The Trophy Child Page 3

  On first qualifying, Noel had sometimes found his vocation overwhelming: the hours, the responsibility, the pressure to get things right. But at forty-seven, his work was his refuge. It was where he hid from the world, knowing it was the one place he was in control, the one place where everything fitted together as it should.

  His place of work was where he was needed.

  He checked his watch and decided he had enough time for a coffee. He’d treated himself to an espresso maker for his birthday last year (the type with small pods in metallic colours), and it had made such a difference to his working life. It wasn’t that he was antisocial, but he didn’t always want to make small talk with the practice nurses, the receptionists, the phlebotomist, every time he wanted a drink from the kitchen, so the espresso maker had turned out to be an ideal solution. He drank his coffee without milk and sugar, so all that was needed was a clean cup and he was good to go. Astonishing, really, the lift it gave him. And it had the added advantage of making his small room smell like an Italian café, an effect that was not lost on the patients who entered; they inhaled deeply, enjoying the aroma, a welcome change from the smell of the Hibiscrub he washed his hands with and the lingering odours of the previous patients.

  As the machine thundered to life, Noel took a moment to do a few stretches. He lunged forward, extending his left calf behind him for a count of ten, and was just in the process of switching legs when there was a sharp knock at the door. The knock was followed by a voice, saying, ‘You free in there, Bloom?’

  John Ravenscroft. Wearer of tweed, three-piece suits and handmade Oxford brogues. Ravenscroft spoke twenty decibels louder than everyone else and, at sixty-eight, he was the only partner remaining from the original line-up, back when the practice was first formed, in 1980.

  ‘Come on in, John,’ Noel said.

  Usually, Ravenscroft spoke to Noel with the door ajar, keeping it open with the toe of his shoe while he imparted the information he needed, quick and staccato, as though to give the impression that time is money. And, surely, we’ve all got better things to do than stand around discussing patients all day?

  Today, he opted to come right into Noel’s room, and closed the door firmly behind him before speaking, which made Noel pause, mid-stretch. Noel stood up and gave Ravenscroft his full attention.

  ‘Your day for emergencies, is it?’ Ravenscroft asked, and Noel told him it was. ‘Listen, I’ve just passed Polly Footit out there. Don’t let her talk you into more osteopathy for her back. She keeps undressing to stockings and suspenders – full battle gear, actually – in front of young Stefan, and his nerves are totally shot. Tell her she’ll have to go to Westmorland General if she requires more treatment. Tell her our budget’s exhausted.’

  ‘Will do,’ replied Noel.

  He watched Ravenscroft carefully, sensing that Polly Footit was not the real reason for his visit.

  Ravenscroft cleared his throat.

  ‘I notice you’ve been staying late,’ he said.

  ‘You notice because you’ve been staying late yourself, John.’

  ‘Ah, well, that’s because the bloody job keeps me alive. Whereas you…’

  He let the words hang. Raised an eyebrow, in expectation of Noel giving him a reason for his change in habit.

  But Noel couldn’t give one. It was just a further indication of how shambolic everything had become.

  ‘I’ve been meaning to ask about Verity,’ Ravenscroft went on. ‘Did the evaluation shed any light on things?’

  Noel shook his head. ‘According to them, it was an isolated incident. They found nothing that would make them think there would be a recurrence.’

  ‘And how did Karen greet that piece of news?’

  ‘As you would expect. With scepticism. She’s been reading a lot about the link between cannabis and the onset of psychosis in teenagers. She’s convinced that’s what’s at the root of all of this.’

  ‘And what are your thoughts?’

  Noel shrugged. ‘I’m not sure that’s what’s going on with her.’

  ‘Today’s stuff is a damn sight stronger than the grass we smoked in the seventies,’ Ravenscroft said. ‘How is the school handling it?’

  ‘Discreetly, but covering their arses. They don’t want to lose her as a pupil—’

  ‘She is an excellent student.’

  ‘Was. Her grades are down,’ Noel said. ‘She’s gone from “A”s to “D”s almost overnight. They think they can get her back on track, but we’ve had to sign up to drug tests and some counselling sessions – I assume, so that if anything happens, they’ve been seen to be doing everything by the book.’

