Cath Staincliffe - Half the World Away

‘No,’ I say. Isaac screws up his mouth.

Dr Munir listens to Isaac’s chest, asks about allergies in the family (none), about Isaac’s appetite (picky) and if he’s making progress at school (some).

‘Would you like a listen?’ he says to Isaac.

Isaac does. There’s a look of consternation on his face as the doctor puts the earphones in Isaac’s ears and places the disc on his breastbone.

Isaac yanks his T-shirt back on. I pull his sweatshirt sleeves the right way out and give it to him.

‘There’s no obvious cause I can find to explain the sickness,’ Dr Munir says. ‘It may be that Isaac is simply picking up viruses at school. There has not been any fitting with the fever?’

‘No,’ I say.

‘Any big changes at home?’

‘No.’

Isaac doesn’t know yet: we’re still waiting for the green light , as Mr Chadwick from the Foreign Office put it. Yesterday I had a call from him to tell me that one of the consular staff in Chongqing, the nearest consulate to Chengdu, was now liaising with the local authorities on the welfare check. Hospitals were being contacted, the visa departments and immigration authorities. If Lori had left China, it would be documented. Mr Chadwick would let us know the results of those searches as soon as he heard.

I like to think of Lori on some far-flung island having a go at scuba-diving or para-sailing. Or trekking in Nepal, sharing campfire meals under skies dusted with stars, crossing glaciers and sleeping in bags smelling of woodsmoke and moisturizing cream. On top of the world. Alive with excitement.

‘I suggest you monitor the situation,’ Dr Munir says, ‘perhaps keep a chart of any illness. If the situation persists, do come back. We could refer you to a paediatrician or for allergy testing in case there is a dietary trigger. Isaac’s not had any respiratory problems?’

‘No.’

‘Of course, if there is any worsening of symptoms, fits, for example, or a fever that lasts more than two days, please get emergency help.’

‘He was nice,’ I say to Isaac, as we walk back to school.

‘Yes.’

‘And he let you use his stethoscope to listen to your heart.’

His hand finds mine. ‘I didn’t like it.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because of the noise it makes.’

‘The heartbeat?’

‘Like I was scared,’ Isaac says, ‘boom-boom, boom-boom.’

I try to lighten the mood. ‘Babies’ hearts beat even faster. They sound like a horse running.’ I make a fast clopping sound with my tongue. And I think about hearing Lori’s heartbeat for the first time with the midwife’s stethoscope. And, like Isaac, hearing fear in the pace of it. ‘So fast?’ I’d said.

‘Completely normal,’ the midwife said. ‘That’s around a hundred and fifty beats per minute. During childhood it will gradually slow until it’s like ours.’

The picture when we went for the scan, and all those drawings in the maternity books of the foetus, looking so peaceful, thumb in mouth, eyes closed. But the heart going like the clappers.

There is a missed call on my phone, Jeremy Chadwick . As soon as I’ve left Isaac in class, I go to the staffroom, which is deserted, and try the number.

‘Mr Chadwick, this is Mrs Maddox.’

‘Hello, I’ve just spoken to Mr Myers to let you know we’ve now had word from Peter Dunne at the consulate in Chongqing. There is no report of Lorelei being seen at any of the hospitals and there is no record of her using her passport to leave the country since the trip to Hong Kong in February. That would be when she collected her work visa?’

‘Yes.’

‘The Chinese PSB, that’s the police, have agreed to undertake further enquiries and a visit was made today to her address in Chengdu. The apartment was empty.’

‘Right.’

‘I’ve emailed DI Dooley with this information and Peter Dunne will let us know as soon as there are any developments.’

‘Thank you. So we can go ahead with the appeal, now?’

‘Yes. That’s fine.’

We end the call. My arms and the base of my neck are tingling. I sit down and try to clear my head. ‘Ring Tom,’ I say out loud, ‘and Missing Overseas.’

Before I can dial, my phone rings. Nick.

‘I’ve just heard,’ I say to him. ‘If I ring Tom, can you call Missing Overseas and get them to put it up on the site? Talk to them about the press release and…’ there was something else we had to do for them but it escapes me ‘… whatever else.’

‘I will. You OK?’

When I don’t answer, I hear him draw in a breath. ‘See you soon, love.’

It takes me seconds to decide.

Grace is in her office, adding her head-teacher comments to the children’s reports.

‘Jo?’

‘I need to go home. Lori – it’s official. The Chinese police are looking for her… I need…’

‘Yes, of course, go. Go.’ She looks at me, compassion clear in her eyes, her lips parted, as though to say something, but what? What is there to say?

‘Finn and Isaac – can you keep them in after-school club? I didn’t book?’

‘Of course. And anything we can do,’ she adds, ‘just say.’

I nod, biting my tongue.

And leave.

I speak to Tom as I’m walking home. He is at one of his properties, dealing with a contractor, but will join us as soon as he’s done.

Nick has made a list from his conversation with Edward at Missing Overseas. We divide up the tasks. I begin calling round friends and family so people hear directly from us before it’s made public. I find it easier to keep the calls brisk as I tell her friends, Erin, then Amy, that Lori is officially missing, and ask them to spread the word. Jake’s voicemail is on so I leave him a message.

There’s no one really on my side of the family to notify: I’m an only child, parents both dead now. My mum’s brother Norman lives in Oxfordshire but he was too frail to make her funeral. His daughter, my cousin Adrienne, and her brother, Curtis, are still around somewhere but I only have Norman’s details. He is very deaf so I won’t ring. Instead I type a letter and address it to Adrienne, c/o Norman.

Edward has sent us a template for a press release and Nick is cutting and pasting text into it.

I ask Nick if he’ll speak to his parents in Nottingham. They are in sheltered accommodation, still independent but increasingly prone to falling over and the diseases of old age – glaucoma, arthritis, osteoporosis. Nick checks the time. They won’t answer the phone before six because of the expense, even though we’d be paying. It doesn’t matter whether we’ve a price plan that includes free or cheap calls to their number, the habit is ingrained. Betty washes and reuses baking foil and darns Ron’s socks. One teabag does for two cups.

Nick’s brother, Philip, lives near to them and has tea there every Sunday. Philip is a bit of a recluse, never married; he worked on the railways as an engineer for twenty years before going long-term sick with cirrhosis. He has a drink problem. Some insurance policy from his trade union means he can just about manage without having to go on benefits.

I wonder now, as Nick is deliberating over whether to call him first, if Philip is depressed, if that’s behind the drinking. Which came first? Then I feel awkward, knowing how much Nick would hate any comparison between himself and Philip, or any pop psychology about genetics and depression.

And this isn’t depression, I think, not really. Depression is not being able to get out of bed, literally. It’s trudging through one dead grey hour after another; it’s complete self-obsession, self-loathing and pain. Isolation. It is grief as deep as the earth. I know these things from stories I’ve read and documentaries I’ve seen but also because Tom’s mother has been clinically depressed for much of her life. And most of his. Hospitalized for years on end. She couldn’t come to our wedding. We took Lori there once, when Daphne was at home. I’d nagged Tom about visiting, letting her meet her grandchild, until he relented. I had seen photographs of her, tall and blonde, like Tom, but very pale-skinned. She did some modelling in the sixties. There are shots of her wrapped in white fur with bare feet and smouldering eyes. When she married Francis, she found herself installed in a crumbling Georgian house, in a Sussex village, expected to take care of the interior design and socializing and, once Tom came along, the childrearing, while Francis spent his weeks in London at his insurance company, living in the flat he kept there.