Tom says.
‘Sweetheart.’ I stroke his forehead.
Tom murmurs, ‘I want to sleep. Please, Mum.’
‘You haven’t eaten. The sooner you eat, the sooner we can get home to your own bed. With all your Lego.’
‘Red Lego. Want to … sleep.’
‘Tom, the doctor wants to know if you took anything. Medicine – anything like that.’
Tom shakes his head, eyes bobbing closed.
When the doctor leaves, Tom sleeps until teatime.
He wakes to eat three forkfuls of hospital meat pie and one spoonful of strawberry yoghurt.
While I’m clearing Tom’s dinner tray, a nurse says: ‘You’ll be discharged later. Just as soon as the doctor comes back.’
I nod, shelving the empty tray in a metal trolley.
‘Tom will be in his own bed tonight,’ the nurse continues. ‘And back at school tomorrow. That’ll be nice, won’t it?’
‘Yes.’
But actually, the thought of school … it frightens me.
What’s the time? My watch hands point to 7.10 p.m., but the computer says 7 p.m.
The computer is right, of course – I always set my watch ten minutes fast. Col calls this my mega efficiency.
I see Tessa in her office, stuffing Nespresso capsules into her handbag.
‘I need you here first thing tomorrow,’ she commands, striding past me. ‘Did you get the Kinnock file closed down yet?’
‘Tom Kinnock’s mother still hasn’t replied to my letter. She’s had it over a week now. I need to pencil in an unannounced visit. See how Tom’s settling into his new school before I close the case down.’
‘Don’t forget your twenty-nine other children.’
‘Thirty children now, Tessa. And yes, I know.’
‘Don’t cancel anything you shouldn’t.’
There is a secret code in social services. Some appointments absolutely can’t be altered. Some shouldn’t be altered, but have to be.
It all comes down to greatest need.
‘Okay, listen. Why not forget about Tom Kinnock for the time being?’ Tessa suggests. ‘You have a cast-iron defence if anything goes wrong – blame Hammersmith and Fulham. They should have passed it over sooner.’
‘I need to make a start,’ I say. ‘Get some sort of order. The file has passed through ten different social workers – the notes are an absolute mess. Pages and pages of reports, everything out of order. It needs straightening out.’
‘Hammersmith and Fulham sound worse than this place,’ says Tessa. ‘Can you imagine? Somewhere more chaotic than here?’ She snorts with laughter and heads towards the swing doors. ‘Well. Night then.’
I put my head in my hands.
At university, I was always ‘Sensible Kate’ or ‘Aunty Kate’. The one with a good head on her shoulders. I never broke down or got overwhelmed. But right now, I’m stressed to the point of collapse.
‘Are you all right?’
My head jerks up, and I see Tessa lingering in the doorway.
I feel embarrassed and pat my cheeks. ‘Fine. I thought you’d gone.’
‘You’re not all right, are you?’ Tessa backtracks, perching her large behind on my desk. ‘You’re killing yourself. Staying late every night. This can’t be doing your love life any good. What does your boyfriend think about all this?’
‘Husband.’
‘Oh, that’s right. I can never get my head around that. At your age.’
‘Col’s getting used to my working habits. I used to text him if I’d be home late. Now I text if I’ll be home on time.’
Tessa guffaws. ‘Sounds about right. But how long will he be understanding for? A lot of relationships break down here. Partners get fed up of being second best.’
‘Col and I are solid. We support each other.’
‘Listen, with a caseload like yours, you’ve got to put some of them on the back burner.’
‘Tell me, Tessa – how can I put a vulnerable child on the back burner?’
Mum is visiting today. She wants to talk about Tom’s first week at school. Make sure he’s settling in okay.
Two things will happen.
She will be late.
She will criticise me incessantly.
I’ve made vegetable soup with organic parsnips and carrots, and just a little bit of crème fraîche, plus (I won’t tell my mum this) a squirt of tomato ketchup. Pumpkin seed and olive oil bread warms in the oven.
I have been up early, cleaning, scrubbing, dusting. The house looks great, actually. A real step forward. I’ve laid the breakfast bar in the big, beautiful conservatory using freshly laundered napkins and antique wine glasses.
But I know it won’t be enough. Nothing ever is for my mother.
It’s 1 p.m., and Tom waits in a clean shirt, face scrubbed, hair shiny. He tried to get out of brushing his teeth (‘I’ll do it later, Mum’), but I managed to bribe him with a fruit Yoyo and the promise that he doesn’t have to give Grandma a kiss.
Now we’re sat on the sofa, listening for the click click of my mother’s high heels.
A car slows outside. I hear footsteps, then a hard knock at the door.
This is her.
I open the door to a cloud of rose perfume and Mum’s glossy, denture-perfect smile. She looks like a Fifties movie star – red lipstick, bright green pashmina and Jane Mansfield coiffed black hair.
‘Hello, darling.’ Mum kisses me on both cheeks, leaving traces of lipstick, which I surreptitiously rub off. She glides into the house, sharp, green eyes inspecting. ‘How is my little grandson?’
‘He’s much better now,’ I say. ‘They didn’t keep him overnight in the end. They think the seizure could have been a one-off. Just some unexplained childhood thing. Tom, say hello to your grandma.’
‘Hello,
