What Lies Between Us(41)

‘She was locked inside again for about an hour earlier. Then her dad came and let her out. We have to do something, Nina.’

If Maggie is being honest, then no, we can’t let a child suffer. But what if she’s confused or wrong? Or what if this is another one of her escape plans? Is she capitalising on my big heart to lull me into a false sense of security?

‘I’ll be back in a few minutes,’ I say, and leave her. I pause at her bedroom door and turn around, again looking for a sign that I’m right to be cautious. But she isn’t paying me any attention. She remains where she is, glued to the window. I want to think that she’s telling the truth.

I return with a tray containing both of our dinners. We sit side by side on the ottoman, eating sausage and mash from plates on our laps and watching the girl’s window over the road. Neither of us mentions our fight.

It’s the first time I’ve eaten with her in her bedroom. She picks up a metal knife to cut into a sausage and at the same moment, we both realise that I’ve forgotten to give her a plastic one. I’m angry with myself – only moments ago I was telling myself to be vigilant and here I am, handing her a weapon. She turns the knife around and passes it to me, handle first.

‘It’s okay,’ I find myself saying, so she continues to use it.

‘This is nice,’ she comments. ‘What’s in these sausages?’

‘They were on offer in Sainsbury’s,’ I say. ‘They’ve got chilli flakes in them.’

‘Chilli? Fancy that. You used to love sausage and mash when you were a girl.’

‘These days they call meals like this “comfort food”.’

‘My comfort food is beef, Yorkshire puddings and roast potatoes.’

‘I can never get my Yorkshires to rise like yours did.’

‘It’s all in the heat. If the oven temperature is too high, they won’t go up enough. You know Alistair couldn’t cook to save his life.’

The mention of Dad surprises me. She brings him up so casually, it’s as if we discuss him on a regular basis. And she never refers to him as ‘your dad’. She’s stripped him of his parental title. In return, I have done the same to her.

‘Yes, he could,’ I counter. ‘He was always in the kitchen at the weekends. I used to help him.’

‘He was. But they say you’re either a baker or a cook, and he was definitely a baker. What about the time when I was ill with shingles and he made dinner and put the fish fingers in the microwave for fifteen minutes? When they came out they were like doorstops.’

That brings a smile to my face. ‘I wasn’t that much better,’ I say. ‘Do you recall my home economics class when I had to make vegetable soup? You packed the spice jar in among my ingredients, and I thought I had to pour the whole thing in.’

Maggie laughs. ‘We were barely able to keep a straight face when you brought that home. One spoonful and our mouths were on fire.’

I’m suddenly overcome by the need to ask the question I have asked many times before but which she’s steadfastly refused to answer. She has never told me the truth about Dad. My mouth opens, only this time, I have second thoughts. I’m so used to being consumed by resentment towards her that this ceasefire has come out of the blue. And I find myself appreciating the moment we’ve found ourselves in.

‘She’s done it again!’ Maggie yells, bringing me back to the present. My eyes dart back to the window. ‘Did you see it? She just slapped her daughter again!’

I was too busy looking at Maggie to see it, but looking across the road I recognise another argument taking place between mother and child. I watch carefully, waiting for another physical outburst, but instead there’s only shouting. Did Maggie really see what she thinks she’s seen? Can I take her word for it?

‘We have to help her,’ says Maggie adamantly. ‘We need to call the police.’

I’m swayed by her passion but I shake my head.

‘Why not?’

‘Because they’ll want to know where I witnessed the attacks and I can’t see into that bedroom from the ground or the first floor.’

Maggie glares at me, and I feel like a child who has disappointed a parent with naughty behaviour. But I can’t afford to fly above the radar and put myself at risk of outside scrutiny.

‘What if you were to contact Social Services?’ she says. ‘Anonymously.’

‘I don’t know. They must get malicious tip-offs every day. How long does it take to investigate an allegation? Both parents are going to deny cruelty and if there are no obvious injuries and the girl doesn’t back up my claims, they’ll get away with it and make things worse for her.’

‘Well, we can’t just do nothing.’

I feel her frustration. ‘I’m not saying that. I’m saying I need to think this through.’

‘I’m not going to be able to rest knowing what she’s going through on my doorstep. She and her brother will be better off in care than living in that house. They should give those kids to someone who wants to look after them properly . . .’

She trails to a stop mid-sentence, aware of her error. Now she won’t look at me.

‘Go on,’ I say. ‘I assume you were going to add, “Look after them properly like a foster parent would.” That’s another opportunity you took away from me, wasn’t it?’