The White Room (21 page)

She sighed, threw the bedclothes back from her body, stood up. She checked the bedside clock. Nearly twenty-past four. Hours before her usual rising time. She crossed to the window, pulled back the curtains. The street was dead. The world was dead. Everyone else was asleep. Monica was the only person awake.

Monica's heart felt like a locked, weighted coffin sinking to the bottom of a cold, cold lake. She hated being alone. And this was the worst time. Nights she could drink herself to bed, mornings she could lie about the new day's possibilities. But at this time in the morning there were no lies she could tell herself. Only harsh, painful truths.

Her reflection looked back at her from the glass. She was startled: she looked so old, so used up. Her face was drawn: dulled, grey eyes sitting above black sacks, ringed by an accretion of lines and creases that had nothing to do with laughter. Her hair, free of her wigs, hung dead and lank. Her body looked old, used, tired, as if it had become a repository for more than her punters' semen and sadism: their twisted desires, their controlled rages, their disappointments, failures and self-hatred. Given incrementally, with each thrust, lash and humiliation. Her life written on her body. The men used her and left, temporarily soul-cleansed, sated. Until those twisted desires returned, those rages threatened to slip from control. Then they would return. And Monica would receive them. Again, in the white room with the dark shadows. The crucifixes showing Christ's love and Christ's agony, Christ's love. Taking on the sins of the world, dying for them, being set free to live again. A few had asked why the religious icons were there, some taken offence. But Monica insisted they remain. A reminder.

Monica sighed, turned away from the window. Faced back into the room.

It was a mess: clothes, plates, bottles and glasses left lying around. No real pride, no real care. Not really home. Her sleeping bed – as opposed to her working one – indented only on one side. She usually slept alone.

Bert considered himself her boyfriend. Monica regarded him as a sad, obsessed punter, dreaming up a fantasy involving her to replace the memory of his dead wife. And she was happy with that. He occasionally stayed with her but rarely wanted sex. When he did it was straightforward and over with quickly, which pleased Monica. She had other boyfriends, too, which Bert knew about but never mentioned. They didn't usually last long. Her profession repelled those she would have liked, attracted those she didn't. They fell roughly into two categories: those who were turned on by what she did, and those who felt it was their right to never have to work, just live off her money. She tried hard to convince herself she was happy with these men, reinforce that feeling with alcohol, but it never worked. They drifted away after a while, on to someone easier, cheaper or more desperate. Leaving Monica alone. Again.

Monica didn't have a pimp. Didn't need one. She paid protection, like all the working girls in the area, and she had referrals. That did for her. She made a living.

Ralph Bell's words had cut into her. Verbal knives. Making her think.

About Mae.

Four thirty in the morning, honesty continued. It wasn't the girl's fault. Mae hadn't asked to be born. It was all Brian's fault. And he was so long gone and so far away; he may as well be dead. Perhaps he was dead.

All his fault. But past the point of blame now. Time for action.

Ralph Bell's words again:
Love her. Let her know it. Don't do what I did. It's never too late to change. Never.

Monica looked around. Her room. Her bed. Her body.

Her life.

Not Mae's.

She turned, walked down the hall to Mae's room. Her daughter's room. Furnished almost as an afterthought: furniture and belongings sparse.

Mae lay in bed, asleep. Eyes closed, breathing shallow. Clutching her toy rabbit. She looked contented, at peace.

Never too late to change. Never.

Monica had to get Mae away from this life. Give her a new one. A better one.

That's what she would do. That's what she had to do.

Decision made, she yawned. Tired. She went back to her own room, lay down on her bed, pulled the covers over her body.

She knew what she had to do.

With that thought in mind, she slept.

It was past ten o'clock when she woke again.

Monica opened her eyes, looked at the time. With a start she flung back the covers, got out of bed. Her sleep had been dark and deep, like floating down a restful river in an underground, pitch-black cave.

Lovely.

She took that as an omen. Things were going to be all right. Peace would come to her.