  ‘The head there is a buffoon, you know.’

  ‘I know,’ replied Noel.

  ‘Is there anything I can do?’

  ‘We’ll be fine. But I do appreciate the concern, John.’

  More lies. They wouldn’t be fine. It was already too late for ‘fine’. That’s why he was hiding out here; he’d rather be anywhere than go home and face it.

  Ravenscroft put his hands together. ‘Good, good,’ he said. ‘Right you are, then. Probably all that’s needed here is some common sense and a little time for things to settle.’

  ‘My sentiments exactly,’ replied Noel.

  Ravenscroft reached for the door handle. But, at the last moment, he paused.

  Standing with his back to Noel, his thin frame somewhat lost in his old-fashioned suit, he appeared to be weighing up whether to turn around or not.

  ‘Far be it for me to interfere, Noel,’ he said, as he spun slowly, a peculiar look of discomfort on his face. ‘A man’s family is no one’s business but his own – but if I may offer you one piece of advice?’

  He waited for Noel to give him a sign to go on before continuing, such was his sense of propriety.

  Noel nodded.

  ‘I know little of how your family operates, and I wouldn’t want to poke my nose into all of that. But I can say this: when I’ve been faced with challenges within my own set-up – when things have come a little unstuck, shall we say? – I found the answer never arose by avoiding going home at night.’

  Noel looked at him with mild embarrassment. ‘I hear you,’ he said.

  ‘Good man,’ replied Ravenscroft.

  Then he added, ‘And you won’t find any answers at the bottom of a whisky glass either, my friend.’

  —

  So Noel went home.

  At six fifteen he parked his Volvo on the right-hand side of the garage.

  Getting out, he could hear heavy bass coming from above and a series of footsteps moving across the floor. Ewan was Karen’s son from her previous relationship, and he had been living above the garage since he had moved out of the house when he turned seventeen: an arrangement which seemed to suit everyone, particularly Karen.

  Noel paused by the recycling boxes, taking a minute to squeeze the air out of a couple of plastic bottles before stamping down hard on some cardboard. He’d take the recycling tomorrow on his way to work, maybe leave a little earlier than usual and stop by the jet-wash on his way in. The wheel arches of the Volvo were caked in mud after a house call to Kentmere at the end of last week, and he really should make more of an effort.

  He was dawdling. It was a familiar sensation. He found he was doing it more and more these days – giving himself a series of small, arbitrary tasks, tasks that required a modicum of concentration so that all the stuff hovering at the periphery of his brain could be kept there: nicely at bay.

  They had been happy once. Hadn’t they?

  ‘All right, Dr Bloom?’

  Noel turned to see Dale Brokenshire standing in his driveway, a four-pack of Stella in each hand.

  ‘Good to see you, Dale. How’s your mother doing?’

  Dale coloured red and went bashful at being asked a direct question. It wasn’t what people did with Dale. Usually, they politely ignored him, unsure of what to say, unsure if he could understand basic English.

  ‘She’s be
tter,’ Dale said.

  ‘You tell her hello from me, won’t you?’ Noel said, and Dale shot him a toothy grin, his eyes widening and shining, as though he’d discovered something magical in front of him, right there on the garage’s concrete floor.

  Dale had what they referred to in infants as ‘global delay’; what in adults they called a ‘learning disability’. Which Noel thought wasn’t really an accurate description, but it was as good as any they’d come up with, nonetheless.

  Noel looked away as Dale remained rooted to the spot, eyes fixed, as was his tendency, until someone gave him permission to do otherwise.

  ‘You here to see Ewan?’ Noel asked, finding another bottle to squeeze the air from.

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Why don’t you go on up, then…if he’s expecting you?’

  Dale thrust both his hands forward. ‘I got him these,’ he said proudly, meaning the beer, and Noel mimed shock.

  ‘Now, Dale, you are over eighteen, aren’t you?’ he asked, and Dale nodded his head seriously.

  ‘Fifteenth of May, 1996,’ he shot back automatically, as if Noel had pressed a button on the top of his head.

