Chapter 8
On Thursday my private class wasn’t until eleven, so I took the long way home after dropping the kids at school and called in at Bigley’s hair salon, Snips. Shanice, the manager, was flipping the sign to ‘open’ as I arrived.
‘Hey, Libby!’ Shanice had been one of my first Bloomers. She’d been living in a children’s residential unit in Manchester when a drug dealer got her pregnant. After being relocated to a farm called the Green House, not far from Bigley, where two couples provided a home for older teens, Shanice had started an apprenticeship at Snips, completing it once her twin boys were born.
Shanice had thrived as a mother and a hairdresser, and I was beyond proud when she was promoted to manager a few months ago. She always looked immaculate, and today was no exception. Her thick braids were twisted neatly around her head, the ends a vibrant pink to match her shift dress, heels and bejewelled nails.
‘Are you looking for an appointment?’ After giving me an enormous hug, she ushered me inside. ‘We’re pretty busy today, but you know I can always find space for the woman who got me through the worst day of my life.’
Shanice’s labour had been beset with complications. I’d been there from start to finish, and she’d not let me pay for a haircut since – I had, however, been exceedingly generous with my tips.
She took a closer look at my hair, eyes narrowing. ‘Yep. I can definitely fit you in. Hazel, can you take my nine o’clock with Sue? I’ve had an emergency walk-in and it might take a while.’
‘Thank you, but I’m not here for a haircut.’
‘Are you sure?’ Shanice wrinkled her nose. ‘Because, and I think I can speak freely given that you’ve seen me naked from the waist down, you really need one.’
‘Okay, I’ll book myself in soon, I promise.’ I ran a self-conscious hand through my mass of tangles. ‘You know it always goes mad in the heat. But for now, I was hoping for a quick chat with Hazel?’
‘Oh?’ Shanice tried not to look offended.
‘Once you’ve brought me up to date with your gorgeous boys, of course…’
After hearing all about how brilliantly they were doing, in between trying to wrestle each other to death, I found Hazel fiddling with the coffee machine in the back. In contrast to Shanice’s simple elegance, Hazel looked as though she’d slept in her shapeless grey tunic, and the bags under her eyes and wan complexion suggested she’d barely slept at all. The only exception was the lustrous blonde hair, curling to her shoulders.
‘Did you want something?’ She sighed. ‘No offence, Libby, but I’m really busy.’
‘I won’t be long. I just wondered if Courtney was okay. She seems to be struggling a bit with Hazel.’
‘Yeah, struggling with all those lie-ins and nights out.’ Hazel shook her head, jaw set. ‘She’s barely lifting a finger. Has decided giving birth is enough work for one lifetime. Everyone else manages to have a kid and cook, clean and do whatever else needs doing. When Dex was a baby I had four other kids to look after, my own house to run and this job.’
I opened my mouth to ask whether there was any possibility Courtney was struggling with her mental health, but Hazel wasn’t finished.
‘And that lad doesn’t help, either. Pandering to her every whim, letting her get away with being a lazy cow. He’s cut his rent without even discussing it with me, says he needs money for the baby, while madam spends the Child Benefit on Smirnoff Ice and false nails. What he’s giving me barely covers their food, let alone everything else. So now I’m basically paying to have three extra people sleep in what used to be my dining room. Mess everywhere, and yet more work for me. I’m sorry, Libby, but I’m rapidly running out of sympathy for either of them. I need to think about the others, and I’m not interested in being mum to another kid, even if she is supposedly my granddaughter.’
Supposedly? Baby Hazel looked so like her dad that if she wasn’t Toby’s I’d be suspecting his younger brother, Harry. Things were worse than I’d thought, and I couldn’t imagine how they’d begin to improve without Hazel’s support.
‘It sounds really tough, for all of you, but I was wondering if you could just look at a leaflet…’
‘Sorry, Libby, my client’s here. Talk to Toby if you’re worried about his girlfriend. I don’t have time to sort her life out because she’s not in the mood to grow up.’
She pushed past me into the main salon, conversation over.
