howls even louder.
‘She hasn’t been held by many black people,’ I say, trying to rescue the situation. It makes things worse. ‘It’s not your colour. We have lots of black friends in London. Dozens of them.’
My God, I’m suggesting my three-year-old is a racist!
Emma has stopped crying. ‘It’s my fault. I picked her up too suddenly,’ Mani says, looking at me sadly.
‘She doesn’t know you yet.’ I explain.
‘Yes.’
Mani is gathering her things.
‘I’ll call the agency,’ I say. ‘They’ll let you know.’
But we both realise what’s happening. She’s going to take a job elsewhere. It’s a shame. A misunderstanding.
After she’s gone, I make Emma a sandwich and settle her for her afternoon nap. There are chores to do- washing and ironing.
I know I’m not supposed to admit such a thing, but being at home is boring. Emma is wonderful and enchanting and I love her to bits but there are only so many times I can play sock puppets or watch her stand on one leg or listen to her declare from the top of the climbing frame that she is indeed the king of the castle and I am, yet again, the dirty rascal.
Looking after young children is the most important job in the world. Believe me- it is. However, the sad, unspoken, implicit truth is that looking after young children is boring. Those guys who sit in missile silos waiting for the unthinkable to happen are doing an important job too, but you can’t tell me they’re not bored out of their tiny skulls and playing endless games of Solitaire and Battleships on the Pentagon computers.
The doorbell rings. Standing on the front step is a chestnut-haired teenager in low-slung black jeans, a T-shirt and tartan jacket. Ear studs like beads of mercury glisten on her earlobes.
She is clasping a shoulder bag hard to her chest, leaning forward a little. An October wind whips up an eddy of leaves at her feet.
‘I wasn’t expecting anyone else,’ I tell her.
Her head tilts to one side, frowning.
‘Are you Professor O’Loughlin?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m Darcy Wheeler.’
‘Come in, Darcy. We have to be quiet, Emma is sleeping.’
She follows me along the hall to the kitchen. ‘You look very young. I expected somebody older.’
Again she looks at me curiously. The whites of her eyes are bloodshot and raw from the wind.
‘How long have you been a childcare professional?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘How long have you looked after children?’
Now she looks concerned. ‘I’m still at school.’
‘I don’t understand.’
She hugs her bag a little tighter, steeling herself. ‘You talked to my mother. You were there when she fell.’
Her words shatter the quietness like a dropped tray of glasses. I see a resemblance, the shape of her face, her dark eyebrows. The woman on the bridge.
‘How did you find me?’
‘I read the police report.’
‘How did you get here?’
‘I caught the bus.’
She makes it sound so obvious but this isn’t supposed to happen. Grieving daughters don’t turn up on my doorstep. The police should have answered Darcy’s questions and given her counselling. They should have found a family member to look after her.
‘The police say it was suicide but that’s impossible. Mum wouldn’t… she couldn’t, not like that.’
Her desperation trembles in her throat.
‘What was your mother’s name?’ I ask.
‘Christine.’
‘Would you like a cup of tea, Darcy?’
She nods. I fill the kettle and set out the cups, giving myself a chance to work out what I’m going to say.
‘Where have you been staying?’ I ask.
‘I’m at boarding school.’
‘Does the school know where you are?’
Darcy doesn’t answer. Her shoulders curve and she shrinks even more. I sit down opposite her, making sure her eyes meet mine.
‘I want to know exactly how you came to be here.’
The story tumbles out. The police had interviewed her on Saturday afternoon. She was counselled by a social worker and then taken back to Hampton House, a private girls’ school in Cardiff. On Sunday night she waited until lights out and unscrewed the wooden blocks on her house window, opening it far enough to slip out. Once she had dodged the security guard, she walked to Cardiff Central, and waited for the first train. She caught the 8.04 to Bath Spa and a bus to Norton St Phillips. She walked the last three miles to Wellow. The journey took most of the morning.
I notice the grass clippings in her hair and mud on her shoes. ‘Where did you sleep last night?’
‘In a park.’
My God, she could have frozen to death. Darcy raises the mug of tea to her lips, holding it steady with both hands. I look at her clear brown eyes, her bare neck; the thinness of her jacket and the dark bra outlined beneath her T-shirt. She is beautifully ugly in a gawky teenage way, but destined in a few years to be exceptionally beautiful and to bring no end of misery to a great number of men.
‘What about your father?’
She shrugs.
‘Where’s he?’
‘No idea. He walked out on my mum before I was born. We didn’t hear from him after that.’
‘Not at all?’
‘Never.’
‘I need to call your school.’
‘I’m not going back.’ The sudden steel in her voice surprises me.
‘We have to tell them where you are.’
‘Why? They don’t care. I’m sixteen. I can do what I want.’
Her defiance has all the hallmarks of a childhood spent at boarding school. It has made her strong. Independent. Angry. Why is she here? What does she expect me to do?
‘It wasn’t suicide,’ she says again. ‘Mum hated heights. I mean really hated them.’
‘When did you last talk to her?’
‘On Friday morning.’
‘How did she seem?’
‘Normal. Happy.’
‘What did you talk about?’
She stares into her mug, as if reading the contents. ‘We had a fight.’
‘What about?’
‘It’s not important.’
‘Tell me anyway.’
She hesitates and shakes her head. The sadness in her eyes tells half the story. Her last words to her mother were full of anger. She wants to take them back or to have them over again.
Trying to change the subject, she opens the fridge door and begins sniffing the contents of Tupperware
