Freeing Grace (15 page)

I looked up. Deborah was watching me.

‘Who’s the baby?’ I asked.

She laughed sharply, unsteadily, moving her shoulders up and down as though trying to ease some pain. ‘That’s my granddaughter. She’s called Grace. Adorable, isn’t she?’

I suppose I should already have guessed. But, believe me, I hadn’t. I was slack-jawed for a moment, trying to work it out. It took me a while. You may think I’m slow, but this woman—this
girl
—was totty, not Granny. She was younger than me, for Pete’s sake.

‘Who are the parents?’ I persisted. ‘Not Lucy? Have you got another child I haven’t met?’

‘God, no. Two was enough.’

‘So . . . ?’

‘Matt’s the father.’

‘Matt?’ He couldn’t be.

She nodded, patiently. ‘Matt.’

I blinked, trying to believe her. ‘And the mother?’

‘She abandoned the baby. Then got herself killed, poor lass. She didn’t have much of a life, according to what I’ve just read. Seems she was her family’s scapegoat, and not much better off once she was in care. Perhaps Matt was the only person who was ever nice to her.’

‘How old was she?’

Deborah smiled, sadly. ‘Sixteen.’

I whistled. This was way outside my experience. ‘Jeez. What a mess.’ I looked again at Matt, adoring his daughter. It didn’t fit. It didn’t work.

‘I spotted him sloping off on a bus,’ I remembered. ‘Would he have been going to visit this baby?’

‘Probably. Apparently he gets to see her for an hour, twice a week. Has done since he became involved.’

‘Doesn’t sound like very much.’

‘No. It’s about to be reduced to once a week, then once a fortnight. Then not at all. They don’t want him getting too
fond
of her.’

I couldn’t imagine being fond of a baby. I certainly couldn’t imagine Matt being so. I was still struggling with the concept of the kid as a father. I mean, the word
father
triggers utterly different associations for me. Horrifying ones. Power, rage, terror. Shut up at the dinner table, heads down, keep that bloody dog out of the bins, and for Christ’s fucking sake stop snivelling or the other barrel will be for you, you little prick.
Father
is a dirty word, in my dictionary. Fatherhood isn’t slouching around, listening to rap and wearing jeans at half-mast.

‘Why shouldn’t he get too fond of her?’ I asked eventually.

‘Because she’s going to be adopted, and he won’t ever see her again. In the end, he gets what they call a “final visit”. And that’s that.
Final
visit
. My God. What a chilling . . .’ She laughed shortly, swallowed, and shook her head.

I waited, embarrassed. I wasn’t very good with emotions.

Finally, she blinked hard and jerked her chin towards the photographs in my hand. ‘Those were taken by a social worker for what they call her Life Story Book. Isn’t that sweet? Grace takes it with her. So she knows that she had real parents, once.’

‘This is all news to you?’

‘Oh, yes. If I’d known, I wouldn’t have . . .’ Feverishly, she started shovelling everything back into the envelope. ‘I don’t know what to do,’ she whispered. She rested her elbow on the table, and her forehead on her fingers, and shut her eyes.

I sat, shifting awkwardly, until she opened her eyes and aimed a blast of turquoise light, right at me. I was a rabbit in the headlights.

‘You should read this, since you’re the courier. You have a right to know what you carried.’

I let her force the envelope back into my hand.

It’s amazing how quickly you can sober up when you need to. After leaving Deborah, I followed a line of knee-high solar lights to my cabin. An hour ago I could have slept like a puppy, but now I felt as though I’d knocked back three double-shot espressos.

I ducked under my mosquito net. Vicious little bloodsuckers fluttered up and down, looking for a way in. Intrigued, but feeling like a peeping Tom, I tipped out the contents of the envelope and picked up the first thing that came to hand. Black ink on ivory paper.

My darling Deborah,

We need you back immediately. We have a granddaughter.

I enclose local authority documentation. They are already making
preparations for the adoption of Matt’s child. Deborah, whatever you
are doing, it cannot come before this.

Get in touch. Please. For all our sakes. Matt needs you.

