Haven't They Grown(55)

I lower my window an inch or so and take a few photos of her with my phone. They’re not great, but they’ll do. I edit the best one to enlarge her face. Ideally, I’d like a photo of Flora too, to show Lou Munday. I do a Google image search for Flora Braid, Flora Tillotson and Jeanette Cater, but each one yields only photos of people I’ve never seen before.

I hear the muffled sound of a bell. A few minutes later, there’s a burst of purple blazers rushing out of the building. Some of the children run to waiting adults, their faces lighting up with joy. Others slump and limp along, looking down at the grey concrete.

There he is: Thomas Cater. I recognise him straight away.

No, you don’t. You recognise five-year-old Thomas Braid. That’s who this is. That’s the face you know, the same face you saw last Saturday, and twelve years ago. Isn’t it?

I stare at his face, wishing he’d keep still so that I could see it better. Is it identical, or slightly different? Is this the boy who came to my flat in Cambridge in 2007, who pulled the skin off a blister on his foot and needed a plaster?

Why am I allowing myself to think this way? I know it can’t be the Thomas I knew, still five years old. Then I notice his shoes and feel as if I’ve caught my heartbeat in my throat.

I know those shoes. They’re horribly scuffed after so many years. One of the soles has partly come loose and flops to the ground with each step Thomas takes. It’s the same pair of shoes that Thomas Braid wore twelve years ago: black with a white star on the side and the lowest point of the star hanging down and curling under at the bottom, like a tail. I can picture them on my lounge floor, amid the plastic toys, and Thomas next to them, barefoot, crying because he’d just pulled off his blister and now it hurt more and was bleeding.

Emily Cater, when I saw her outside the house on Wyddial Lane, was wearing hand-me-downs too: the ‘Petit Mouton’ top I’d seen before on Emily Braid.

All parents know shoes are different. You don’t pass them down from one child to another. If you care about your child’s feet, you have them properly measured and buy shoes that are a perfect fit, unless you’re too hard up and can’t afford to. When you live in an enormous house on Wyddial Lane, you don’t send your son to school in twelve-year-old shoes that are falling apart – not unless …

I can’t bear to think about what the ‘unless’ might be. An urge rises inside me: to leap out of the car, grab Thomas and take him home with me, where I can make sure no one harms or neglects him.

All the other children are coming out in groups, but Thomas is alone. He looks neutral – not happy or sad – and walks at a steady pace, neither quickly nor slowly. He seems unaware of his surroundings, and more focused on whatever’s happening inside his head.

The two young women that Not-Jeanette is chatting to look more like au pairs than mothers. That might be why they’re standing apart from the larger group of adults: the help in one cluster, the parents in another, no mixing.

Thomas eventually comes to a stop next to the glittery gold shoes. He doesn’t do or say anything to attract attention. He stands and waits. Fake Jeanette, if she has noticed his arrival, shows no sign of it. Eventually one of the other two women nudges her and nods to indicate that Thomas is there.

Even now, there’s no communication at all between the two of them. Pretend Jeanette hugs one of the women goodbye, then sets off walking towards the Range Rover, trailing her arm out behind her and waving her hand as if to say, ‘Come on, this way.’ Thomas follows her, but he hasn’t looked at her, not once, and nor has she looked at him. They haven’t spoken at all. It’s as if there’s no relationship between them, only indifference that goes both ways. The sole of Thomas’s damaged shoe continues to flop beneath his foot.

I duck down in my seat and cover my face with my hand, so as not to be seen as they pass me.

Not-Jeanette opens the back door of the car and Thomas climbs in. She closes it. Still, there has been no interaction or eye contact between them.

She’s going to drive away with him …

And now she has. And I did nothing.

Because there’s nothing you could have done.

Telling myself Thomas will be fine, I get out of the car and start to walk towards the school’s main entrance. Halfway there, I hear a voice calling my name.

I turn. At first I can’t see where it might have come from. Then I spot Lou, in the driver’s seat of a red Ford Fiesta. I didn’t see her leave the building; she must have come out while I was watching Thomas. She gestures towards me, and I see that the passenger door is open.

‘Get in,’ she mouths at me as I approach. She seems nervous; in a rush, as if we’ve just robbed a bank together and she’s driving the getaway car.

I obey the order. Another incentive to make sure we part on friendly terms – I’m going to need her to drop me back here later so that I can drive home.

Is it naive of me to trust her? What if she’s …

No. That’s paranoid. She’s a school receptionist. What’s she going to do – pull over and whip out a knife in broad daylight?

If someone wants me out of the way, presumably there are plenty of thugs for hire.

If Dom knew that I was even thinking in this way … ‘Where are we going?’ I ask.

‘The Gallery,’ Lou says. ‘We can talk freely there.’