The Wind in the Willows

Potentially sensitive issues/triggering content: child abandonment, family breakdown

***

Look, Auntie Em, the houses are screaming! Lacey tripped along beside me as, with Disney-pink bag on my back, and dragging my suitcase behind me, we entered the Deer View Estate. Nine years old and quite the creative thinker, only moments before she had told me her head felt like lava, and although it was true that temperatures had risen slightly these past few days, there was still a chill breeze and the April sky remained overcast.

From across the street, I considered the row of buildings before us. Identical red-brown facades, a narrow jutting of roofs, pocket-handkerchief gardens, wood-preserved fences, low hedges. The Willows. All very stand-to-attention, but nothing out of the ordinary, except, perhaps, the absence of the self-same species of tree after which the road had been named. But, to give Lacey her due, the two upstairs windows on each of the houses did resemble a pair of startled eyes, and more so because the front door ‘mouths’ were centered so precisely between them. A symmetrical portrait alignment, which promptly put me in mind of Edward Munch and his famous work of art.

Screaming, eh? And who can blame them, hun? The landscape we’d just passed through, rough on our shoes and the wheels of my case since alighting from the train, had been exceedingly bleak. A fly tip both sides of a pot-holed tarmac path, the jagged remains of fallen trees, weeds and vandalized saplings, a graffitied underpass and burnt-out waste bin.

What, Auntie Em?

Never mind.

Lacey, in typical spry-child fashion, was already three steps ahead, distracted by and heading towards the yipping terrier in number two’s garden. Ooh, I wonder what its name is…? It’s got a collar on, maybe it’ll say. If I had a dog, I’d call it Springer ‘cos that’s what it is today, but then I’d probably want to change it when summer came, and again in autumn and winter… She chattered on as I took the side of the pavement nearest the kerb to prevent her from crossing. The dog looked far from friendly and I pitied the sparrows flitting in and out of the neighboring hedge. Beaks full of twigs, their nest and any fledglings in it wouldn’t stand a chance.

So where does Ruth live?

Right at the end, number twelve.

And does she have pets? I think I’ll like it there if she does. Mummy and Baz never let me have any. Just the fish and they were Baz’s really…

I stopped, drew breath. This was the first time Lacey had mentioned either her mother or her stepfather in days, and I had begun to wonder if she knew more than she was letting on, that she had heard me on the phone when I’d first got in touch with Ruth, and had somehow worked out what was happening. It had been two weeks since my younger sister, Paula, had taken off, leaving Lacey and her three young brothers behind. Two weeks since Baz, reeling from the shock of her desertion, and verbally lashing out at me in a fit of rage, had also, very cruelly abandoned her. But as far as my niece was concerned, we were simply ‘on holiday’. Oh goody, I’ve never stayed more than one night at yours before. It’s gonna be great, my brothers are such a pain… I’d almost replied, ‘try having a sister’.

So, Paula wanted to ‘fulfill herself’, to ‘experience life’, to be seen as ‘more than just a domestic drudge, a frazzled mum… A baby-making machine’. ‘Yeah, a trollop’, according to Baz who knew all about the ‘drug-pushing lowlife’ she’d gone off with. ‘Sun, sea, sangria, sex, and sod you all.’ But, for all that he was the injured party, he really wasn’t much better. Oh yes, he’d gladly take care of the boys – they were his, after all – but no way would he be ‘that eejit mug any more, slaving away, bringing up another man’s kid’. And if ‘that selfish, slovenly bitch’ could up-sticks, then so could he. His parents down south, in whose presence he’d always insisted we call him Barry, had never approved of Paula and would welcome him and the little ones in with open arms. Now that their son had ‘at long last seen sense and got shot of that millstone round his neck’, they’d help him ‘properly raise their grandsons’, support him. Of course, his parents could cope. His parents had a five-bedroomed house. His parents weren’t old and in a fragile state of health.

Can’t your mum and dad look after her? I’d glared at my boss at the electrical store when he’d asked the question in light of my requesting time off – and at my boyfriend, Sam, when he’d suggested as much, peeved that because I only had a one-bed flat, Lacey’s being there meant he couldn’t stay over. My parents were in their late sixties, my father had suffered a stroke, and my mother was in serious need of respite, and not merely because of the stress she’d been under caring for my father these past twelve months. Paula hadn’t made it easy for her over the years. A wild-child in her teens when she’d fallen pregnant (and to whom she didn’t know, it could have been any one of a number of men) that side of her had never been laid to rest. For all they’d been together seven years, her relationship with Baz had been tumultuous to say the least. Baby after baby, and not a penny to their name. Baz had been unemployed more often than I cared to recall, and their house was a tip, but come what may, Paula partied on. It’s a wonder social services haven’t taken them bairns, our Em. You won’t let that happen, will you...? Such pitiful words, such a heartbroken, heart-wrenching plea from the tiny shattered lady who, at this time last year, I already barely recognized as the woman I’d always called Mam. And it broke my heart as well. But more so now because the promise I’d made her back then, and simply to appease, I knew I couldn’t keep, and now, in lieu of Paula’s latest stunt, I’d been forced, not only to shield her from the truth, but to lie in much the same way as I’d had to lie to my niece. Mam, remember Ruth? She used to visit when we were kids, babysat once in a while, read us stories. What was her second name again…? Bannerman… oh yes…. And where was it she moved to…? A foster carer wasn’t she…? Why? Oh, no reason, she just popped into my head…

That’s it, Auntie Em, number twelve. Ooh! I like the red door. It looks like it’s got lipstick on.

