The Fallout

We both laugh again. I remember how we’d both spent hours working out how to use the damn thing when we’d first brought Jack home. I see Gav shaking his head, as though ridding himself of the darker memories that followed. I wonder when it got so bad between us. We’d managed, in spite of everything. But then he’d snapped after Thea was born, around the time she reached the three-week mark. All those memories of what happened with Jack had surfaced again. I tell myself to focus on the now. I go through the things I’d been taught when Jack was tiny. Focus on things you can see, touch, smell and hear. I watch the rise and fall of my son’s small chest, thankful that Gav’s earlier rage has dissipated. This morning, I had been braced for his harsh remarks and his sharp temper but, so far, he’s managed to contain it and I’ve managed to keep the mood buoyant. Somehow. It’s exhausting, but my focus now is on keeping things calm for Jack. My son is here. He’s alive.

When both bottles are half-full of milk, I hear my phone vibrate.

‘Shit.’ I shuffle my hip towards Gav. ‘Sorry about this. Can you just …’

He reaches over and slides out the phone from my pocket. I notice how careful he is not to touch me – whether he can’t bear to, or he doesn’t want to give me the wrong impression, I don’t know.

‘God, this old thing. Never could work your bloody keypad.’ He presses in my code – Jack and Thea’s birthdays – and I watch his eyes flicker over the screen.

‘Well, there are about a million messages from school parents from about two hours ago. And there’s one here from …’ he squints and brings the handset close up to his eyes. ‘Unknown number?’

‘Weird. What’s it say?’ This feels so like how we used to be. Comfortable and free. My heart aches again. ‘Go on, read it then.’ I almost drop the bottles of milk as I lean over, willing him to hurry.

‘Wow. This is something else.’

‘What?’ I wonder what on earth he’s talking about.

‘But there’s no name. It’s just a random number.’

‘Read it out then. Come on.’

‘It says: Dear Liza. I’m so sorry about Jack. I’ve paid for a maternity nurse to come and watch Thea for the next two days and nights, whilst you get adjusted. She’s called Mary. We had her after both Felix and Wolf were born and she’s a saint. I had some problems after Wolf and she still managed beautifully. Here’s her number. She’ll start today. Please text her your address.’

For a minute, I have absolutely no idea who has texted. Who would be so generous and do something so extraordinarily kind? But then the names Felix and Wolf ring a bell. Felix. Wolf. I had heard that only yesterday. Who could forget the name Wolf? And bam, out of nowhere, I know. It’s her.

No explanation of how she’d found out what happened, nothing to indicate how she’d got my number. It’s so like her, I think, from what I know of her. How she was at NCT: so confident in her choices. I think of those grey eyes. The way they’d scanned the drinks menu in the café. Her long limbs, supple and loose. The strong line of her nose and pale skin. And then I think about when I’d seen her after Jack had been born, in the street – she’d been kind to me then, offered a hand of friendship as I’d stood in the street, shivering, unaware of who I was – but I’d just pushed it to the back of my mind. I think about Sarah – how her body had gone rigid the minute she saw Ella Bradby in the corner of the room yesterday. The slackness of her mouth. And then afterwards, when they had both walked over together into the soft-play, after checking on Jack. The way Sarah’s eyes had darted around the room. Look at me. Look at who I’m with. And then, the conspiratorial apologetic look she had given me, which I had studiously chosen to ignore.

I’d felt suspicious then, but maybe I had just been jealous? Maybe I had thought badly of Ella all this time and actually the problem was with me and the association of when I had last seen her – when everything started to fall apart.

‘Ella,’ I say to Gav. ‘Oh my God. It’s Ella. Remember her? NCT?’

In fact, I know he does. No one could forget her.

‘I do,’ he replies. ‘I totally do. She went AWOL, yeah?’

‘Yes. No one knew why. But well, I bumped into her yesterday. Just before … Anyway. Her kid is at school with Jack but not in the same class. And neither me nor Sarah have ever laid eyes on her at the school gates. Guess she’s back and nicer than we thought.’

‘Oh. I’m surprised you didn’t mention it. I know Sarah was obsessed with her. Anyway – it appears that yes, she is back,’ says Gav. He looks over at Jack and nods his head. ‘And two days’ maternity nurse? Wow. I think she might just be our fairy godmother. It will be good to have an extra set of eyes on everything.’

