The herd, p.3
The Herd, page 3
She needs to speak to Jack again, and not let him get away with mumbling something about the long-term effects of the recession and then make an excuse to get away from her. Sometimes, when she can’t sleep, Elizabeth fantasises about how much money she’d be making if she’d been the one to stay at work and Jack looked after the kids. She used to be a solicitor representing media companies; she’d probably be a senior partner by now on a very healthy six-figure salary.
But she doesn’t want to go back; the media landscape has changed dramatically in the seven years since she left, and besides, she was miserable when she worked after having Charlie. Commuting to London, constantly leaving work early, full of apologies, because of stomach bugs and unreliable childcare. She was exhausted at work and exhausted at home. She felt like she was failing at being both a mother and a professional – a familiar story for so many, she knew, but for Elizabeth failing was anathema. It went against everything she believed to be true about herself. It was, if she was totally honest, part of the reason they had a third kid. Clemmie gave her a reason, the best reason, to stay at home. Thanks to Clemmie, giving up work didn’t feel like a failure; Elizabeth simply reframed it to herself as the honourable, loving thing to do. Then, when Clemmie started having fits when she was just a few weeks old, it was more proof of how much Elizabeth was needed. Until she was almost three, Elizabeth struggled to leave Clemmie even with Jack for a few minutes, convinced that if she peeled herself away, that was when Clemmie’s eyes would roll back and her little doll body would start to shake so unnaturally. Her skin would burn a bright red and foam would bubble from her mouth like a chemical reaction. It saddens Elizabeth that she doesn’t have many happy memories from Clemmie’s first few months. She just remembers the fear; the crushing, suffocating fear she felt for herself and her baby.
Elizabeth opens up her laptop to the BBC homepage and types the name of Charlie’s tennis camp into the search bar to pay the deposit for his place (yet another thing she forgot to write on her list), when a news headline catches her eye. The photo is of a baby grinning, all gums and cheeks. Elizabeth’s heart clenches as she reads the text above: Don’t let Rosie’s death be for nothing.
She knows she shouldn’t, but also knows there’s no way she won’t click on the article and read the whole thing. It was written by the baby’s father, Mark Clancy, and describes how Rosie died of meningitis a few weeks before her scheduled MMR. Rosie went to bed with a slight temperature, so her mum gave her Calpol. She slept for thirteen hours straight. And then she woke up screaming. They amputated all her limbs but that still wasn’t enough to save her.
Elizabeth lifts a hand to cover her mouth and starts biting her forefinger as she reads. Her little red coat is still hanging on its hook by the door. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to pack it away.
After the piece, there’s another article link below she doesn’t need to read – there are so many lately and they all say roughly the same thing: vaccination rates falling below what is required for herd immunity, the rising dangers to the immunosuppressed and the elderly, the question around whether vaccines in schools should be mandatory.
Elizabeth stares at the picture of Rosie again; Clemmie has dimples just like her. Her heart curls tighter around itself, like a fist. Before Clemmie started school, Elizabeth would interview any childminder or playgroup leader, ask them to ensure the other children were vaccinated because Clemmie couldn’t be due to her fits. Most of them understood, but some of them refused and others prickled, as if it was as offensive for Elizabeth even to raise the issue as it would be to ask them how much money they had in their bank account. Knowing the vaccination rates were especially low around Farley, when Clemmie started at Nettlestone Elizabeth met with Mr Paterson, the headmaster, and although he made it clear he couldn’t enforce anything, he did send an email to all parents asking them to ‘act with serious consideration and foresight’ on the vaccination issue. It’s part of the reason Elizabeth is so involved in everything to do with the school and the community – if her family are known and hopefully liked by others, surely people will be more willing to do the right thing?
Clemmie hasn’t had a fit in years: she can run faster and handle knocks better than any other almost-seven-year-old, probably in no small part thanks to Max and Charlie. She is an energetic, happy little girl and so Elizabeth has become lax, as though her daughter has reached some unknown goal and is now safe. But the article about Rosie reminds Elizabeth that Clemmie isn’t safe. She isn’t safe unless Elizabeth makes her safe. And in the dim light of early morning, she opens up a new email.
