Soul to Take (2 page)

NELL

“I just think that second time around, I’ll be so much more relaxed. Not worry so much, you know?”

“Well I’m definitely different this time. And this one’s so easy, compared to Callum. Remember how he wouldn’t feed, or sleep?”

“I do; you were even more exhausted than the rest of us!”

Nell watches the other two women, deep in their conversation and oblivious to her silence. At intervals, she inhales sharply, as if to make a contribution but each time, she fails. Finally, she seems to give up and glances down to the drowsy infant in Rachel’s arms. It lies motionless, like draft-excluder along its mother’s waistline. Rachel’s jumper is raised slightly higher than the baby’s head revealing the upper half of a swollen white breast. The child’s mouth adheres to it and a wiggling ear is the only sign that she is providing vital nourishment.

Nell’s gaze moves to Laura as she wrestles to get comfortable on the sagging red sofa. Every time she leans back, the weight of her enormous stomach is too much and she sits forward again. Nell passes her a cushion and a smile, a smile that remembers how she feels and longs to endure it again.

Three small children play in the corner. An olive-skinned girl prepares a dinner of plastic peas and bananas for her red-headed guest at the miniature, wooden kitchen while a sweaty-looking little boy pushes a dolly in a pram, at speed, towards the television in the corner.

“Callum,” sings Rachel, “please don’t break Nell’s telly-box. She’d be ever so sad.”

Nell’s mouth smiles at the toddler but her eyes tell him that if he breaks her 32” LED television - which is the only thing she has ever won from the multitude of magazine competitions she enters - she’ll take the gingerbread biscuit he’s currently smearing all over his face and stamp on it. Hard. “More coffee, anyone?” she manages.

“That’d be great thanks.”

“I’d love a water.”

Nell escapes the mayhem and heads for the sanctuary of the kitchen. All of a sudden she stops. Her eyes widen as something has clearly taken her breath away. A slow blink, as she turns on her heels, reveals that she is well aware of what has just occurred.

When she reaches the bathroom upstairs, silent tears roll down Nell’s cheeks. ‘Products of Conception’, I heard them tell her to watch out for at the hospital yesterday. ‘Products of Conception’. It sounds like the symptom of a flu virus or a chest infection. Something to get rid of. And yet, watching Nell, sitting helpless on her bathroom floor, it is so much more. It is the final sign that her baby has gone. The bloody mass of fibre, lying on a tissue in the palm of Nell’s hand is not identifiably human but it’s the closest she will get to what she’d hoped for. She sits for a moment, her gaze frozen on her body’s expulsion. In a moment of what must be curiosity or simply a need to know, Nell reaches into the bathroom cabinet for a cotton bud and prods the crimson sack. Ironically, it is impenetrable and strong, protecting the failed inner cells.

“You okay in there?” shouts Laura.

“Yeah,” Nell tells them, “Just clearing up a bit: my Rosie’s been playing with the toilet roll again”.

Abandoning the amateur science experiment, Nell grabs a flimsy nappy bag and places the contents of her hand inside. Securely tied, she pops the bag on the top of the cabinet, and looks in the mirror. Failure, emptiness and rivulets of black mascara stare back. She washes her face, puts her shoulders back and heads back down to the kitchen.

As I struggle to comprehend Nell’s masquerade, she busies about, refilling the coffee machine and making a fresh jug of orange squash. The drinks are all placed neatly on a tray and Nell returns to her guests.

“We’re doing the whole nappy debate,” explains Laura, “I think I’ll give the real ones a try this time. You used them with Rosie, didn’t you?”

“Er, yes. I did,” Nell’s eyes widen with concentration as she struggles to descend back into their world.

“I just don’t think I could deal with the mess and the extra washing. I mean there’s enough of that already. We had to buy a new washing machine last week. The other was only two months out of warranty but I can’t complain because we use it so much. I mean, I know real nappies are better for the planet and everything but it’s just not for me,” Rachel concludes as she removes the sleepy child from her nipple. She pops it on her shoulder with one hand and readjusts her bra strap with the other like she’s been carrying out this rather skilful juggling act all of her life. Remarkably, the child’s slumber is undisturbed.

“But you’ve got to think of all of those, those, big ... holes in the earth,” returns Laura.

“Landfills,” Rachel assists.

“Sorry; Mummy-brain!” Laura excuses.

“And there’s a company who come and collect the nappies for ..” Nell begins to explain but her voice trails off. She looks like she can bear the minutiae no longer. With all my might, I will her to share her experience with her friends, to explain what has happened, to let them understand her pain. And yet she sits silently, allowing them to unwittingly scratch at her wound with every mention of babies and motherhood.

“You okay Nell?” Rachel finally asks.

