Copycat (19 page)

The knock on the door broke through Sam’s torrent about the weirdos he would lock up if he could… Hilary Wainwright stalked in and had the nerve to start preaching to me about my attitude towards Jennie Gordon.

Sam was so gobsmacked he just sat there, dumbfounded, listening to her well-meaning advice, as she advocated our support, criticized the Close as small-minded, and managed to make us sound responsible for Jennie’s future mental stability. She didn’t have the vaguest clue about the true nature of Jennie’s distress, let alone the nightmare times we had already endured.

After she’d finished, after Sam and I had listened patiently for a good ten minutes to this crap, I said, ‘I think we probably know Jennie better than you do, Hilary.’

‘No,’ she argued, ‘you’re too close. You can’t see the wood for the trees.’

Although Hilary’s motives were pure, I sensed Jennie’s scheming behind this visit.

‘And you can’t seriously intend to undermine poor Jennie any further by not trusting her with your children? You must know as well as I do how much your friendship means to her.’ She gave me an accusing look. ‘And you must also be aware that your help at this vulnerable stage will do Jennie more good than a doctor could. She needs you, Martha. She trusts you.’

I did not want to play an important role in Jennie’s so-called therapy.

She was not needy the way Hilary meant.

I wanted no part in her life.

I resented being relied upon. I wasn’t a rock to be battered at whim.

‘I do wish the poor woman had felt able to come and see you herself,’ said Hilary accusingly.

‘She knew she’d be shown the door,’ said Sam, stung by the injustice of this. ‘Quite frankly, Hilary, we’ve had it up to here with that crazy woman and there really does come a time when you feel you’re doing more harm than good.’

Hilary drew herself tightly together and huffed her way out of the door, disgusted by our Nazi-type attitude towards the psychologically stricken. ‘I told Jennie I’d let her know what you said,’ she threw back over one padded beige shoulder. ‘I can’t let her down, I will have to phone her.’

‘Well, good bloody luck to you, mate,’ snorted Sam, after he’d closed the door.

It was almost dawn when Graham called from Casualty.

The phone was on Sam’s side of the bed.

I was too befuddled by sleep to make sense of what was being said, too busy squinting at the alarm to make out the blasted time.

He turned on the light and sat bolt upright.

‘Right,’ he said, offhandedly.

‘Sam? Who is it?’

‘Jennie’s been taken to hospital. Overdose…’

‘Jesus Christ!’

Our silence was aghast, although neither of us believed for one moment that this had been a serious attempt. And then Sam said, ‘Now listen, Martha, this is where we stand by our convictions and leave well alone, or get back on that sodding bandwagon, led by the nose by a woman whose cunning appears to know no bounds.’

‘We can’t just ignore this, Sam!’

‘You do what you like, sweetheart.’ Sam thumped his pillow angrily, but I was too weary to cope with a row. ‘This time, Martha, if you get involved you’ll be on your own. She’s got you in the palm of her hand, you’re being jerked about like a brainless puppet and,’ he continued with two fierce lines above his nose, ‘what’s worse is that pandering to Jennie is encouraging her mad illusions. One day she really will kill herself and then what? Who’ll be to blame?’

He was right, and, anyway, I couldn’t deal with any more of this. I passed a tired hand over my eyes before lighting the first fag of the day. ‘But what did Graham actually say?’

‘The usual crap. You ought to be told. He didn’t have the gall to ask, but he expected you to rush straight over.’

I dragged comforting smoke down my throat. I spluttered and wheezed like an old bag lady. ‘Perhaps they’ll keep her in. They might make her see a shrink.’

‘Not long ago you were telling Hilary she didn’t have that kind of mental problem.’

I ignored him. I puffed out angrily. ‘I’ll have to have her kids.’

‘So what about work?’

‘Just for today. I’ve got no choice, until I can think of something else.’

And I might as well get up, because I damn well knew there’d be no more sleep while I tussled with the whys and wherefores of leaving Jennie to her own devices.

We were the only ones in the Close not to visit Jennie in the psychiatric unit. Hilary had done a sterling job rallying the troops. And when I mentioned to Graham that I couldn’t carry on minding the kids indefinitely, I felt like the lowest form of life imaginable.

‘Well, no, Martha, of course I didn’t expect you…’ he stuttered, embarrassed.