I guess, despite everything that’s happened in the last two days, despite the fact my son is lying in a hospital bed next to me, despite me wanting to shake Gav to come to his senses, we’ve agreed on one thing, at last.

West London Gazette editorial notes, October 2019

J Roper interview transcript: Faye Hollis, witness, The Vale Club

Are you sure this is anonymous? I mean, my job could be on the line. I’ve been with my family for three years now: two little girls. I’m a live-out. But I still know them back to front because I babysit twice a week and I’ve been on holiday with them. They employed me fresh out of Norland College for Nannies. They expect full loyalty – so, they must never, ever find out I’ve been speaking to you. It’s this code of conduct thing. They know we all gossip about them behind their backs. For us it’s work, you see?

‘Oh, you must hate us,’ they say. ‘And talk about how awful we are to all your other nanny friends. I hope you don’t think our children are too bratty.’ But they don’t mean it. Really, they’re just looking for reassurance that we haven’t been discussing their children – or their parenting habits. But of course, we have.

So I was there. When it happened. I didn’t see the actual fall. For me it was just a normal day. Pretty intense because it’s half-term but a group of us had met that morning. It was the same as it normally is, just on hyper-mode; all the parents competing all the time. Perfect little children, perfectly dressed up. And if one of their children starts to have a meltdown, they speak extra loudly – just so everyone knows they’re disciplining their child. ‘Maximilian, do we do that at home? No we don’t.’ (And let me tell you, Maximilian definitely does do that at home.) Or they just give in to save face – ‘Here, Maximilian of course you can have ten chocolate bars,’ whilst hissing at him on the sly that he’s going to have his favourite toy taken away later on.

But anyway – it was all a bit busy. We were going about our business, when we heard this terrible scream. Everyone froze for a minute. Then I saw this one woman – she had brown hair and was in leggings – rush outside. I thought she looked like she was going to faint. It must have been her son because when we looked outside she was sobbing over him. She was at the table where you can see outside into the playground, so I suppose she must have been watching but, you know – if it had been one of us nannies in charge, it would have been a totally different ballgame. For a start, we would never have been sitting there, we would have been outside. It’s an unspoken rule at the club, that that table is reserved only for mums and dads.

Because, you know – there’s a list of rules us nannies have to stick to. No phone during working hours. Engaging with the kids at all times. Always be next to them. Healthy food. Consistency with discipline. All the things we’d do anyway. But – it’s like, we’re held to a totally different set of standards to the parents.

I spend all day with my two charges – seven a.m. to seven p.m., doing exactly what their mum and dad ask me to do – and I work hard to do it. But then the parents get back from work and undo everything I’ve achieved that day. They sit there on their phones as soon as they get back from their jobs. Slumped on the sofa and then they wonder why their kids are jumping all over them, demanding their attention. And then – the cheek of it, I’ve spent hours preparing freshly pressed juices, fresh salmon and the likes – the parents let them eat what they like. ‘Yes of course you can have a bowl of Coco Pops.’

I tell Mum and Dad, ‘They’ve already had a very healthy dinner,’ and you were the ones that implemented that bloody rule anyway, I want to shout, but they look at me and then they look directly at their child, and say, ‘It’s OK. Mummy said you could.’ It drives all of us nannies wild.

I’m not saying anything shady went on, just that – well – if it had been us nannies on patrol, then I doubt this would ever have happened. And if it did? You’d find us on the front page of the paper, wouldn’t you? I said as much to my boss and she didn’t seem very happy with me. Mumbled something about mums being exhausted all the time and ‘mental load’ – whatever that is. Does she not think I’m exhausted, taking care of her kids?

As I said – it’s one set of rules for them, and one set of rules for us.

But please, I’ll lose my job if anyone finds out I’ve been talking. I’m sorry. I hope you don’t think I’m too awful. It’s just that this is exactly the way it is. And our rule would have been very clear. We would have been outside, all that time. Rain or shine. We would have been watching that poor little boy, and so really – he never would have fallen in the first place.

SARAH (#ulink_1bd683d1-d490-5ebb-b72d-7279f88bc275)

She wants, desperately, to go to the soft-play at The Vale Club. She’s trying to plan the day as best she can so that she’s busy but stress-free. After Tom had left for work, she’d managed to get Thea asleep, whilst Casper had been absorbed in endless rounds of that ghastly PAW Patrol. (She’d tried over and over to get the theme song out of her head but it’s there, like a sore tooth.)

