To my parents, in recognition
To my two little miracles, in joy
She puts the letter to one side. Today isn’t about that. Not in this moment. Today is about Harriet. Her, and Harriet, making a fresh start, together. Away from all this nonsense. If the letter shows anything, it’s that they need to make that fresh start even further away. There’ll be people looking for them. And Harriet is so pretty – people will notice them. England is too small. She needs to go abroad. They need to get tickets to France or, ideally, somewhere outside Europe that doesn’t need a visa. Somewhere not hugely swamped with international newspapers. She gets out her phone, begins Googling destinations. That’s stupid, though. She should just take Harriet to the airport, see what flights they can get. And go.
Resolved, she gets to her feet. Thank God for Harriet being well looked after this morning, while the fresh crisis was breaking. She can imagine her now, playing happily on the grass. Soon, Harriet will be playing happily in another country, doting eyes on her. They’ll be happy together. Of course they will.
At first glance, she doesn’t notice, when she gets outside.
The absence.
She looks around another time.
It’s then she realises: Harriet isn’t there.
Just the woman who was supposed to be looking after her, sitting all alone.
KIRSTEN, 4 SEPTEMBER 2018
‘I just wasn’t sure about the headteacher, at the new joiners evening, you know?’ Kirsten says to her husband, as she gazes at little Harriet. She bites her lip, as she resists the urge to hug her daughter another time before getting her into the car. Harriet looks so smart and grown-up in her new uniform, but Kirsten doesn’t want to deliver her to the destination: first day of reception.
Ian lays a hand on Kirsten’s shoulder.
‘The headteacher was just fine, darling. You know that. You got on like a house on fire.’ There’s a wryness to his delivery, probably born of being a headmaster himself. He knows the conversations that go on.
‘And what about the other kids? They say that the most important thing is the cohort your child’s in. What if they’re mean?’
Ian shrugs. ‘There’s bound to be one mean kid there. Maybe it will be Harriet.’
Kirsten shoots him a poison dart with her eyes.
‘Joking,’ he tells her. ‘Harriet’s no bully. But they’re five, Kirsten. No one’s going to be selling drugs, or making them down alcohol.’
Kirsten looks at him more carefully this time. It’s an oddly chosen example, considering.
She sees Ian notice her look. ‘Whatever,’ he says. ‘What I mean is, she’ll be fine, you need to get her in the car, or we’ll both be late, OK? You’ve been taking her to nursery for three years. School’s no different, really. She should be so lucky, going somewhere like that. We can catch up this evening.’
Kirsten nods. But she doesn’t agree. He doesn’t get it. Or maybe he does: he gets what’s on the surface. The anxiety that she’s actually expressed. But there’s the deeper anxiety, the one she never shares. The one she never knows whether dads truly face too, or if it’s just the mums, the worried mums. The need that can suddenly seize you to know exactly where your child is at all times. The sudden rush of panic that they could be with anyone, with any number of terrible things befalling them. And that even if they were meant to be in safe hands – with relatives, at school – it would always ultimately be your fault for making the choice that day, that hour, to outsource their care. To not be looking after them yourself.
The guilt, Kirsten knew, would always linger. And it worked the other way too: if she was indulgent enough to take a day off work, that particular day would be the one when their route to the Fun Activity was favoured by terrorists, or a gas explosion, or a sinkhole.
‘Can I go to school now, Mummy?’ Harriet asks.
Kirsten tries to shut her anxiety down. She’d made such a thing of school being Grown-Up and Very Important that Harriet can’t be blamed for wanting to get there sooner. But it’s still too soon. Only a moment ago, Harriet was a newborn. Kirsten still remembers looking at those amazing owl-like eyes, wide and unblinking, as Harriet sat in the back of the car on the journey home with Ian – their little miracle. He’d been a bit cold, nervy with the weight of responsibility, but she’d been transfixed. If she’d known, really known, how enchanting a newborn could be, it would have got her through the discomfort of all those rounds of IVF – the injections, the hormone reactions, the tests – with much less heartache. Or maybe more, knowing what she was missing.
‘Of course, darling – it’s so exciting. I’m so proud of you!’
Kirsten watches as Harriet clambers into the back of the car. She tries to capture the moment in her mind. It’s just as significant as the ride home with the newborn, those life milestones every mother faces. Kirsten knows she’ll only get to savour them once – there are no more children after Harriet. So she must enjoy them now.
But she also really must get to work. Kirsten sees the time as she turns on the car ignition: 8.25. Shit. Not only were they meant to be at the school five minutes ago, her first appointment is fast approaching, as well. And as emotionally rewarding as it is to gaze dotingly at Harriet, it isn’t financially rewarding. Those financial rewards have kept the roof over her daughter’s head. OK, so Ian may be laudably busy managing the struggling comprehensive school he heads up out of special measures, before the Ofsted inspection – but he doesn’t get a bonus for the hours he works. The more Kirsten works, the more she gets paid, and the less they have to watch the overdraft every month.
Harriet begins complaining that she’s left one of her new special pencils in the house and says that they’ll have to go back and get it. The gloss of the first school day becomes tarnished. The usual negotiations (or bribes) kick in. By the time Kirsten drops Harriet at school, she is thinking very positively about the benefits of being able to deposit your child elsewhere for someone else to deal with.
As soon as she has that thought, she wants to run back after Harriet and apologise. Never wish away something so precious. Never try to abdicate responsibility for one so dear. The school staff seem good on health and safety, but what if they aren’t?
She considers calling Ian, asking him what he thinks. Should she go back in and make sure Harriet is properly settled? But no. She knows what he would say. It’s fine. The school is a good one, excellent parent feedback, and the teachers are fully checked for criminal records. She’s safe, Kirsten tells herself. She’s safe.
MIRIAM, 4 SEPTEMBER 2018
Miriam stands at the front of the still-empty classroom, mentally hugging herself. Finally, she is here – about to embark on teaching at St Anthony’s. All summer, the thought of it had been her best thing – the one that gave her hope and excitement each morning. The one that made her