“Yes, thanks, just tired. We were up late doing the accounts for the restaurant.”

“My mother-in-law went last week for the Thursday Night Special. Loved it. Swears its the best Italian food in Bedston. She said Riccardo was doing the cooking.”

“Yes, he lost another chef last week so he’s having to manage himself until he can find a new one. Which means he’s in the kitchen every hour God sends, leaving me with the accounts and ordering and stuff. But I like to feel like I’m doing my bit,” Nell explains. “Talking of which, I’ve got to go and meet with one of the suppliers in a little while,” Nell looks delighted with her brave and unsubtle hint.

As soon Nell’s ‘friends’ have left, she prepares some lunch for Rosie. She uses a scone cutter to make a circular shape with some wholemeal bread before grating cheese to go inside. Purple grapes surround the sandwich she places at the table for her little girl. A squeal of “Flower sandwiches!” makes Nell smile and she sits down beside her daughter. Rosie tucks into the plateful but Nell clearly has no interest in food and gazes up to the kitchen ceiling.

“Mummy must do some decorating in here,” Nell informs Rosie who looks puzzled. “Painting, Rosie, ” she qualifies.

“Painting!” Rosie squeaks and hops down from her chair towards a cupboard. The child opens the door and out pours a plethora of pencils, paint pots and coloured paper. In fright, she rushes back to the table to continue with her lunch, ignoring the fountain still flowing onto the floor.

“No, not that kind of painting, sweetheart,” Nell smiles as she tidies up the mess, “Painting on the walls,” she can see the mechanics of the child’s mind whirring, “but you must never paint on the walls. Just Mummy.”

Rosie looks even more confused and rubs her eyes. “Never mind, Rosie-Roo, let’s get you up for a nap.”

Nell picks up the tired child and heads up the stairs. Rosie’s hand drifts along the painted wood chip as they ascend. “Bumpy wall,” she observes.

“More decorating to do,” sighs Nell.

She places the child in her small pink bed and pulls down the black-out blind at the window.

“Do the song, Mummy,” the sleepy creature demands.

“It’s a prayer, Rosie, to keep us safe. Are you ready?” Nell’s soothing voice, chants words which are clearly familiar to the infant,

“Now I lay me down to sleep,

I pray the Lord my soul to keep.

If I should die before I wake,

I pray the Lord my soul to take.”

Nell winds up a small, porcelain ballerina on Rosie’s shelf and it plays a soothing lullaby. Rosie gets a dummy from under her pillow, her eyes already closing. Nell heads for the door but stops to look back at her beautiful child. Peaceful in the security of her routine, she is almost asleep already. Nell is drawn back and kisses her head. Temptation is too great and she climbs on to the bed with her daughter. Nestled in the space Rosie has left, Nell lies, holding her most treasured possession. She does not sleep but lies still, knowing she must take comfort from what she still has. Her tears return and this time they are allowed to flow.

Over an hour and a half later, Rosie begins to stir. Like a bird breaking out of its eggshell, she stretches and struggles with the flowery duvet. “Morning!” she greets her mother and Nell instinctively looks at her watch.

“Let’s go and see Daddy now, Rosie.”

Downstairs, Nell refills her handbag with spare clothes, a beaker of water and two boxes of raisins, while Rosie sits on the stairs trying, with all her might, to put her well-worn shoes on the wrong feet.

“I think they might be more comfortable the other way around, Rosie,” Nell advises, obviously keen not to dampen the child’s enthusiasm for independence.

“Okay Mummy,” she complies, “I just can’t do the scarecrow on this one!”

“Scare? Velcro, sweetie, it’s velcro!” Nell makes the necessary adjustments and they leave the house.

The bus stop is just outside of their terraced house and the number 57 to Bedston arrives quickly. Three renditions of “Wheels on the Bus” later, the pair get off near the restaurant. They go past some industrial sized bins, through a narrow alleyway and arrive at a door at the rear where Riccardo is leaning against the wall, smoking. Nell shouts, “Ric!” and shoots her husband a disapproving look which makes him immediately stamp on the cigarette and pick up his daughter. He swings her around in an upward spiral and then holds her up to the sky, kissing her stomach and making her giggle.

“How are you two?” asks Ric. His daughter’s continuing yelps of delight qualify as her response and then he turns to his wife. Nell shakes her head. Her eyes well. “Bambino, go see if Jeanette has bread sticks.” Rosie runs inside towards a young waitress who bends down to greet the toddler. Ric holds Nell and the silence speaks the words which cannot explain what has happened.

“So its definitely gone?”

“Don’t say it like that,” Nell snaps and pulls away from the embrace.

“Sorry, I ... I just mean there’s no chance you’re still pregnant now at all. Are you certain it’s aborted?” Two strong hands regain contact with Nell’s shoulders.