She’d signed Casper up for a mini football class, giving herself at least an hour to concentrate on Thea, without Casper mooning all over her pram. And Sarah needs time with her own thoughts. Predominantly, in a moment of self-flagellation, to replay in her mind the events of yesterday.

She has enough sense to know that it isn’t going to help matters. She had thought, at six o’clock this morning, that it might go some way in soothing her twitching limbs, her thumping heart; but every time she revisited the look on Liza’s face as she realised her small boy was on the floor, Sarah started to feel as though she might pop. Ha! Perhaps that wouldn’t be such a bad thing. Perhaps then all her innards would slide out and she’d shrink to her ever-elusive target size ten – since Rosie, she’s managed to totally change shape. As she drinks her lukewarm tap water, she imagines herself back at the club. She should go now. Strike whilst the iron is hot. Get her fear over and done with, but she cannot. When she thinks about stepping foot into the place, her hands start to shake.

The idea of the investigation lingers on the periphery of her thoughts. She hasn’t been able to bring herself to look on The Vale Club Facebook group, to see what everyone is saying. People must be going mad. The group is active enough at the best of times – constant grumblings about the food taking too long, the towels being too scratchy, the lockers not being big enough. She can’t imagine what people would be saying about this.

She also can’t bring herself to tell Casper he’s not allowed outside. That she never, ever wants to see that wooden post again. Even if they removed it, the empty space would be a stark reminder of what had happened.

‘Casper?’ She walks into the living room to find him slumped on the sofa like a teenager. ‘Five minutes. OK?’

As the words fall out of her mouth, she knows full well she doesn’t mean them. Five minutes, in television time, would actually translate into an hour or more. Especially on days like today.

‘Where we going?’ he asks, eyes locked onto the screen.

‘I don’t know. Where would you like to go?’ She tries to leave the decision up to him, but he doesn’t answer, just plucks the material on his jeans. She doesn’t bother pushing it and leaves the room to check on Thea. She’s in her buggy, fast asleep. She remembers this time five years ago when Casper used to have his morning nap, manically using the precious moments to swipe crumbs off the counters, do a quick floor-sweep and hastily shove a piece of half-burnt toast in her mouth. She takes a picture of Thea’s heart-shaped face with her spiky black hair and sends it to Liza. She looks so peaceful. So like Jack had when he was that age. She wonders with a shrinking heart if Rosie would have looked like her brother.

All happy here, don’t hurry. Thinking of you. Her friend is offline. She scrolls down to Ella’s WhatsApp. Online. Her heart thuds. Should she? It’s a better option than going to The Vale Club. Yes. Why not? After all, they are tied now. Bound together in complicity.

Ella. Just wanted to check in. Wondered what you were doing today? Whether you wanted to meet up. Her hand hovers over the keyboard. Should she add something extra? Something about yesterday? No. Don’t be foolish, she thinks. She stands and stares at her phone, waiting for the message to be read. Two blue ticks appear on the screen.

‘Mummy,’ shouts Casper. ‘Mummy change the channel.’

‘Wait, darling,’ she shouts, shaking her handset in the hope it might elicit some sort of response from Ms Bradby. Her teeth clamp together. Nothing. But then she has an idea.

Or – just thinking. Don’t suppose you’d like to come with me to do a shop for Liza? It isn’t that she wants to deliberately trap Ella into replying. But she had planned to buy stuff for when Liza and Jack got home.

Can’t today,comes the reply.Got plans, but I’ve sorted something for Liza. Perhaps we could meet up tomorrow. Sorted something for Liza? What on earth does she mean by that? And there she is, dangling herself so self-importantly in front of her. Tomorrow indeed. Sarah’s had enough, the weight of disappointment nearly crushing her bones. She resolves to put this all to the back of her mind. And with that, she claps her hands together and gets to work.

Firstly, she changes into her best jeans. The ones that she has to squeeze closed but that look good with the right jumper. She’s going to get Ella out of her mind. Go shopping for Liza. Get Tom to agree to let them stay and, in the meantime, she’ll think about the Christmas fair. She’ll boss it with both Casper and Thea. There’ll be no screaming tantrums in the supermarket. She’ll be a fully present and loving mum towards her son. No raised voices. Empathy. Compassion. Kindness.