Motherlove (16 page)

‘Ambulance.' The manager was hovering, hapless. ‘Oh God, yes. Of course, I'll phone.'

‘Here you are.' An assistant brought a chair. ‘You sit down, dear. Someone will be along soon.'

‘Best get the weight off your feet, eh?' It was the security guard, who told her he had a daughter who had just given birth. Funny what this business did to people, however threatening they had been before.

Everyone except Gary. He'd warned her to keep her head down.

There was nothing she could do about that now. They'd sent for an ambulance, and she was glad, because the pain wasn't easy like dogs and cats, whatever Gary said. It was real and Lindy was frightened. Terrified. This was all wrong and upside down and Gary would be mad, but what could she do?

Ambulance men appeared at the door of the shop, and a dozen eager shoppers directed them to Lindy.

‘All right, love? Nothing to worry about. We'll have you in hospital in no time.'

The manager was on the phone, talking to head office, taking orders. A woman shoplifting was one thing. A woman giving birth was another. The Baby Garden chain had fourteen shops and the owners wanted their share of the Mothercare market. Right handling, right publicity, who knew how this could work out? The manager put the phone down, still nodding agreement, and raised a hand to the ambulance men, telling them she was going to attend to them as soon as she'd spoken with her assistants.

‘So what's your name then?' asked one of the ambulance men, squatting down by Lindy.

‘Lindy. Lindy Crowe.'

‘All right then, Lindy. So how often are the pains coming?'

She looked at him helplessly. How often?

‘I think she's got a while to go yet,' confided one of the spectators, who saw herself as an expert. ‘But you can never tell, can you.'

‘Well, we'll get you into hospital and the docs can have a good look at you, eh?'

How could she argue with them? She couldn't run away. As she was escorted out, the manager and her assistants stood at the door, like the three kings at the manger. Offering carrier bags bulging with Pampers, bonnets, bootees and babygros.

‘Got to give Baby something to be getting on with,' said the manager, trying a tentative smile. ‘Baby Garden believes that every child deserves a decent start in life.'

Lindy clutched the bags. She felt the softness of wool and towelling. She didn't know how to respond. She'd come to steal, hadn't she? And they had given her all this. So she'd got away with it. Was that how Gary would see it?

She didn't want to think about Gary. This was stuff for her baby, just like a proper mum would have. And she was going into hospital, just like mums did.

Lyford and Stapledon General. She had been here once before. One of Gary's friends had been in with an overdose last year, and she'd come to see him, because Gary wanted to make sure Pete wasn't saying nothing about where he'd got the stuff. She hadn't liked it then, too official, too full of people in uniform. Too many horrible smells, too much sickness and death. Pete was out of his head and she'd never liked him anyway.

It was different now. People were fussing round her, being nice to her. Nice but firm. When she'd been in care, firm sent her running. But now it was a relief. Nothing she could do, whatever Gary wanted.

‘Now then, dear, let's have your details,' said the nurse who seemed to have taken charge of her. ‘What's your name?'

‘Lindy Crowe.'

‘Lindy. Is that Linda?' As she wrote, the nurse checked Linda's hands, her fingers – no ring.

‘Rosalind.'

‘Oh what a pretty name. And your address.'

They wanted everything, her date of birth, her place of birth, her doctor. Wouldn't believe she didn't have one. Hadn't she had any medical check-ups while she was pregnant? No clinic? Nothing at all since she'd been at the home down in Barking? Who were her parents? Long gone. Mum dead, dad in gaol. Next of kin? Brother Jimmy, she supposed, but she hadn't seen him for eight years. Probably banged up too by now. She was too scared to name Gary; he wouldn't like it. But she'd given her address in Nelson Road so maybe they'd find him anyway. She should have said 28. That way, if they did track her down, she could say it was a mistake. 28 instead 128. Too late now. She wasn't thinking straight because of the pain.

And then there was so much pain she didn't want to answer any more questions, and she didn't want to be here, with all these strangers, people in white coats, people with forms to fill in. No one was telling her that she shouldn't be here, and that was scary. But the pain was scary too and she just wanted it to end.

‘Breathe,' the nurse said, panting at her. ‘Like this. Don't push.'

And then, ‘Push. That's right, push. Good girl, keep pushing.' She thought she was being ripped open, ripped in two, and soon she would be dead and she didn't care.

But then it all drained away, all the pain and the pressure drifting off in a blur. She was floating, and there was something on her face. Floating.

A hand on her brow, fingers on her wrist. ‘She's all right now, aren't you, Mrs Crowe.'

Was she? The huge pain had gone. No, not all right. Something was missing. She was too groggy to think, but something was missing. Something vital taken away.

Then she heard it, the faint wail, and her eyes began to focus again. She fixed on the little wrapped bundle they were holding out to her. The baby. Her baby. Rosalind Crowe's baby, her family, her everything. She reached out.

‘A little girl. A teensy bit underweight, but not too bad, all things considered. See? You've done all right. Now would you like to feed her?'

They wanted to help. They wanted her to breastfeed. She wasn't sure about that. Didn't seem natural. She'd fed babies before. Angie's baby, with a bottle. This wasn't right, this tit stuff. Not with all of them watching.

‘Maybe you'd feel better with a bottle? Just for now.'

Then she was all right, even if one of the nurses looked at her like she was a lump of shit. This was what she wanted, to be here, all alone with her baby, feeding her, cradling her. Her little girl.

‘Have you got a name for her?'

Lindy looked into the hungry blue eyes. No reason. It just came to her. ‘Kelly,' she said.

CHAPTER 5

i

Kelly

‘Joe?'