With my love,
Perry

Beneath the letter were reports, notes, and a chronology. They told the story of a girl called Cherie: neglected by her mother, terrorised by her stepfather, rejected by both. Then pregnant. And now dead. I read all this with my mouth open, trying to remind myself that it was real. I thought my own childhood was rough, but what had happened to this kid was off my scale. She wasn’t three inches of newsprint in the evening papers. She was Matt’s girlfriend, the mother of his baby. There was more misery and hopelessness in those pages than I cared to think about.

There was a long assessment of Matt. Let’s face it, you wouldn’t give the boy a puppy you liked. It was all summed up in a hefty dollop of poison by the social worker Imogen Christie, who seemed to be running this show.

The father is Matthew Harrison (known as Matt), now seventeen years
old. DNA testing confirms his paternity. He lives with his father, Peregrine
Harrison (known as Perry), near the village of Coptree.

Matt and Cherie met while both were attending Woodbury High
School. According to Matt, it was Cherie who insisted that his identity be
kept secret. Their relationship came to an end during the pregnancy. He
tells me that he endeavoured to maintain contact with her but she refused.

To Matt’s credit, he contacted the Department immediately upon
hearing the news of the birth of his daughter, and of Cherie’s tragic death.
At his request he was offered supervised contact at Fintan House twice
a week. He has attended consistently, never failing to arrive in good
time, and has been cooperative throughout. He has clearly become deeply
attached to Grace, and wishes her to be placed with him.

I found myself gazing into space. So Matt caught that bus faithfully, twice a week, just to sit and hold a baby. And they were taking her away.

Perry could at least drive him there, the heartless bastard.

A six-week initial parenting assessment of Matt has been carried out. The
assessment team noted Matt’s deep devotion to his daughter, and his ability
to provide basic care for her while under supervision. However, sadly,
it concluded that if she were placed with him he would struggle to meet
her needs and would not be able to acquire the skills to do so within an
acceptable timeframe.

Matt is a teenage male with no experience of young children, and
has yet to complete his own education. His independent living skills are
limited. His departure from his previous school was sudden. Enquiries
revealed that he left voluntarily, but was on the point of permanent
exclusion. He admits to using cannabis extensively. His present lifestyle
is somewhat chaotic, and his attendance at school is erratic. He has
significant emotional and behavioural difficulties himself and would be
unlikely to put the needs of a growing child before his own. His offer to
care for Grace seems to have been based on loyalty and guilt regarding
Cherie, and an unrealistic image of parenthood.

Matt now reluctantly accepts this, and no longer seeks to put himself
forward as sole carer. He does not, however, feel able to sign the form for
consent to adoption.

The paternal grandfather, Perry Harrison, declined to be involved
in the assessment process. The reason for this is not clear to me. When I
discussed it with the family I felt that they were not being entirely candid. Both insist that the paternal grandmother, Deborah Harrison, is well
able to provide care for Grace and that she will contact the Department
immediately upon her return from overseas. She is, apparently, a journalist
whose present assignment is taking longer than anticipated to complete.

I have had no communication whatsoever from Mrs Harrison. Her
commitment must therefore be in considerable doubt, and her long absence
indicates that her lifestyle is unlikely to promote the stability and security
needed. Grace cannot wait indefinitely for her return.

At the recent case conference it was unanimously agreed that attempts
to find a placement within Grace’s birth family have failed. Her future
needs to be secured without further delay.

In respect of Grace Serenity King, therefore, the plan is one of adoption.

Imogen Christie

25 October

Light dawned when I looked at the date. The Harrisons had just heard this news when I blundered onto the scene. This was the family trouble for which Lucy had taken time off. They’d needed someone to fetch Deborah. And fast. Step forward, Jake Kelly.

There were other documents. Procedural waffling. I skimmed through them, but I’d already got the gist. I stuffed the sheaf of papers back into the envelope and turned out the light. It was all very interesting but not my problem, luckily. I closed my eyes and listened to the rustling of a sea breeze in the thatch, and the shrill of a million insects, and the whisper of the waves, lovingly stroking the sand.

Didn’t sleep, though. Not for ages. I kept thinking about Matt, sitting alone on the bus, looking forward to seeing a blob in a bubblegum-pink suit.