“Aborted? You make it sound like this was something you wanted to happen.” Nell retreats a step, “The word is ‘miscarriage’ Ric.” She calms down and, for a moment, realises her anger is not with her husband or his linguistic terminology. “The hospital want to do one last HCG test but yes, I’m certain.”

Silence returns.

“Say something then,” Nell demands.

Ric shrugs, “I don’t know what to say. I can’t say right thing; I keep saying wrong thing.”

I look down at two people in pain, a pain which should bind them together in their grief. Instead, each word spoken irritates and agitates, making the pain increasingly uncomfortable.

“Maybe it all for the best, Nelly. Maybe God says it not our time, especially the way things are with this place at the moment. We try again soon,” he gives his wife a wink and a smile.

Nell is wide eyed. This final blow obviously hurts more than the others and she clearly cannot envisage how her pain could possibly be a blessing.

“Rosie! We need to go,” Nell yells as she goes inside to retrieve their daughter from the young waitress, "Thanks, Jeanette."

Ric finally gives up his efforts, lights another cigarette and watches his family walk back to the bus stop.

SHANNON

“ ’ow many times do I ’ave to tell you people? It’s Shannon; not Sharon,” an exasperated voice yells across the noisy room.

“That’s not what it says on this register,” responds a young man wearing a cheap grey suit, which is at least one size too big for him. He shuffles and neatens a pile of A4 paper in an attempt to convey control over the situation but he’s going to have to do better than that, I fear. Most of the names on his ‘register’ haven’t even noticed that he is perched on the edge of a large wooden desk in front of them.

“But I told you yesterday, it’s Shannon,” she maintains his gaze and slowly eases herself forwards, a lioness weighing up her prey, “Or ’ave you forgotten that you took our Geography lesson too, you moron?” Silence descends on the previously raucous classroom and the spotlight shines on this, more interesting, conversation.

“Don’t you take that tone with me, young lady,” comes the defiant, yet calm, reply. He will not be eaten by this predator.

“Fuckin’ supply teachers!” she pounces but looks down to the floor with a knowledge that she will now have to bare the consequences of her attack.

“That’s quite enough. Who’s your Head of Year?”

“It’s alright. I’m doin’ one anyway. Gotta red card, ’aven’ I?” Shannon snarls and flashes her escape ticket at the grateful young teacher.

The door slams on the erupting laughter of Shannon’s classmates and she takes a familiar walk down the long quiet corridor. Shannon pauses and knocks on a door signed ‘Mr Howden: Head of Year 11’. “Come in!” she is ordered.

Inside is different to the classroom and the corridor. The office is tidy yet it feels homely; a money plant and a photograph of two moon-faced children sit on the desk. Like a coat of arms, on the wall behind the desk, is a golden frame surrounding a map which plots every city, town and village in the county. A window is open and a white net curtain beckons in clean air from the outside world.

“Ah, Miss Child. What can I do for you today?” Mr Howden is optimistic yet realistic enough to know that it won’t be a quick visit. He politely pulls out a padded red chair for Shannon to sit down.

With an air of familiarity she slumps in the chair and looks to the carpeted floor, “I’ve walked out of History, ’aven’ I?”

“What has happened this time? Isn’t there a supply teacher taking your class today?”

“Mmm”

“Words, please Shannon, words. I cannot help unless you speak words,” Mr Howden is interrupted by the shrill ringing of a telephone, which he answers, then nods and “Mmm”s rather a lot himself. “Yes, I’ve got her here. Yes, I see,” he concludes.

“I think I’ve got the gist,” he relays as he slowly puts the handset down. “So, I’m pleased to see that you’re using the red card to get out of confrontational situations.” The word “but” silently reverberates around the office as it predicts the teacher’s next sentence. “But, your use of language wasn’t entirely appropriate, was it Shannon?”

“What?”

“I think you know what I mean. We discussed the use of the ‘F’ word in our last session, didn’t we?”

“Oh, that,” Shannon recollects. I’m not sure she even knows she’s saying it sometimes; it truly carries no more weight than any other word in her vocabulary. “But I didn’t tell him to “Fuck off”, I jus’ said “Fuckin’ supply teachers”.” I think I see the difference, subtle as it is.

“Well, that is an improvement but what on Earth required that outburst?” Mr Howden ventures.

Shannon wraps a dirty fingernail around a strand of improbably blond hair to aid her memory, “He called me Sharon.”

“But that
is
your name,” Mr Howden winces and seems rather taken aback at his own bravery.

“No-one calls me that though, not even you.”