  Noel lifted his eyes to the ceiling. Then he made a great show of pretending to count up on his fingers, working out if Dale’s date of birth made him above drinking age. ‘Yeah, you’ll do,’ he said finally, and he smiled as Dale’s worried expression started to fade. ‘You two make sure you eat something to go along with that,’ he said, and Dale replied, ‘I’ll make sure, Dr Bloom. I’ll make sure of it, don’t worry.’

  Noel heard Dale’s heavy tread on the wooden staircase that ran up the side of the garage to the flat above. A second later, there was a pause in the music, then the sound of a door slamming, before the music started up again.

  ‘Poor kid,’ said Noel to himself.

  —

  Karen looked up from her diary, phone in hand, and said sharply, ‘You’re back?’

  Noel shrugged, didn’t answer the question and asked Karen what was for dinner.

  ‘Dinner?’ she said, and gave a small laugh. ‘There is no dinner. Open the fridge and see what you can find. There’s bound to be a ready-meal lying around.’

  She was in her uniform of black, slim-legged trousers, a crisp, white shirt, with spiked heels and heavy gold jewellery. She wore this black-and-white ensemble so she didn’t have to think too much. So: ‘I don’t waste time putting outfits together when I could be doing something more constructive.’

  ‘Aren’t you eating?’ Noel asked.

  ‘It’s Tuesday,’ she said, as if that explained things.

  Noel looked at her blankly. ‘Brontë and I eat on the wing, remember?’ she said. ‘Double harp lesson on Tuesdays. I need to be in Lancaster for seven and I’m late after seeing the consultant for Brontë’s hand. Do me a favour, shout up to Brontë and tell her to get her shoes on. Oh, and tell her she needs the sheet music in the pink folder. Not the black one. Got it?’

  ‘Pink, not black,’ he repeated. ‘What did the neurologist say?’

  ‘What?’ Karen said, momentarily thrown, it seemed, by Noel’s question. ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘he was next to useless. Says he can’t find anything physically wrong with her fingers.’

  ‘Did he speculate as to why the sudden loss of grip strength?’

  ‘He said he thought it was psychological. Which, of course, I said was nonsense. He’s referred her for carpal-tunnel tests, but only because I demanded it. Anyway, I need to get hold of this silly woman before I leave. Tell her Brontë won’t be able to make the dance recital on Sunday because she’s doing extra piano with Clive Lishman.’

  At this, Karen raised her eyebrows at Noel. He wasn’t sure why until she did it again, saying, ‘Clive Lishman.’

  Noel realized he was supposed to know who Clive Lishman was.

  ‘Verity home?’ he said vaguely, but Karen’s call had connected, and she was lifting a finger to silence him. ‘Samantha? Karen Bloom. Glad you’re back. Finally. Yes, we’ll need to give Sunday a miss on account of Brontë securing some time with…’

  Noel left her to it and wandered through to the lounge, expecting to see Verity supine on the sofa, school socks around her ankles, an assortment of snacks, apple cores and empty cups by her side. But the room was empty. It was neat and untouched.

  He took the stairs two at a time and, seeing Verity’s room also empty, he crossed the hallway to Brontë’s.

  His younger daughter was kneeling on the floor, her back to him, surrounded by maths worksheets. Karen ordered them online. ‘Hey, kiddo,’ he said, and she turned.

  ‘Hi, Daddy.’

  ‘I have a message from Mum. Get your shoes on, and remember to take the pink folder. Not the black. Or was it the other way around?’

  Brontë tidied away her papers. ‘The pink. She already told me.’

  ‘I think you should hurry,’ he said, as Brontë dragged herself to her feet obediently. At ten, none of the recalcitrance of the typical teenager was yet manifesting. Brontë was an easy child. A sweet girl who did exactly as her mother asked of her. Sometimes, Noel watched and marvelled at her malleability. Verity was nothing like that. Verity was headstrong, like her mother; neither could be forced into doing something they did not want to do. It was probably the thing that had attracted him to his ex-wife in the first place. Jennifer had never been the type to follow orders blindly.

  Brontë reached for the folder and smiled at him politely as she passed by.

  She looked pale.

  He would have to talk to Karen about it, because Brontë had been this way since returning to school after the summer break. She needed to spend more time outside. She needed more downtime. Karen pushed her hard and, though he tried not to interfere with her parenting methods, he could see that the child was beginning to tire.