‘It’s just my job,’ I added, exasperated at having to apologize. ‘But I’ve found a baby-minder for Lawrence, and if you were interested she could take Josh, too. And could Poppy go with Scarlett to the nursery?’

Graham scratched his head and stared at me blankly. ‘I suppose there’s no other option. Until Jennie comes home, at any rate.’

‘How long are they keeping her in?’

‘She is voluntary, you know.
She can come out whenever she chooses.
’ He covered his irritation with a quick apology of a smile. ‘They’re not sure yet.’ He looked so tired, so pale and worried. Just another poor soul in need of comfort and that bloody Jennie ought to be giving it instead of playing her sick mind games. ‘She’s not too happy at the moment.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘She misses you, Martha,’ he said tersely.

I nodded. ‘Yes, I expect she does.’

He tried to laugh but it didn’t work. ‘She seems to believe you’ve been mortally wounded by her aggressive outburst.’

I wasn’t indifferent to Graham’s misery. ‘To be honest, Graham, it might be better for Jennie’s peace of mind if I stayed away for a little while. I’d rather not say any more, right now. But give her my love. Tell her I’m thinking of her.’

‘A message from you – she’ll be so relieved,’ said Graham, perking up, and I felt that I’d given him a bunch of white roses.

So that’s how the rift began.

That’s when the ranks were first drawn up: the Wainwrights and the Fords took up arms in the Gordons’ corner; the Gallaghers, and the Harcourts at number six, were for us. How ridiculous it was that we let it go so far.

It was surprisingly hurtful, too. All those looks of blame I was thrown as I struggled to get the kids into the car. Poppy and Scarlett to nursery, Josh and Lawrence to my new minder two days a week, and I gave up all ideas of doing extra work while Jennie was still in hospital.

If I stopped to ask Hilary how Jennie was getting on, she would say, ‘At the moment she needs all the help she can get. It’s such a shame we missed the first signals, those first cries for help.’

And I felt like lunging out of the car, grabbing Hilary by the arm and shaking her wits to life.
Jennie Gordon is obsessed with me, dammit. This is another of her bloody games to get me where she wants me.
But how could I blame Hilary? She and the others didn’t know Jennie, they hadn’t seen the depths she could sink to in order to manipulate everyone around her.

And Angie Ford, briefed by Hilary, clearly believed I alone had driven poor Jennie to suicide. Why did she never stop to consider why I would do that to a best friend? It wasn’t as though Angie and I were strangers, we’d been quite close before this crisis, so how could she jump to such hurtful conclusions? What other lies had Hilary told her – or Jennie herself, for that matter?

Sam was right. ‘Never mind what those daft sods think, we’re the only ones who know the truth and we can’t come clean because of Graham.’

‘Tina knows,’ I reminded him, ‘and Tina’s probably told Sadie Harcourt and that’s why they’re on our side.’

‘We are the only ones who know just how ruthless that woman is,’ Sam insisted. ‘And Christ Almighty, it does take some believing that a woman would make an attempt on her life just to get revenge on a friend.’

‘Am I a friend?’ That word felt wrong, but what other expression was there to describe my relationship with Jennie? An object of worship? A great earth mother? I felt more like a graven image.

If I was all-powerful in Jennie’s eyes, then why couldn’t I use my influence in a more positive way? Why couldn’t I work something out, so we could end this dangerous passion?

Sam said it was time to talk to Graham and let him in on the truth. ‘Not all of it – we can’t wreck their marriage. But how can anyone really help her when they haven’t a clue what it’s all about? We’re keeping her secret for her. I bet none of her doctors discover the truth.’

‘We might know more when she gets home. Maybe they’ll put her on drugs, which’ll put this fiery light out for good. Dear God, there must be something.’

‘ECT? A lobotomy?’

‘Don’t be so unkind, Sam,’ I said. But I shivered.

Sod Jennie. My job kept me sane; it got me away from the eerie, suspicious world that the Close had become since the forces were split down the middle.

I felt bad enough leaving Poppy with Mrs Tree and her helpers at the Humpty Dumpty Nursery. Her little face was a picture of grief the first time I said, ‘Now you stay here with Scarlett, then I’ll come and get you when you’ve had your afternoon nap and your drink and your biscuit…’

There was a certain defiance about her. ‘I don’t want to be here.
Where’s Mummy
?’

Scarlett’s eager eyes were fixed on the Wendy house and the dratted pots and pans shining so brightly above the cooker. But aware of Poppy’s dismay she held back, waiting, touching her hand, saying the odd encouraging ‘Come on, Poppy, you’ll be all right with me.’

