Good Me Bad Me(29)

The bell goes for lunch and I head over to the prep school. I’ve only helped out twice before but the kids seem to like me and I like them. I find their company to be a little like magic. They exist half in our world, half in theirs. Dragons to be slayed, princesses to rescue. Read it again, Milly, we love this story, pl-e-e-e-e-e-ease. One of the girls fell over last week, I rubbed her hands, brushed the gravel from her knees. Be brave, I told her, you’ll need to be.

When I arrive in the playground a small crowd runs at me, smiles and arms outstretched. ‘Yay, Milly’s here.’

‘Can we play horsey?’ asks Evelina, a tiny fragile-looking girl, pale skin, pink around her eyes. A mummy at home, who I bet runs oatmeal baths for the dry patches of eczema, visible behind her knees.

‘Climb on then,’ I reply, bending so she can reach.

I do it a lot. Think about what sort of parents other children have. The staff at the unit were so quick to tell me what you did was wrong. Abnormal. So I’m trying to learn what’s right, I’m trying to be different from you.

Evelina, a koala, locks her arms round my neck. As we canter past a classroom window, a trail of kids running behind, keen for it to be their turn next, I catch a glimpse of my reflection. I look away.

When I bend down, let Evelina slide off, a chorus of ‘me next’ starts up. I make a big show of pretending to look overwhelmed, run in a circle, they follow, of course. One girl lags behind, eyes trained on the floor, occasional glances, watches the other children, how they interact with me. I remember doing the same when I was her age. I offer her my back to climb on.

‘Would you like a go?’ I ask.

She shakes her head, fiddles with the buttons on her blazer, looks away. A chubby girl I’m keen to avoid launches herself at my back, tells me to giddy up. I’m angry that the other little girl, the one I want, doesn’t trust me enough to join in. You taught me how to be with children, yet it seems I still lack a lot of your charm. Your skill.

I take off, galloping.

‘Faster, faster,’ demands the shrill voice behind me.

She squeezes her legs round my waist, the sensation bothers me. Suffocates me. It’s a big drop from my back, not as far as Georgie’s fall but enough to hurt a five-or six-year-old. I should hold her tight.

I should.

She lands with a thump, begins to cry.

‘You dropped me.’

‘Oh, come on, Angela, no need for dramatics. All good riders take a tumble every now and then. Pick yourself up, dust yourself down.’

And move along. Out of my sight.

Hopscotch squares are painted on to some of the concrete slabs of the playground. I see the little girl pretending to look down at them. I don’t ask her to play, I know she won’t, but I walk over, give her a sweet from my pocket. Children like sweets, and the people who give them to them.

Your praise follows immediately – THAT’S MY GIRL – but instead of leaving me feeling victorious as it did in the toilets with Clondine and Izzy, this time it leaves me feeling sordid.

‘Hey, not fair,’ says Angela, when she notices the sweet. ‘I was the one that fell.’

I ignore her. Fat. Little. Piggy. The bell rings, signals the end of lunch.

‘Come on, everyone, let’s form a train and choo-choo to the registration point.’

Three teachers wait to sign the children back in, a headcount each time. You never know who lurks outside the playground.

Or in it.

‘Miss Carter, Milly dropped me.’

‘What’s that, Angela?’

I answer instead.

‘It was just a game, we were playing horsies, all okay though.’

‘Hmm, well please be more careful next time, Milly, the last thing we need is a complaint from a parent.’

‘Sure, I’ll be careful.’

‘Do,’ she replies, beady eyes on me.

I meet her stare, smile. It’s not me who should be careful.

Miss Evans, one of the other teachers, asks the kids to thank me. They do it in unison, a beautiful birdsong. It fills me, warms me. I look for the girl. She’s at the back of the line, still trying to look small. Invisible.

Mike came home late from work yesterday so we only managed a short session. He wanted to talk to me about Daniel, about the possibility of what I’d be asked if I’m cross-examined in court, how the defence might try to imply I should have done more. Could have done more. It’s vital you resist internalizing these feelings, he said, hang on to the reality that none of it was your fault. Nobody blames you. Not true, I wanted to say.

I blame me.

He asked to meet again tonight so we could continue with guided relaxation, said it’s crucial for releasing trauma buried in my subconscious. I told him I don’t like not being able to remember everything I’ve said. You have to trust me, Milly, he replied, I know what I’m doing, I’ve been doing it for a long time.

Before I meet with him I reply to Morgan’s text from earlier. She said she’d been spying on the ‘blonde bitch’ and did I know she smoked? No I didn’t, I reply. I see her writing a response – Well she does, wonder what else I can find out about her?!! I never asked her to, but I like the idea of her creeping about, spying for me, it makes me feel closer to her, like she’s someone I can trust.

When I arrive in the kitchen Phoebe’s telling Mike about Georgie’s accident and how she helped. She goes on to tell him I froze, didn’t help at all. As pale as Georgie was.