Peace almost prematurely halted when she wrapped herself in her dressing gown and made her way into the kitchen. Mae had helped herself to cornflakes: a debris trail of cereal and milk stretched from the Formica work surface to the kitchen table.

Monica felt the familiar anger rising within her. She pulled back her hand to strike Mae, opened her mouth to bellow at her. Mae, spoon on the way to her open mouth, gave a routine, ritualistic flinch.

No, thought Monica. Not this time. Things are going to change. New day. New start.

She put down her hand, closed her mouth. Mae, spooning in cornflakes and milk, eyed her mother warily.

'Eat that and hurry up,' said Monica. ‘We're going out.'

The adoption agency was in first-floor offices above a row of shops on Clayton Street. It was one of the few private agencies operating in the North-East.

Monica had put on her best clothes, her most restrained make-up, her most modest wig. She sat there in the drab, brown-walled office before the heavy functional desks and chairs, a cup of cooling tea perched on her lap. Two women looked at her from across their desks. On the wall behind them was a crucifix. Christ taking away the sins of the world. Monica knew: she and these women would see things differently.

She had put aside her prejudice, tried to calm her fast-beating heart on walking into the agency. She knew she would have to be cunning. Lie if need be.

The attitudes of the two women, brittle and superficially solicitous, had put her in mind of trips to the headmaster's office at school. The feeling went further: the form she had filled in had only highlighted her lack of formal education. Her handwriting was bad, letters ill-formed, sentences poorly constructed. The two women were looking it over. She felt she was going to be given marks out of ten, told she had failed the test, asked to leave.

The two women finished looking at the form, gave a barely perceptible nod to each other, put it down, looked at Monica.

‘So,' the first woman, the one with the round cheeks that gave her a smug, self-satisfied air, said, referring to the form, ‘Miss Blacklock.' She made a hiss out of ‘miss'. ‘Why do you want to give up your daughter to adoption?'

Monica opened her mouth, but sound was a long time in coming.

‘I … I just … I can't cope. Any more. I think she needs …' Monica lowered her head, mumbled.

‘Pardon, Miss Blacklock?' The second woman, the slope-shouldered, flat-chested one, spoke. ‘We can't hear you.'

Monica knew her face was flushed.

‘I said I think she needs something better.'

The two women looked at each other, exchanged small nods of concurrence, as if the words were expected.

‘And you live in …?' Smug Cheeks again.

Monica cleared her throat. ‘Scotswood,' she said.

The two nodded again at each other.

Flat Chest scrutinized the form.

‘You haven't put down what you do for a living, Miss Blacklock,' she said.

Monica opened her mouth. Nothing emerged but a stuttering sound.

The two women looked at her again, expectantly.

She hadn't planned for this. Such a simple thing, and she hadn't thought of it. She had expected to just walk in, leave Mae and walk out again with their gratitude ringing in her ears. Then she would be left to get on with things. With life.

She didn't know what to say for the best. They were already being judgemental about her. Would the truth make them more so? Look further down their noses at her? Would a lie if found out make them return Mae to her? She decided to take a chance.

She cleared her throat.

‘I've got a job,' she said.

The two women looked at her, silently encouraging her to keep talking.

‘It's …' Monica swallowed hard. ‘I have to be careful. I'm signin' on. You might shop us to the social.'

The two women looked at her.

‘Best say I'm just signin' on.'

Monica looked down. The tea in her cup was cold. She was shaking, wrinkling the skin of the tea in the cup like a mini tidal pool.

The two women exchanged glances again. Then their eyes moved down the form.

Monica felt elation. She had done it. The first hurdle. Got one over on them.

She tried to keep the smile from growing on her lips.

‘So, Miss Blacklock,' said Smug Cheeks, ‘what we'd like you to do now is tell us in your own words why you want to give up your daughter for adoption.'

The two women sat back. Monica felt like a Christian in the Colosseum, waiting for a Roman emperor to decide her fate.

‘Well, I …' Monica cleared her throat again. ‘I just think … Mae deserves better than I can give, that's all.'