Hi Everyone!
We’re so excited to have you over for the first day of the summer holiday and to celebrate Clemmie’s seventh birthday on 18th July. The plan is for all the kids to eat loads of sugar and throw themselves about on the bouncy castle all afternoon, and for the adults to drink wine and join them.
She adds ‘until someone’s sick’ at the end and immediately deletes it. It comes across badly.
So as you all know, Clemmie had a lot of seizures and was very unwell when she was a baby. Because of this, Clemmie cannot be vaccinated, which means we have to be extra careful, especially with all the scary stuff being reported in the news recently. As parents of Clemmie’s good friends, it would be great if you could confirm that your child is up to date with their vaccination schedule. If you have chosen not to vaccinate your child, then we respect your decision but, with regret, we think it’s best if you don’t attend Clemmie’s party, and we’d appreciate it if we could limit future close contact.
Please do respond and let us know.
With love & thanks, Jack and Elizabeth.
They’re usually an ‘Elizabeth and Jack’ couple, but Elizabeth thinks it sounds better on this occasion if it’s ‘Jack and Elizabeth’. She forwards the email, including a link to the article about Rosie, to Jack with a quick note at the top:
Love – Please read this article. It reminded me we’ve got a bit soft about the vaccination thing – can you let me know what you think of my email below? I’d like to send it out ASAP. x
As she presses send, Elizabeth feels the fist in her chest uncurl; her daughter is a little bit safer. Clemmie comes into contact daily with her friends and other children at school, of course, and in the many clubs she attends, but having a group of them here at the house makes a difference somehow, and it’s the perfect opportunity to ask the parents directly. Elizabeth finishes her tea and pays the deposit for Charlie’s tennis camp before she opens up another search bar and starts researching residential traffic speed zones. Outside, the morning washes the sky a light blue, as though all of yesterday’s stains have been cleaned and carried away with the vanishing night.
By 7 a.m. Elizabeth hasn’t yet had a chance to register how shit she feels. Jack leaves the house every weekday at 6.30 a.m. for the 6.45 a.m. train to London, so it’s up to Elizabeth to make the mornings run as smoothly as possible. There’s a rota for which child is cleaning up after breakfast, she makes sure the kids have packed whatever they need for school the evening before, and she writes herself another list to ensure nothing is forgotten. She’s forever chasing the future – a future full of muddy boots and unemptied dishwashers. Yet no matter how hard she tries, stuff still goes wrong. This morning Max can’t find his bike helmet, Charlie stays in bed a full fifteen minutes longer than he should, while Clemmie can’t decide which clip feels right in her hair. Elizabeth feels these delays, these slips, like a finger poking some internal bruise. They feel like her fault, her failings as a mother, as a human. She hears her own mother tutting. Elizabeth can’t breathe properly until they’re all out of the door on time – fed, clean and prepared for the day ahead. Which of course, under Elizabeth’s eye, they always are.
Max cycles to his secondary school on his own now, while Charlie walks a few paces ahead of Elizabeth and Clemmie, who rides on her pink scooter. This is the best bit of Elizabeth’s morning. Walking the quaint Farley streets, sipping her coffee from her reusable cup as she watches her children – neat and ready – ahead of her. She’s done it, another morning. Finally, she can breathe.
‘Elizabeth! Wait for us!’ Bry calls, coming out of the Kohlis’ gate at Number 9, their vast double-fronted house – the largest on the street – looming behind her. For the last few months, Alba’s been going to the Nettlestone preschool a couple of mornings a week to help her settle when she starts school in September. Elizabeth likes walking with them, when Bry’s got her shit together, but one glance at Bry tells her this is not one of those mornings. Bry’s carrying Alba, a sweet, shoeless bundle of messy hair, toast and a large pink flamingo, in one arm, and her handbag and a hessian shopping bag in the other.
‘Charlie, Clemmie, wait a minute, please!’ Elizabeth calls to the kids, and crosses over Saint’s Road to meet her friend just outside her gate; Bry’s left the front door open. She finds it extraordinary (and privately a bit unfair) that Bry and Ash have so much money – Bry told her confidentially that Ash’s company sold for close to two million – and yet they still both dress like students. She knows Jack isn’t much better but he doesn’t have two million quid.