Chapter Twelve

David woke in the early hours, alert and jangling. For a time he watched Leila’s sleeping face, and then reached out and touched her cheek. Maybe today things would be better. Or maybe not.

Was he losing her? For ten years they’d screamed in unison at the ups and downs, the sickening fairground ride. But this, now. This was different.

Some time before six he silently slid out of bed, dressed, and made for his study. He spent a little time in prayer, miserably seeking comfort, then turned on the radio—
Farming Today
—and tried to work. There was always plenty to be done. An accusing pile of unanswered letters sprawled untidily across the blotting paper on his desk, and ten unread emails lurked malevolently in his inbox.

Slouching at his desk, he gnawed the skin around one thumbnail and gazed, without seeing, at Jacinta’s ginger cat on dawn patrol along the fence. He couldn’t quite define what it was that so terrified him. There had been no row, no shouting match. They’d had one or two of those in the past. He’d almost welcome one, now.

The change had come, he thought, a few weeks ago, soon after that chemical pregnancy disaster. Since then Leila had begun to put a barrier between them, as though their tracks must inevitably diverge. She was drifting away. In his photograph the sun glittered on her wedding dress, and she laughed up at him. He’d been dazzled by her fire. But little by little, her fire had gone out.

It was growing light outside. Soon he’d take her a cup of tea, and hope she’d be herself again, and they’d be happy.

David had never been
born again
; there was for him no miraculous falling of scales or blinding flash of light, not even a satisfying near-death experience. He had never spoken in tongues or seen a vision. The idea—the call?—began as a brief tug, like a fish testing a line, barely recognised and swiftly rejected. But it came back. And back. For almost a decade it nagged and cajoled, refusing to leave him alone no matter how much he protested that he wasn’t the type. There was no escaping it. Finally, at the age of thirty-two, he gave in.

‘I’ve had a career. I’ve made lots of splendid money,’ he explained to a dubious Leila. ‘I’ve made it for other people, and I’ve made it for us. I can’t run away from this any longer.’ He insisted that it had nothing to do with their childlessness, but he knew she didn’t believe him.

She’d agreed, in the end. ‘I can see I’ve no choice,’ she said. ‘Go ahead, condemn us both to a life of poverty and servitude.’

He rested his forehead against hers, warm with gratitude. ‘But think of our heavenly bank account.’

‘Yours, David, not ours. It’s not a joint account, I’m afraid. Mine’s firmly in the red. Anyway, go ahead and start the process. If you’re accepted, I won’t kick up a fuss. But there are conditions.’

He raised an eyebrow warily.

‘First,’ she prodded his chest, ‘no fish stickers on the car. Ever. That’s not negotiable.’

‘Done.’

‘Second.’ Prod. ‘No stripy tank top.’

David looked faintly sickened. ‘I don’t think taking the cloth automatically transforms people into style disasters.’

‘And I need to be at least a hundred miles away when you break the news to Hilda. She’s gonna go into orbit.’

Leila was right on that score.

It had all taken time—application, training, curacy—but five years on, this parish in Birmingham was David’s second curacy. Leila moved with him uncomplainingly, finding work as a community pharmacist in each new city. They leased out their house in Finsbury Park. The rent more or less covered its mortgage, but not the rates or the insurance, the leaking roof or the exploding boiler.

And the children had never arrived.

David rubbed his forehead. Anxiety clawed in his stomach. Outside, the street lights flickered off, angular silhouettes against a bile-coloured sky. Next door’s cat ran along the fence and disappeared. Perhaps little Jacinta had called it in for breakfast.

Leila was stirring. The floor creaked, then she was on the stairs. David arranged his features into optimism, pushing his chair back from the desk. ‘Hi! I was coming with your tea, I promise.’

‘Morning.’

He heard the kitchen door, then a pause. She’d be flicking on the kettle. Her steps again, across the hall, into the tiny piano room. He trotted downstairs.

She hadn’t even turned on the light. He could just make out her figure by the window, against the jaundiced dawn. She was wearing one of his sweaters, and it swamped her. He pressed the light switch.