The two women held their gaze, expecting more.

Monica looked at them, wondering how much she could say.

‘I can't cope with her,' she said, defeat and exhaustion in her voice. ‘She's just … Her dad ran off before she was born. I've brought her up on me own since then.'

Flat Chest raised an eyebrow. Monica picked up on it.

‘I've had other men since then, course I have. But I've still brought 'er up on me own. But I just …' She sighed. ‘Sometimes I want to just throttle 'er, you know? She just annoys us.'

‘And how does she do that?' said Flat Chest.

‘Just by bein' there. Makin' a mess. Getting' in the way. Under me feet. I just want shot of her.' Monica sat forward, the tea nearly falling off. ‘I mean, I can't go anywhere or do anythin'. She's there. Under me feet. On me nerves. There. Constantly.' Monica sighed. ‘I just want shot of her.'

She sat back. It was the most she had spoken concerning Mae for months. Years, perhaps.

Smug Cheeks smiled.

‘Well, that seems to be everything, Miss Blacklock. If you could just wait in the room outside until we've made our decision.'

Flat Chest was on her feet, around the desk and opening the door before Monica had time to put down her cup and saucer and stand up.

She was ushered out, the door closed behind her. She looked down at Mae playing on the floor with old, worn-out toys that were too young for her. She looked happy. She looked up, acknowledged her mother, almost smiled. Then returned to her game.

It's best for Mae, Monica thought. She'll be as happy as that all the time.

Monica thought she had acquitted herself well in there. They had accepted her lie about what she did for a living and listened as she spoke in an impassioned way about Mae. She felt a stirring of hope in her chest. Things were going to work out all right.

The door opened. Monica looked around.

‘Could you come back in now, please, Miss Blacklock?' said Smug Cheeks.

Monica resumed her seat in the office. The door was closed behind her. Smug Cheeks sat back down.

The two women looked at her again.

Monica waited.

‘Well,' said Smug Cheeks, ‘my colleague and I have deliberated. And we have reached a conclusion.'

Monica sat forward expectantly.

‘I'm afraid,' said Flat Chest, ‘that we will not be recommending your daughter for adoption. We will be turning your application down.'

Monica gasped.

‘What? But …' Her voice trailed off.

‘For various reasons,' said Smug Cheeks. ‘While we naturally think that two parents are always the ideal in regard to bringing up a child, it seems to us like you're trying very hard to make a good life for your daughter. You're willing to risk breaking the law by taking an undeclared job. Now that may well be illegal, and of course we can't condone that, but it demonstrates your maternal love if you're prepared to do that.'

Monica sat there, letting the words sink in. They had believed her lie. She opened her mouth to speak, to tell them she had lied, but stopped herself. Because then she would have to tell the truth. And that would only weaken her argument, not strengthen it.

‘Now we understand,' said Smug Cheeks, ‘the pain and disappointments you have to go through, the resentments you have to endure in bringing up a child alone. It's perfectly natural to feel that way. You're not the first, and you won't be the last.'

‘You have to remember that your child is a gift from God,' said Flat Chest. ‘Hard work sometimes, true, but oh so rewarding.' She smiled. ‘So with that in mind, try not to look so downhearted. Always look on the bright side.'

‘Although,' said Smug Cheeks, ‘if things do get too difficult, call the council. They could place your daughter in a foster family until you felt well enough to take her back.'

‘A much better solution.'

‘And also,' said Smug Cheeks, ‘there's your daughter.'

‘We're afraid,' said Flat Chest, ‘that she's just too old to consider. We normally deal with babies or very small children. Your daughter is nearly seven. The older a child is, the harder it is to find a home for them.'

‘We are sorry.'

The two women sat back, a veneer of sadness on their faces.

‘Very sorry.'

‘We do hope you understand.'

They gave Monica what appeared to be a consoling smile.

Monica didn't move. She was physically stunned. Walking there in the morning, she had told herself this was the start of a happy new phase in her life. She had told Mae that too. And now, because these two frigid old harpies had made a decision, that was that.