A. L. Bird - Don’t Say a Word

Come on, Bill.

Still they drone on. Bank transfer, signature, guarantor. Yadda yadda yadda. I need to pick up my son. Is this what it’s like for every mother, or is it just me, with my special considerations?

Can I just go? Can I simply duck out of the room and hope Bill will remember why? That he’ll start to write his own notes? He knows why I have to be at those gates. He knows why I can’t leave Josh waiting. He knows there’s a just in case to end all just in cases. All the fear: Chloe fear; Mick fear; unnamed accomplice fear.

Then, rescue.

In the form of Lucy. Bizarrely.

She’s sticking her head round the door of the meeting room.

‘Sorry to interrupt, Bill. May I borrow Jen? It’s rather urgent.’

Is it? Has she shown sudden compassion and memory about my pick-up times?

Oh fuck.

The Land Transfer forms.

Lucy gets Bill’s best subtle unimpressed look. I’m allowed to share in it. Crap. Crap crap crap.

‘Yes, of course, Lucy. Send in Sheila, will you? She can carry on note-taking.’

I leave the room with as much dignity as I can muster. I know I’m in for a major bollocking now. Well stuff it. She’ll just have to have her forms tomorrow. It’s 3.35 at least by now.

When I’m out of the room, Lucy strides ahead of me until we’re out of earshot of the meeting room. Then it’s blast-off.

‘Well, Jen, where are the forms? I’m assuming you’ve done them? You know I have to send them over by 4 p.m.?’

Silence as I try to rally my brain. With the lunchtime window scare, the Dan call, the drugs picture – I just forgot. I clean forgot.

‘I’m waiting, Jen.’

She’s actually tapping her foot. Oh God this takes me back to all those kitchens, hallways, lobbies – holding chambers for frustration of adults at fucked-up children.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say.

I wait for the response.

‘Sorry isn’t good enough.’

Yep, there it is.

I give a little shrug.

‘Have you done anything on the forms at all?’

‘I’ve started, but –’

‘Well finish now then!’

That is a shout. She is definitely shouting.

I look at my watch.

‘Oh, I’m sorry, Jen, do you have to be somewhere?’

‘I have to collect my son,’ I tell her.

‘You should have thought about that before,’ she tells me.

Yep, yep, I should have thought about that before. Before I swore at my new foster dad (then wanted to stay). Before I threw the key of my new children’s-home room into the River Don (then wanted to get my phone). Before I grabbed my bags and told them all I was leaving (but didn’t have any money).

But now I’m a grown-up. Now I get a say.

‘Look, Lucy. It’s nearly 4 p.m. now. You won’t get the forms over before then, even if I stay. This transaction’s been going on for months. Why don’t you call the other side and explain it’s being pushed back one more day? I need to collect my son.’

I make to walk to my desk.

Lucy grabs my arm.

I recoil immediately.

‘Jennifer Sutton, don’t you dare speak to me like that! Put back my transaction I’ve been working on for months because you couldn’t be bothered to do your work? Your son can wait at the gates like everyone else. Or get his dad to pick him up. Or a friend or something?’

‘His father doesn’t pick him up,’ I say. I could say so much more. But that means enough in itself.

‘Look, don’t bother me with your domestic arrangements. You get to that desk, you do your work, or I’m taking you straight back into that meeting room and getting you fired this instant.’

Suddenly a male voice chips in.

‘Lucy, a word?’ It’s Tim.

Lucy wheels round to face him. ‘What?’ she snaps.

If it occurs to Lucy she needs to adjust her tone to speak to a fellow partner, she doesn’t show it. If anything, her eyes narrow.

‘Thought I ought to mention it’s entirely my fault Jen hasn’t done those forms. She was working on something for me, which I asked her to prioritize. She’s just too polite to mention it. Isn’t that right, Jen?’ I nod, mutely. Tim is dignified, reassuring. Lucy is even redder than she was.

‘You asked her to prioritize, without speaking to me?’

Tim lays out his hands and shrugs. ‘I’m terribly sorry, Lucy. Perhaps I haven’t quite worked out the etiquette here. But look, I couldn’t help overhear that Jen needs to pick up her son. Perhaps she could do your work tomorrow?’

‘I do need to pick up my son, Lucy,’ I add.

‘Right, come on then – in to see Bill. Then see what happens about your precious son.’

She’s right. I need this job. I need the money for some decent clothes for Josh. The Lego. The security, the food, the role model. I cannot sit at home on the dole. After all this, I cannot do that. To him. To me. I look at the clock: 3.50. Fuck.

She’s marching me closer to Bill’s meeting.

‘Wait, Lucy. Wait. I’ll stay. I’ll work fast – and accurately – and I’ll get it done. OK?’

I’ll be fifteen minutes late. He’ll be fine. He’ll be fine. Do not let paranoia destroy you.

Tim chips in again. ‘I’m sure she’ll manage it. Jen seems very diligent.’

I wrestle my arm free from Lucy’s and stand facing her a moment. She glares at me and Tim.

‘Fine. But I am not forgetting this, Jennifer. Do you hear me?’

‘I hear you.’

Back at my desk, I want to call the school, tell them to get him inside. But Lucy is watching me. Of course she is. And Tim has gone back to his office. I have to get on with it.

OK. Open up the form.

Right now, he’ll be packing up his bag. Thinking about seeing me.

Which of these stupid pull-down menus is it? Right, that one.

Now he’ll be dawdling on the school steps with his friends, reliving the day’s events.

Why can’t I just free-fill this little box? What do the xxxxs want me to type in that I’m not typing? Fuck.

Approaching the gate. Looking with casual certainty, knowing I’ll be there.

Have I even saved this? No, it’s still the template. Fuck.

And now he’s seeing I’m not there. Double-checking. Looking again.

I have never not been there.

Here we go, here we go, final box to fill. Oh shit, what’s the name of the transferee? Is it Suggs or Sugg?

So now he’s having that tightening feeling all over him – the signal from the brain that starts with the shoulder slump, goes to the dropped head, finally works its way to the straightening up again of the back with a defiant ‘OK, so I’m not wanted – I can deal with that.’ But he should never, never have to deal with that.

Here we go, done – email and print, email and print.

Besides which, there are people who want him. People/person, he/she, I don’t know. They shouldn’t be able to. But what if, what if, what if? What if I get there and it’s too late? It will be too late then for ever and ever and ever.

The cocking printer isn’t working! I will not lose my son because of the printer! Paper, it wants paper. Here we go then, have the bloody paper; fill your boots.

Race round to Lucy.

‘Here we are, Lucy. Sorry about that. I’ve checked them through. They’re fine. OK?’

I’m mentally searching my bag for the car keys. I can get them out then vroom, off to the school.

But Lucy is taking her time. She owns eternity. Come on!

‘I would have left a space here.’ She gestures to the form with her disgustingly lacquered nail. Do not make me redo it. ‘But I suppose it’s fine. Good. Right, you’d better go off to your lovely son. See you tomorrow!’

And now she’s beaming at me! She’s fucking beaming at me! Like an abusive fucking boyfriend she’s done her bit, had her fun, landed her metaphorical fist and now she’s all considerate again. Like those fucking social workers once they’ve struggled through your ‘chaos’ to find a ‘solution’ and think they’ve saved the world.