bear across the face.
Christ. Who has she learnt that from?
Kirsten makes to go into the room, but Ian holds out a hand to stop her.
‘Let me,’ he whispers. ‘You did this afternoon. Go downstairs and put your feet up.’
Kirsten shrugs, lets him go in. But after the bear exchange, she’s not about to leave Ian alone with Harriet. She wants to be sure of what goes on. So she moves out of the doorway, does some loud stepping on the spot to imitate going downstairs, then stays where she can hear.
‘I’m sorry about the shouting, sweetheart,’ she hears Ian say.
She can’t see Harriet’s reaction, but Ian continues.
‘Sometimes grown-ups just get a bit angry with themselves, and they take it out on each other.’ It’s a platitude, but Kirsten’s not sure she could do better.
‘As long as they don’t take it out on their children,’ says Harriet, very seriously. ‘Children are there to make people happy.’
Kirsten blinks back tears. She makes it sound so simple.
‘That’s right, sweetie,’ Kirsten hears Ian say. ‘Did someone teach you that?’
‘My new teacher, she’s great,’ Harriet says.
There’s rustling, maybe a hug. ‘I’m so glad you like her, sweetheart.’
‘And the playground is brilliant. Look, I got two more scabs.’
Harriet showed them to Kirsten earlier. Kirsten had kissed each one of them. She can’t see how Ian reacts, but hears ‘I love you, Daddy’.
‘I love you too, sweetheart.’ So. He’s being good, caring Daddy now. Makes a change. But credit where it’s due. Kirsten is about to sneak away downstairs, when Harriet speaks again.
‘I love Mummy too but please will you tell her she doesn’t need to shout? We can still hear if she uses her gentle voice.’
Kirsten closes her eyes and leans against the wall. Her child shouldn’t have to say this.
‘I can ask her, sweetie, but I don’t know if she’ll listen,’ she hears Ian say. Great, so much for spousal support.
‘You’ll have to make her listen.’
Then Ian again: ‘You’re right, sweetheart. I’ll have to make her listen. One way or another.’
Kirsten feels a little chill spread over her at the words, then shakes it off. He’s just trying to reassure their daughter. She could walk into the room, say she is persuaded, that she will use her gentle voice from now on. Ask Ian to explain what he means. But no. Gentle voice here means retreat. Don’t spoil this rare father-daughter bonding session. Retreat. Pad softly downstairs and leave them to it. Whatever ‘it’ is.
MIRIAM, SEPTEMBER 2018
Miriam’s stomach rumbles. She should eat. She looks from her lesson plans to her watch: 7.30 p.m. Kiddy bedtime. Imagine them now, all the parents, tucking in their kids. If only it could be her. Brushing those strands of beautiful hair away from the little ones’ faces to make room for a kiss. Maybe another bedtime story, another lullaby. Then turn off the light, leave the room to be lit by the glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling.
OK, they can’t all do that – look at stars. They can’t all have had the same bedroom ceiling as Miriam did. Back when things were sweet, innocent, untrammelled. How she used to stare at those stars, be soothed by them, when things were bad. They were her little bits of magic, adorning the ceiling. She’ll never see that room again.
Miriam puts down her pen and gets up from her desk (i.e. the one table her flat possesses – mean old landlord). She can’t plan anymore. First, the lesson is the most over-planned one ever. (She had the full first week planned the day after she got the job.) Second, how can she enthuse children when her empty stomach is making her maudlin? The big picture is too distracting – after all, she became a teacher so that she could one day hope to have a child of her own. The right one. The one that she could win over, slowly but surely, so that the parents sort of … fade away. Individual planning of lessons seems too trivial compared with that, even though she knows that gently, gently, little by little, is the way to win that trust.
Plus, the fridge is calling to her. She walks over to the kitchenette and opens the door. The glow illuminates the room and she realises she’s been working unlit. Terrible for the eyes and the mood. Happy thoughts, please – dream job, dream children, dream future. That’s what it’s all about.
She fishes out some noodles from the fridge, adds a bit of extra soy sauce. She contemplates the desk/table, wondering if it’s worth the effort to clear stuff away just now so she can eat. Probably not – sofa’s just as good for dining alone. She picks up the school-issued A4 picture sheet of the children she teaches, and takes that and the noodles to the sofa. Gingerly, she puts her feet up on the edge of the bucket that’s meant to be catching the drips. (Seriously – when is her so-called landlord coming over? She needs to text him again later.)
How unalike so many of the photos are to the children they’re trying to capture. Harriet, for example (of course). She looks so washed-out, so wall-eyed, and her hair dulled. In the picture, that is. In the flesh, she is so much more … nuanced. A living, breathing child, not just a mark on a bit of paper. Look at all the others. So beautiful to their parents – and not unbeautiful to Miriam, either. Or each other, as time moves on. Miriam wonders who Harriet’s little friends will be. The ones she’ll stay friends with in future, right through high school. The ones who’ll mess her life up if she lets them.
She’ll be asleep by now, probably – they all will. What will Mr and Mrs – sorry, Mr and Dr – White be doing? Hold on, maybe she doesn’t want to know! But no, maybe more likely sitting downstairs with a big glass of red wine each? Reminding each other all the ways Harriet is wonderful? Such a cosy notion of parenthood. Is it like that, being in a marriage like theirs, with the little one asleep upstairs? Or is it just tapping away at smartphones, preparing for another working day? Where Miriam’s work involves teaching Harriet, their work involves palming her off on teachers. Not that it would do for her to be home-schooled. Certainly not.
Miriam places the photo sheet carefully on the floor and exhales. Come on. Enjoy this. It’s what you’ve been working for. It’s a success! First day in a new job, no disasters, all the kids are compliant, the other staff are fine. You have your special child to make a project of. All good.
She looks up at the ceiling. No stars to gaze at here. Perhaps she could catch a shooting star out the window? Make a wish on it? Because unfortunately for Miriam, a good day isn’t enough. The anxiety never goes away. What if the kids are unhappy? What if they aren’t treated right? What if they end up … well, like her?
She needs to take her mind off this. So she does her other usual favourite/least favourite thing. She summons up Facebook on her phone and looks into other worlds. Or rather a specific world. A woman with her young daughter. A girl she’s no longer allowed to look after. Apparently Miriam’s judgement is ‘off’. But look at that girl. Such a pretty little thing, eating an ice cream, hair all done up with ribbons. Miriam would so love to be the one posting those pictures. She remembers holding the little baby, how small and precious it was, how she wanted it to be with her for her own, always. It wasn’t meant to end that way. So she’ll just have to Facebook stalk. For now.
KIRSTEN, SEPTEMBER 2018
It was bound to happen.
Kirsten