I spent two hours in a one-on-one class with a couple who split their time between London and Monaco and so didn’t want to attend a traditional antenatal course. That was probably just as well, because their constant references to the ultra-exclusive private hospital, ‘mummy concierge’ and ludicrously expensive high-tech equipment – thousands of pounds on a handcrafted mattress? Really? – would have jarred with our normal discussions about NHS maternity services and life with a newborn. They were a perfectly pleasant couple, whose faces lit up every time they mentioned becoming parents; they simply led a very different life from my other clients, and I was grateful they’d opted for private sessions.
Finn and Isla stayed on for the school football club on Thursdays, so I ignored the List of a Billion Things to Do and took the opportunity to pop over to the Green House, where Shanice had lived before moving into her own flat.
The farm was nestled at the other end of Bigley Country Park, tucked in a hollow with fields on one side and the forest on the other. As well as the main house, painted a cheerful apple green, there were outbuildings including a gym, stabling for two horses and an actual greenhouse for nurturing plants not people. I’d been visiting here for as long as I could remember. The Green House was infamous amongst local fostering families, and we relished their regular fire-pit nights, film and pizza evenings and whatever other excuse they came up with for a gathering.
The two brothers who lived there, Bob and Benny, vibrated with boundless energy despite how old they appeared thanks to Bob’s shock of white hair and Benny’s freckled bald head. They spent hours around the farm with their foster teens, chopping wood, digging vegetable patches and mucking out the stables, their laughter echoing behind them. Their wives, Mary and Maria, were the calm to their husbands’ zeal. I’d witnessed them being screamed and sworn at, breaking up brawls and discovering the shed had been deliberately set on fire, and the only time I’d seen either of them the slightest bit ruffled was when a dog went missing – he was fine; one of the kids had run away and taken the dog with her, but as soon as it had started raining, she’d slunk home.
In recent years I’d been invited back in a professional capacity, visiting whenever they had a pregnant young person living with them, or a new mum – which was most of the time. Today I was meeting Petra, who had moved in a couple of weeks ago. She claimed not to have realised she was expecting, but it took Mary and Maria about ten minutes to figure it out. Around six months along, thankfully she and baby were both doing well. Physically, at least. Petra was not at all happy about the recent discovery.
‘She’s still in bed,’ Mary said, with a gentle smile. It was two o’clock in the afternoon. ‘I’ll let her know you’re here. Maria’s in the kitchen if you want a drink.’
A few minutes later Mary reappeared. ‘Sorry, she’s not getting up.’
‘Is she awake?’
This wasn’t at all uncommon. For many of the children who arrived at the Green House, healthy routines had descended into chaos before things reached breaking point and they had to move, and it wasn’t uncommon to find them in bed no matter what time I arrived. And while some of the young women loved the attention from yet another professional, others regarded me as a highly unwelcome intrusion.
‘She’s in the blue bedroom,’ Maria said. ‘Good luck! Oh, and here’s your tea and a hot chocolate for Petra. She can’t resist squirty cream.’
I had to knock three times before receiving a grunt in return, but the first step in earning this girl’s trust was respecting her personal space.
‘Hi, Petra, it’s Libby from the Bloomers group. Maria’s made you a hot chocolate. Is it okay if I bring it in?’
‘Whatever.’
The first thing that struck me about Petra, as I placed her mug on the bedside table, was how young she looked. I knew she was fifteen, but – oh, bless her – there was no way she could be mistaken for anything except a child. She shuffled up the bed into a sitting position, huge blue eyes fixed on the pretty duvet covered in forget-me-nots, her thin, badly bleached hair stuffed in a yellow scrunchie and her vest top revealing scrawny shoulders.
My heart cracked, as it did for every young person who found themselves in a similar position. But I wasn’t about to show Petra any pity.
‘I like what you’ve done with your room.’
Every room in the Green House was beautifully designed to be a place of peace and security. The kids often did their best to change this, finding mess and mayhem more their comfort zone, but Petra’s room was immaculate. She’d covered one wall with photos, hung a huge brightly coloured scarf on another, and the bookcase was full of battered stuffed toys, grouped together in similar colours.
Petra scowled, picking at her nail as if she couldn’t wait for me to leave.
‘I love this picture!’ I walked over to a framed sketch hanging on the wall. It hadn’t been here last time I’d visited the blue bedroom, so I was taking a chance that it was Petra’s. ‘What a gorgeous cat. She looks like a queen.’ I paused, glancing back at the bed. ‘Is it a she?’
A quick nod.