  As she got to the small landing halfway down the stairs, Noel called out, ‘You feeling okay, Brontë?’

  She looked at him and blinked. ‘Course, Daddy,’ she replied. ‘My fingers are still a bit numb, but I think they’re definitely getting better.’

  It was her right hand that was affected. Her dominant hand. And it had started a few months ago. At first, they had thought nothing of it. Anyone who practised an instrument every day was bound to get muscle fatigue at some point, and Brontë studied two. But then she began to drop things. And she wasn’t able to fasten the buttons of her school shirt. And could no longer grip a pencil properly. Noel told Karen to let her have some rest and, reluctantly, she’d agreed, but there was no real improvement. So Karen took it upon herself to ‘strengthen’ Bronte’s hands herself – something which led to an unfortunate incident with Verity; they were still dealing with the aftermath.

  ‘Have a good lesson, sweetheart,’ Noel said.

  ‘I will,’ she replied, just as Karen’s voice rose from below.

  ‘Hurry!’ Karen shouted. ‘You’ve not even got your shoes on. You know how I hate to be late. Being late is not who I am. Not who you are, Brontë Bloom. Late people are not only disorganized, they are disrespectful of other people’s time. Is that how you want to be regarded? As disrespectful?’

  Noel exhaled, closing his eyes briefly before crossing over to Verity’s room once more.

  He hadn’t noticed before, but at the foot of her bed was a pile of clothes – her uniform. He opened her wardrobe and realized that her trainers were missing. She’d gone for a run. They used to run together. When did that stop exactly?

  He returned downstairs to catch Karen flying out the door, arms filled with folders, bottles of water, a bag of satsumas and three sticks of Peperami. ‘Did you speak to Verity this evening?’ he said hurriedly.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Just, you know, did you talk to her at all?’

  ‘Why should I, Noel?’ and she frowned at him, as though he were asking something impossible of her in her role as stepmother to his elder daughter. ‘I’m late, I really need to—’

  He reached out and c
aught hold of her arm.

  ‘Try. Please, Karen. Try. Do it for me.’

  And she shook him off, staring at him hard. ‘Trying is all I do around here, Noel. In case you hadn’t noticed.’

  4

  Wednesday, 23 September

  Verity disembarked from the bus one stop later than usual and pulled out the business card from her pocket to remind herself of the exact address. Psychotherapists don’t tend to advertise their services too brazenly, so, as she stood in front of the small brass plaque with the name Jeremy Gleeson on it, she double-checked it against the card before pressing the bell next to it.

  Verity had asked if she could see a woman instead when her dad had suggested Jeremy Gleeson.

  ‘I think it would be easier to talk to a woman,’ she said, and her dad had agreed, but unfortunately, there wasn’t any choice.

  At first, they’d gone down the NHS route. It didn’t look good, after all, for the daughter of an NHS GP to seek treatment in the private sector. But even if Noel had managed to fast-track Verity, it would still be over six weeks before they were offered an appointment – which Verity’s stepmother said was ‘Outrageous.’ Verity got the impression her father would have been willing to wait. But ultimately, the decision was made for them, because Verity’s head teacher had demanded to see evidence of her treatment programme within the next fortnight. And so, in a hurry, her father had done a Google search of local therapists and, after a brief phone chat with Jeremy Gleeson, declared him ‘fit to do the job as well as anyone’.

  ‘It’s a formality, Verity,’ her father had told her as he left for work that morning. ‘Don’t get too het up about it. We just need to be seen to be doing something.’ Which Verity knew he would never have said if her stepmother was in the room. Karen thought she was unhinged. If it was up to Karen, Verity would be sectioned.

  The door was opened by a woman with crêpey skin and tight, platinum curls. Verity recognized her from the vet’s. And then, later, the post office. People commonly switched jobs around here when they got fed up. ‘Come in, dear,’ she said, and ushered Verity into a small side room containing three chairs and a water cooler. The walls were covered with a number of landscapes badly executed by a local artist, and for sale. Verity wondered if Jeremy Gleeson dabbled in watercolour when he wasn’t fixing damaged minds.