“No. I’ve learned better,” he sighs and wanders to the back of the office. With one hand on his leather belt which lies snugly below his protruding stomach and the other on his furrowed forehead, Mr Howden is clearly planning his next move very carefully. Strategy in place, he turns back to Shannon. “I have to say that I’m really disappointed, Shannon. You know, I thought we were making progress. There have been hardly any ‘incidents’ this last term and a few of your teachers have even commented that you’re just about on your target grades.”

“What? E grades and D grades? A lotta bloody good that’ll do me.”

“But as we’ve said before, it’s all about progression. If you’re on target now, and work really hard next term, who knows what the actual exams will bring? Maybe a few C grades? It’s not beyond the realms of possibility if you put the work in. We’ve got to remain focused and aim high,” Mr Howden looks at his watch and then turns back to Shannon. “It’s 2.30 now. I don’t want to disrupt that supply teacher again by putting you back in the lesson and the Isolation Unit is full. So I’m going to ring home and see if your dad will pick you up early like we’ve done before.”

“Step-dad,” Shannon corrects.

“Yes, yes,” Mr Howden makes another phone call and then continues to plough through the mountain of paperwork he was working on before this interval. An invisible Shannon remains slouched in her chair and is now able to chew the gum she has been concealing during the entire previous conversation. She uses the fore finger on her right hand to pick out the dirt from underneath each fingernail on her left hand. She repeats the process with her other hand, wiping the debris on the arm of the red chair. Fully manicured, her forefinger returns to its maypole dancing around her ratty hair.

Almost fifteen minutes later a flustered looking man, who seems hardly old enough to be responsible for Shannon, enters the room. He rubs an emulsion painted hand on his already filthy jeans before offering it to Mr Howden. The teacher hesitates but accepts the gentlemanly greeting and begins to recount Shannon’s afternoon. “So in everyone’s interests, I think it better if she just goes home a little early and comes back to a fresh start tomorrow,” he concludes.

“Yeah, mate, I mean, Sir, Mr Howden. Really sorry, like. She won’t be causin’ you no more bother, I swear,” promises Shannon’s step-father and the two exit the room.

The car journey home is awkwardly silent. Shannon puts the radio on. Her step-father switches it off. “What’d you do that for?” Shannon asks.

“Shut it,” is the only explanation.

On arrival at their house, Shannon dashes out of the car, pushes open the front door and is about to run straight upstairs when a voice bellows, “Oi!”

She stops in her tracks and re-routes to the lounge. There her mother sits curled up on a chair, watching a toddler, who is watching
In the Night Garden.
“What ’appened this time then?”

“Nothin’,” she shakes her head.

“Can’t be bloody nothin’ if they sent you ’ome again, can it?” Shannon’s mother raises her voice but no other part of her body.

“I ’ad a bit o’ bother with a supply teacher,” she confesses, "He was crap anyway we weren't gonna learn nothin’ ".

“That it? It’s shit that school, Shannon. I’m glad you’ve only got a few months left. Since you’re ’ome, love, would you mind watchin’ Jack while I ’ave a bath? My back’s killin’ me,” and with that she departs leaving her two children watching television.

“Have you sorted her, Stacey?” Shannon hears from the hallway.

“Yeah, somethin’ an’ nothin’, Rob,” her mother dismisses.

“Somethin’ an’ nothin’? Is that it? I get called away from a big decoratin’ job, embarrassed in front of her Head of Year and she’s sittin’ watchin’
Upsy
fuckin’
Daisy
? Not bloody likely,” Rob is still exploding as he comes into the lounge.

“If your mother isn’t going to say nothin’ then I am,” Rob stands, towering over the teenager, “I’m sick of it Shannon. You think this family revolves around you. You can’t behave yourself at school. You can’t behave yourself at home.”

“Behaving? That’s rich coming from you, ” Shannon retorts then adds in a much lower voice, “I’ve ’eard them talking about you, you know.” She stands up, brushes past him and runs up the stairs. Rob is lost for words and Jack continues to sing with
Iggle Piggle,
entirely unaware that he is now under the watch of his third guardian in as many minutes.

Having tested the strength of every floor board across the landing, Shannon slams her door with a force that shakes the whole house. She flops on to her bed and reaches under to grab a laptop. It has not been switched off since this morning and one press of a button reignites a colourful screen which is host to a multitude of miniature photographs and row upon row of black words. Shannon begins to type. The white box she is filling reads, “SHANNON CHILD: dad jus had benny bout naff all had enuf whos up 4 gettin wasted tonite?"

The bait is set and it is not long before a select few of Shannon’s hundreds of electronic ‘friends’ - who by now will be on the school bus home reacquainting themselves with their stowaway mobile ’phones - enquire about her emotional wellbeing. Finally she satisfies her appetite for moaning, for berating authority and above all, for being the object of other people’s care and concern.