Paula expects switching on the light to wake her, but it doesn’t. She remains deeply asleep.