‘What? Is that you, Kelly?' He answered at last, raising his voice over the music. After her mother's medical crisis, she'd had the landline reconnected in the living room. Joe must have his radio right by it.

‘Course it is,' Kelly shouted, clamping the mobile between shoulder and ear while she unpacked. ‘How's it all going?'

‘Fine, you know. No probs.'

‘Sheep okay?'

‘Yeah, fine. And Eleanor and Rigby – well not Rigby; she ate my jacket.'

‘Oh dear. All of it?'

‘Na, just a bit of one sleeve.'

‘Is she all right? Not choking or anything?' You had to be careful with goats. ‘What about the chickens? Have you collected the eggs?'

‘Yeah, yeah. They're fine.'

‘That's great. Do you think you'll be able to manage for a few more days, Joe? Like, another week?'

‘Week? Yeah, okay.'

‘You sure?'

‘You don't mind if I have a few of the guys round, do you?'

‘No, of course not. Just try not to mess with Mum's things. You're going to need more feed. I'll order it if you can pick it up. Can you find the number? I've scribbled it on the fridge.'

Organising Joe over the phone was surprisingly easy. Of course, Kelly knew he might not remember to pick up the feed, or keep ‘the guys' out of her mother's room, but she was sure that nothing could go seriously wrong. He wasn't likely to burn the house down, and the animals could forage for themselves at this time of year, if he forgot. There was a good chance of losing a couple of the chickens to foxes because Joe would forget to round them up, but that had probably happened already.

She phoned the feed supplier, then called Roger and Mandy.

‘Kelly!' Mandy answered. ‘Home safely? Did the car behave all right?'

‘Perfectly. Just checking on Mum.'

Roz was fine. Everything in Dorset was fine, everything in Pembrokeshire was fine, the whole world was fine.

Joe was going to let them know at the Moon and Tuppence that she wouldn't be able to do her shifts for the next week. Too late now to ring the office. She'd do that in the morning, tell them she needed time off. They wouldn't query it, not with her mother being ill.

All sorted. She was free to go with this river she had jumped into. Had she been rash? She could see potential rapids ahead. But what the hell, she was a good swimmer. At best she would find herself a potential kidney donor and a sister of sorts. At worst, she wouldn't find anything. Nothing more disastrous than that. How could there be?

ii

Vicky

Vicky paced the street, watching, trying not to be seen. It was a part of Lyford she didn't know, so it had taken her a while to find it, but getting here had been the easy part. The woman had moved since their last confrontation, and no one at the old flats had been sure where. So Vicky had lain in wait for the postman. It gave her a sense of cool satisfaction when it paid off, although the postman had probably been breaking regulations in telling her that Mrs Parish had moved to Salley Meadows. He couldn't tell her which number though. They'd know at the sorting office, but that was far out on the other side of town. It was more tempting to take the number 16 bus to the Brookdale estate, hoping her luck would last, and she'd find another door sprayed with accusing graffiti.

No graffiti. Salley Meadows, the name promising lush grass and shivering willows, was just a dull anonymous street of dull anonymous houses and flats, not squalid enough to raise eyebrows, not deluxe enough to envy. Vicky walked up and down it twice. No sign of her birth mother. She'd recognise her. Even a glimpse from behind and she'd know her.

She returned, frustrated, to the bus stop, to wait for the next bus back to the town centre. Thirty yards away, across the street, the number 16 pulled up to let off passengers.

It moved on and there she was. The woman. Mrs Parish, gathering bags, heading for home. Vicky ignored her own bus, stepping back as it slowed, and the driver scowled at her indecision before accelerating again.

Thirty paces behind, Vicky followed her quarry back into Salley Meadows. Twenty. Ten. The maisonettes. The woman put her bags down at the door of 28, searching for her key. Vicky speeded up.

Mrs Parish turned, alert, sensing the movement, looking Vicky full in the face. She recognised her. ‘Oh. I see. You again.'

‘Me again. Mother.'

‘I'm not your mother. Just go away, will you?'

‘No. I won't. I'll be here. Always. Just so you'll never forget.'

‘Whatever your game is, I'm not interested.' She was in. Slam. The door shut. Vicky could hear bolts being drawn.

What was her game? Vicky wasn't sure herself. She knew she had to keep punishing this woman.

Someone had to be punished. Vicky wanted it to be Gillian, beaten and begging for forgiveness. But she knew that if she cast Gillian into outer darkness Vicky would be alone. She didn't have the courage. So it would have to be this woman instead. The one who'd failed to kill her, but left her to be fed to Joan. The one the whole world itched to punish.

Mrs Parish had moved, but she hadn't escaped. Number 28, Salley Gardens. No need to stay further today. Vicky would keep returning and returning and returning, because there was no way she could get past this thing.

iii

Kelly

The
Lyford Herald
came out on Thursday. Kelly bought it at the local newsagents and pored through it as she walked into town. Just a classified ad, in pages of others, under Personal. It looked nice and bold; Emma must have pulled some strings. Even so, maybe Kelly should have gone for something bigger, more prominent. Cost, that was the thing. She couldn't justify spending their money on a more expensive ad. But then she couldn't really justify spending their money on bed and breakfast in Colney Road either, so maybe it should have been in for a penny, in for a pound. There was always next week. If she got no response to this one, perhaps she would stay around long enough to put a bigger ad in the next issue. If she could endure Mrs Hanshaw's guesthouse that long.

She was sure the ad would be a waste of time, so when her mobile rang in the middle of the afternoon, she assumed it must be Joe or Roger, and was puzzled by the unknown number.

‘Hello. Is that Kelly Sheldon? The one who put the ad in the paper? About kids born in March, in the hospital?'

‘Yes! Hi. March 13
th
to the 19
th
, 1990.'