‘Where’s Mummy?’

‘Poppy, you know that Mummy’s in hospital and she’s not very well, but she’ll soon be home…’

Time was passing, I was late already. I looked at Mrs Tree and rolled my eyes for help.

‘Just go, Martha,’ she whispered. ‘Poppy’ll be fine when she gets to know us. It’s just a bit bewildering to start with, isn’t it, Poppy dear?’

Poppy pulled a face and tried to hide under my skirt. If she’d been my own I’d have taken the risk and left her crying, in the belief that once I’d gone she’d be fine. I had checked up on the place, of course; it had a brilliant reputation. I’d been lucky to get two places at such short notice and that was only because twins had suddenly moved.

I left the miserable, white-faced child in the quiet of the book corner. ‘Look, Poppy,’ I said, pointing out the familiar books she had at home. I patted one of the jungle cushions. ‘Now, why don’t you and Scarlett cuddle down here together and look at the pictures until you feel like joining in with the others?’

Poppy, pale and shrinking fast, all miserable and dimpled, sobbed
, ‘I want to come home with you.’

I was careful not to sound impatient. ‘Well, Poppy, I’m sorry but you can’t. I have to go to work.’

Jesus! Where was her spirit of independence? And immediately I felt guilty for such uncharitable thoughts. She was just a frightened baby and I had no right to feel so cross.

‘I don’t like it here. I want Mummy.’

I had driven the mother suicidal, and now here I was being cruel to the daughter. Bloody hell, the ultimate betrayal.

She had her mother’s pleading eyes. ‘And I don’t feel very well, Martha.’

How long could I hold out? Thank God for the sensible Mrs Tree. Sweetness and light flowed from her. ‘You come with me now, Poppy dear, and you too, Scarlett, because I think you’re going to like the surprise I’ve got for you in the kitchen.’

She sounded like a paedophile, but that no longer concerned me. Faint with relief, I was off. She led the children away and I made my cunning exit. I imagined the pain in Jennie’s eyes if she’d seen what I had just done… the blame, the guilt, the accusations that I was making them grow up ‘hard’, the predictions for future disaster. Jennie trusted me to look after Poppy as kindly as she would herself –
but if she was so bloody concerned, she shouldn’t have done what she did…

All day long I worried. I couldn’t concentrate on a thing, imagining Poppy’s pitiful sobs – alone, bullied, left out. I surrounded the child with the mantle of her mother’s worst defects, all brought on by her mother’s behaviour. I told myself what a fool I was: Scarlett would never allow her best friend to be treated that way, and she was a forceful, capable child. She’d soon go and alert Mrs Tree if anything bad was happening.

God bless Scarlett.

Scarlett, strong and confident, marched to the door to meet me, animated by new experiences and friends. She flapped a floppy wet painting at me. ‘Look, Mummy, you’ve got stilts on.’

But where was Poppy?
I hurried inside to find her still gripping Mrs Tree’s hand. ‘Oh dear,’ I blurted, appalled to find my worst fears justified.

‘Don’t worry, Martha, Poppy’s been fine. This is all for – your benefit.’ Mrs Tree looked down understandingly and gave Poppy a loving smile. ‘Isn’t it, Poppy, my love?’ And then she whispered an aside. ‘They can be terribly knowing, my dear, even at this tender age.’

Hah. Like mother, like daughter. But I smiled at the gentle Mrs Tree as I held out my hand and took Poppy off her. I coaxed her to tell me about her day. ‘I don’t like it there,’ she said in the car, interrupting Scarlett’s babblings.
‘And I’m not going again.’

I didn’t answer. Let her sleep on it. There are ways and means of manipulating kids to do as you want, and that’s what Jennie had been doing to me from the first day I met her. But I wasn’t a kid. I was the stronger one, a mature grown-up – anyone could see that. But was that really the case?

In nature, some weaker animals adapt themselves to live off the strong. They learn to do this over the ages, through discord and dilemma, and finally they get carried along: the krill that surrounds the whales, the fishes that clean the mouths of sharks, and the birds that peck the ticks off bison.

I was tired. I was worried. I thought a great deal about Jennie, lonely and unhappy in her hospital bed, but I almost envied her weakened state that was turning her into a tyrant.

If I wasn’t careful, she would devour me.