‘Stunning. This is so lifelike I wouldn’t be surprised if she sat up and stretched,’ I said, with a well-practised blend of casual and impressed.
The scowl almost disappeared this time.
‘What’s her name?’
‘Cleo. Short for Cleopatra.’
‘The Egyptian queen?’
Petra flicked up one corner of her mouth in a smile, and I breathed a secret sigh of relief. She’d been expecting me to bombard her with questions and information, to pretend I knew how she felt or tell her what she should do next. That was the last thing she needed.
‘Cats were considered sacred in ancient Egypt. When they died, their owners shaved off their eyebrows and mourned until the eyebrows grew back.’
‘Wow. I heard that sometimes people mummified their cats back then.’
‘Yes. They even had cat cemeteries.’
We chatted for a few more minutes before I handed her the drink.
‘Is your bump big enough to rest a mug on yet?’ I asked.
Petra furrowed her eyebrows, pushing back the duvet and giving it a go, but the moment she rested the mug on her rounded belly, a sudden movement beneath the skin sent it wobbling dangerously, causing her to burst out laughing in surprise.
‘That’ll be a no, then.’ I smiled, taking a sip of my own drink.
‘Will I get much bigger?’ she asked, her smile disappearing.
‘It’ll feel big, but some of the mums who come along to Bloomers have much rounder bumps at this stage. And it’ll be September by the time you’re due, so hopefully it won’t be so hot, and you’ll be a bit more comfortable.’
I left a moment of quiet before adding, softly, ‘I had my first baby before any of my friends, and one thing that helped most was when I found some other people to hang out with who were dealing with the same stuff. That’s really what Bloomers is about.’
I went on to explain how the Mondays and Thursday evenings worked. That there was no pressure, she could come along once and see how it went.
‘Can Mary stay with me?’
‘If you’ve chosen her to be your birth partner, then she can stay.’
She went pale, clutching her mug more tightly. I ignored the urge to wipe off her hot-chocolate moustache and give her a hug. ‘I haven’t even thought about that.’
‘That’s fine. There’s plenty of time. If you’re nervous, you can always hang about with me, but I promise that everyone remembers how awkward they felt their first week, so they’re all extra kind to new faces. How about you come along this evening? It’s only an hour and a half.’
I knew if I left her to think about it until Monday, that would give Petra far too much time to worry herself into deciding not to come.
She gave a hesitant nod. ‘Okay. If I’m not too knackered.’
I smiled as I left. ‘Given that you’re still in bed and it’s past two o’clock, I think you’ll manage it. I can’t wait to see you there.’
As I dropped off my mug in the kitchen, it happened.
Back when I was sixteen and heartbroken, it had happened all the time. Far less so once I’d started going out with Brayden, though from time to time I still stopped in my tracks, the sudden bolt of adrenaline sending me dizzy, the sense of surrealism lingering long after I realised that of course it wasn’t him. He was miles away.
Beyond the kitchen window, on the far side of the huge lawn, beneath a horse chestnut tree, I saw the silhouette of the boy who was my first heartbreak.
Standing with Bob, clearly deep in conversation. It was the tilt of the head, how he crossed his arms.
And then he shifted, gripping Bob’s shoulder in a friendly gesture, and I realised that this was no boy, but a man, his back several inches broader than Jonah’s, a relaxed confidence to his stance instead of Jonah’s wary posture. I shook my head, annoyed and embarrassed at my pounding heart. Then again, I supposed it wasn’t too surprising I’d had a false sighting, after the person called Ellis had booked onto my class, dredging up old memories.
It was only later, when I was on my way to pick up the kids, that I realised Jonah King was the same age as me. He was no boy any more. I tried to imagine how Jonah would appear at thirty, but it was impossible. His future had rested on a knife’s edge at the point I’d last seen him.
Literally, on his darker days.
I’d occasionally given in to the temptation to search for him online in the aftermath of Brayden leaving us, but brief searches had yielded nothing, and so I’d always given up before it became anything more than a fleeting curiosity.
But now, as I parked the car and hurried over to the school field, it burned in me with the fire of a teenager’s first love.
What had happened to Jonah? Had he coped with moving to a strange town, from a family to an institution? Had he ended up a statistic, or a success story?
The last thing I wondered, before Isla ran into my arms, bursting into tears because she’d scored her first goal, was whether he’d ever wondered about me.