Bry’s wearing the navy cotton jumpsuit she seems to wear every morning (Elizabeth will have to find the right moment to tell her to ditch the thing). A pair of stripy pink tights pokes out of one of her top pockets and there’s a hairbrush in the other; both – hopefully – for Alba, who is now nuzzling into her mum’s chest. Elizabeth pretends not to see. They had a drunken, tense conversation only a few months ago about women who continue to breastfeed. Elizabeth thinks it’s weird once the child can walk but Bry said Elizabeth was blinded by patriarchy.
‘Sorry, Elizabeth, this one didn’t wake up until ten minutes ago – totally go on without us if you want.’
Elizabeth is momentarily tempted to stride into the clear air of the morning, to get her kids to school on time, but she knows she won’t.
Bry jostles Alba into a more comfortable position in her arms. Alba squeals.
‘Here, I’ll take her,’ Elizabeth says, as Bry untangles her arm from her bag and passes over Alba, who opens both arms and legs, like a monkey flying through the air, ready to land, before she clamps on to her godmother.
‘Say ’ello to Fred,’ Alba says, thrusting the flamingo into Elizabeth’s face. Fred’s fur is slightly crusty against Elizabeth’s cheek and she smells dried saliva, sour milk and Sudocrem. Elizabeth kisses the air, with a loud smacking noise, just in front of Fred’s nose.
Bry starts pulling the pink tights from her pocket on to her daughter’s legs. ‘Thanks, Elizabeth. Sorry – Ash left really early to meet the plumber about something and I just totally lost track of time …’ Bry glances up at Elizabeth. ‘Yeah, I know, I know – no need to look at me like that. I know that’s what Jack does every morning, but we can’t all be super mum.’
Bry stops talking as a large rented van signals and turns into Saint’s Road. As it gets closer Elizabeth sees the van is being driven by a slim, attractive older woman, a blue scarf tied around her head. She’s laughing, presumably at something said to her by the absurdly beautiful dark-haired young man next to her, his bare feet resting on the dashboard. The woman raises a hand to them both as they rumble past. She’s not sure why, but the gesture feels patronizing to Elizabeth. The van stops abruptly just beyond Elizabeth’s own house.
‘Oh, they must be the new people renting Number 8,’ Bry says, twisting around so she can watch the van.
‘Who is Number 8?’ Alba asks.
‘It’s the house next to Auntie Elizabeth’s,’ Bry answers, her voice small, as if she’s far away.
‘The man who lived there went to ’eaven,’ Alba says solemnly. Bry turns to her daughter but Alba fixes her eyes on to Elizabeth. This is a serious question and she needs a serious answer.
‘Yes, that’s right, Albs.’
Oh, how Elizabeth misses this. Maybe they should have a fourth – she could always pretend it was an accident.
‘We should go and say hello,’ Bry says, and as she pulls the tights over Alba’s bottom, Elizabeth lowers Alba to the ground, still holding her hand.
‘Bry, we can’t go now – the kids …’
Bry glances at them; Charlie is tickling his sister with a stick.
‘Oh yeah, of course; they get in trouble if they’re late, don’t they …’
But even Elizabeth forgets about the kids for a moment as the two doors to the van slam shut and the woman skip-jumps in front of the house, throwing her arms open towards the beautiful man, as though the house is a wonderful old friend she’s introducing to her … what? Son? Nephew maybe? He hooks his thumbs into the back pockets of his jeans and, taking in the tired-looking building before him, says something in what sounds like rapid Italian before following her, with a little run, into the house.
Elizabeth raises an eyebrow. ‘Well, they don’t seem particularly interested in saying hello to us, I have to say.’
‘They waved!’ Bry says, defensive on behalf of these people she doesn’t even know, before adding, ‘You are going to be nice to them, aren’t you, Elizabeth?’
Elizabeth feels hot suddenly.
‘I’m always nice,’ she says, disproportionately pissed off. She wants to know what the fuck Bry is talking about, nice, but Alba tugs at Elizabeth’s arm before worming her hand away.