With Lacey running on ahead, I crossed the road thinking back to the lipstick that Ruth had worn two decades ago, and how young she must have been then. Around the age I was now, I supposed. Mam’s thirty-something married friend who couldn’t have kids of her own but would have loved them…

Days before, Ruth and I had spoken for over an hour. It had been a couple of years since she and her husband had taken on a foster child, but they were still on the register. Of course, she’d confirmed what I’d thought from the start, that Lacey shouldn’t be kept in the dark, but Mam’s old friend did understand why I’d told her what I had. It was early days. Paula could still change her mind and return – as could Baz. They might both regret their actions, but didn’t Lacey wonder why she was still on holiday when Easter was past and she should be back in school? And if we were to travel the sixty miles out of town, not merely for a weekend visit, but for the fortnight’s trial run I’d proposed, both the school and the authorities would have to be informed. I could hold off on this until after we’d arrived if I so wished, but not for much longer, for as Ruth said, there was always the chance that the child wouldn’t take to her or her surroundings, but that didn’t alter the fact that they, and most importantly Lacey, would have to be put in the picture with regard to her current situation. Admittedly, I was scared, but knew that what Ruth had told me made sense.

On approaching the gate, Lacey slowed her pace and I caught up. Hand on the latch time, a trundle up the garden path, small lawn on the right, crocus and daffodil borders, pansies in crack-glaze pots on the step either side of the door. Lacey’s long fair hair looked unkempt. Wind-blown. Should have tied it back. Should have checked my own. No need to knock. The door opened.

Skinny jeans and a white A-line bob. A flush on the cheeks and a welcoming smile. Good to see you, Em, after all these years, and this must be Lacey? Hi, I’m Ruth. I knew your Gran very well once upon a time. You look so much like her. But, come in, come in…

We entered a rosy hallway where we left our luggage and hung up our jackets, then Ruth led us into the lounge at the back of the house. Equally pink and cozy, soft furnishings a-blush cooled to mauve by the electric-blue lit aquarium which ran the length of the wide uPVC framed window above it. Lacey and I took a seat on the sofa facing. Closer than usual, she half-nuzzled into my arm, eyes on the tank. Tea? Coffee? Lacey, how would you like a smoothie? I’ve got fruit juice as well. Or squash…?

Can I just have water, please? Her voice seemed so small.

Of course, love, no problem… I’ve made sandwiches too… And there’s cakes and biscuits. I’ll just bring them through…

The nudge came once Ruth had departed, a tiny tug on my sleeve. A whisper. Auntie, Em, do you think it would it be alright it if I went over there to look at the fish?

I don’t see why not. I tried to sound cheerful.

Lacey slid from the sofa, edged her way across the room, knelt down by the tank and watched in silence. Different species of fish, different sizes and colours, darting to and fro or swimming sedately, round and round, in and out of the bright aquatic plants. Slow, quick-quick, slow…

Ah, I see you’re enjoying the fish. David – that’s my husband - will be pleased. Bet he’ll tell you all about them when he gets home from work… Laughing, Ruth re-entered the room, placing food and drinks onto a nest of tables which I helped ease apart. …They’re very much his babies, I’m afraid. Knows all the different species, whereas I’m really quite clueless.

Lacey swiveled round. We had fish too once. Baz had a tank, and there was this one fish that was pregnant. She had so many babies, but then she ate them all up… Bad Mummy! Bad Mummy Fish!

Ruth and I exchanged a glance as Lacey jumped to her feet. Can I go play in the garden?

Why, yes dear…

With Lacey out back on a patch of land which was four times the size of the one at the front, and, Ruth assured me, both safely enclosed and child-friendly (they still had the wooden playhouse and other equipment) it gave us a chance to talk. And it was then we decided how to best broach the subject at hand. We would allow my niece to settle in for a day or so, then sit her down and tell her together. Ruth would know what to say and how to say it, help guide me along.

Coffee drank, we stood up and looked to the window. Only minutes before, Lacey had been busy investigating the playhouse. Now she sat on the ground, back against its side panels, looking up towards the one remaining willow in the scheme, the bare-wood branches of which overhung the Bannerman’s six-foot boundary hedge. We followed her out. You okay there, hun? I smoothed her hair, which given the way the wind had picked up, was beginning to resemble a haystack blown free of its finer straw.

Yes, I’m just thinking about that tree. It sounds so angry with all its branches banging together. And it looks kind of scary. See, it’s got tears dripping down as well.

The catkins. Spring had come late this year, and there were only a few as yet. More to follow.

Ruth crouched down, and smiling softly, considered my little niece. Don’t worry, love, it won’t look like that forever. You’ll see…