‘Come on!’ she shouts, before she refastens the long-suffering Fred under her arm and skips off across the road towards Charlie and Clemmie, and both Elizabeth and Bry call out, ‘Road!’ but Alba ignores them, because she’s four and she doesn’t yet know anything about danger.
Farley County Court
December 2019
The court goes quiet as she pulls the photo out of the envelope, like when a car slows down to view a crash. We all want to see the girl, but it still feels wrong, this urge to look. I only see her for a second; no one cares what the court usher sees or doesn’t see, but now I wish I’d kept my head down.
Her face is blown up like a balloon; her lips are blistered with sores, a pink flamingo on the pillow next to her. They’ve blurred her eyes in an attempt at anonymity, so I imagine them red and swollen shut. It hurts to look at her. She looks dead already. I think of my kids and have to clear my throat. I fold my hands over my black court robes, shift my weight from left to right and back again, hold my head higher. My kids are safe. We’ve taken them to the nurse, rolled up their sleeves every time we were told. No question.
The female prosecutor smooths her hair behind her ear. She has to clear her throat, have a sip of water before she says, ‘When you look at this photo, what do you see?’ She pauses again. A couple of folks in the public gallery are shaking their heads, and the old lady I help to her seat every morning has a hand over her mouth.
‘I’ll tell you what I see. I see a child in abject agony and terror. Wait, no, I see something far worse. I see a child in abject agony and terror that could easily have been avoided.’ She says the last bit as if it’s breaking her heart – perhaps it is – and at the same moment, the protestors outside take up their chant again. Their voices are muffled; we can only just hear them. I wouldn’t have known what they were saying if I hadn’t heard them all damn morning: ‘My child, my choice! My child, my choice!’
They don’t know it, but their timing, their chant, is playing right into the prosecutor’s hands. She pauses, lets them have their moment, making sure the whole court hears them while they’re staring at the photo of the dying girl. She’s smart; she knows how to play a room. She doesn’t need to say anything. She lets the court make the connection themselves. If I wasn’t here under oath, representing Queen and Country, I’d be tempted to applaud.
‘My child, my choice!’
It’s as if they’re chanting for agony, demanding to protect their right to let their kids suffer. I’m not normally one for swearing, but what a fucked-up logic.
I clear my throat again. But my kids are safe, I remind myself again, my kids are safe.
6 July 2019
Ash opens his front door at 7 a.m. on Saturday morning to find Jack running on the spot in shorts and a lightweight top, his Fitbit glinting on his wrist: a present from Elizabeth for his birthday in March, and also roughly the last time Jack and Ash went running together.
‘Morning!’ Jack grins at his mate.
Ash, who is wearing tracksuit bottoms he’s had since uni and a Radiohead T-shirt, closes his eyes and says, ‘This is a nightmare. I will wake up. It’s just a nightmare.’
Jack snorts and starts stretching his legs on the front step.
‘Afraid not, fatty. Get your trainers on.’
Three miles later the two are jogging side by side, deep in the woods that start at the back of Saint’s Road, their feet in step and the early-morning summer air cool in their lungs. It’s a beautiful morning, the sky pastel, the colours blending gently into each other. Moments like this – no matter how brief – are, for Jack, a balm, soothing him from the crushing boredom of his working week. He glances over at Ash: his face is reddening already. Jack’s not feeling the strain yet, but he slows just enough that Ash won’t do himself an injury, though not so much that it bruises his friend’s ego. It was on this same run, about a year ago, that Ash told Jack about his fear of fucking things up with Bry, like he fucked things up with his ex, Linette. His confession had formed an unspoken rule to their morning jogs – if they talk, they talk about real shit; otherwise they run in companionable silence. Jack keeps his eyes fixed on the dappled light falling through the young oak trees, casting golden pebbles on the grassy track ahead. They might not have properly talked in a few months, but he reminds himself there is no risk in confiding in Ash. What is said on a jog stays on the jog. In the past, they’ve talked about their wives, about the fears they have for their kids – fuck, on one rainy November day Ash even talked about his fear of death. Anything can be opened up here on this path, together, so why not this?
