Postcards From Berlin Read online

  “I just don’t see how that could make Daisy ill,” I say.

  He hears the catch in my voice. He comes to sit beside me.

  “Cat,” he says, “now don’t go getting upset.”

  He ruffles my hair, as though I am a child. His hand on me soothes me, as he knows it will.

  “What about the hospital?” he asks.

  “We’re getting the referral.”

  “Well, that’s all that matters, really,” he says.

  “What if she puts it in the letter — that she thinks it’s psychological? They won’t take Daisy seriously. If they think that, no one’ll bother to try and find out what’s wrong.”

  “Of course she won’t put it in the letter,” he says. “I mean, these are the experts, aren’t they? She’ll leave them to make up their own minds. None of this adds up to anything,” he says, and puts his arm around me.

  Yet still I feel that something has been broken.

  Chapter 9

  THERE’S A ROAD I WON’T GO DOWN. Poplar Avenue. A harmless name, a name like any other. There’s a house in that road, a wide-fronted house set well back from the street. There are rooms in that house with doors with panels of glass, panels that once were covered with brown paper. Richard started to drive down Poplar Avenue once, by mistake, when we were coming home from Gina and Adrian’s and a car crash in the one-way system had caused a massive tail-back. He turned round when he realized: He knows; I’ve told him some of it, and he read about it in the papers during the inquiry. But nobody knows all of it, except those of us who were there.

  I was thirteen when I went there. My mother couldn’t cope with me — or so she told the social worker, as I lurked behind the bead curtain in the squalid kitchen of our tiny flat, which I’d tried to clean up, knowing the social worker was coming, hearing everything. “I need a break,” said my mother. “Just for a month or two. To get myself together.”

  The social worker said she admired my mother’s honesty and it probably was for the best. She asked if there was anyone I could go to. “No,” said my mother. “We only have each other.” The social worker said not to worry, she was pretty sure that there was a place at The Poplars. And I wouldn’t even need to change schools, so really it didn’t have to be too disruptive.

  My mother was drinking three bottles of sherry a day. It had crept up on us gradually, through the years of living in rented flats, or in rooms at the top of pubs where she worked behind the bar. I knew the story of how we came to be in this predicament — or, at least, the part of it she chose to tell. Her family had been reasonably well-off —her father was a cabinetmaker — but they’d been Plymouth Brethren, very strict and excluding. She’d always chafed against it — the beliefs, the extreme restrictions. She’d truanted a lot, left school to travel round Europe with an unemployed actor, ten years older than she was, who smoked a lot of dope. Her family had rejected her totally — wouldn’t see her again. In the Vondelpark in Amsterdam, the man had drifted off. She’d wandered back to London, existed for a while on the edge of some rather bohemian group, people who squatted, who liked to call themselves anarchists, who had artistic pretensions. She wore cheesecloth blouses, worked as a waitress. It was the pinnacle of her life, the time to which she always yearned to return. She was still only nineteen when she met my father. She fell pregnant almost immediately. He went off with somebody else when I was six months old; my mother was just twenty. She never talked about him, except to say that she wasn’t going to talk about that bastard. I only knew he’d been part of that arty group and that his name was Christopher.

  It was OK when I was younger. She had standards then; she was quite particular. She talked a lot about manners, and she always laid the table properly for tea. We were happy, I think, happy enough, though there was never much money, and often she left me alone in the evenings, even when I was young. I remember how as a little girl I’d sit on the bed and watch her getting ready, perhaps for her evening shift behind the bar, or maybe for a night out on the town with one of her long succession of temporary men. She’d be all sheeny and glossy, with high heels and a gold chain round her ankle, her skin a sun-kissed brown from her weekly session at the Fake It tanning studio, with the smell that was then so comforting, so familiar, of Marlboros and Avon Lily of the Valley. I’d sit on the bed amid the heaps of her clothes and accessories, her belts and bangles and gloves and floaty scarves. She had a particular passion for gloves, in pastel cotton or silk, with little pearl buttons or ruched wrists. It was eccentric, perhaps, giving her an air of spurious formality, but she liked to hide her hands, which were always rough and reddened from the work she did, all the washing of glasses in the sink at the bar. I’d watch how she’d choose from her glittery sticks of cosmetics, how she’d do her mouth, first drawing the outline with lip pencil, making her narrow lips a little more generous, then the lipstick, coral bright, eased on straight from the stick. She’d press her lips together to spread the color out. I thought she was so beautiful. Yet my pleasure in these moments was always shot through with fear — that one day she’d go and leave me and somehow forget to return. Or maybe the fear of abandonment is something I’ve added since, thinking back, laying my knowledge of what happened later over my memory of those moments, as frost lies over leaves.

  There was one man called Marco, whom she met through a lonely hearts column in the local paper. He was, or claimed to be, Italian. She always said she liked a man with an accent. He moved in with us. He was smooth, flash, with lots of chest hair and gold jewelry. The flat was clean and tidy while Marco was with us; sometimes I heard my mother singing as she worked. When he left, taking all her savings and even the money from the gas meter, and she realized she’d been conned, that all his protestations of love had been just an elaborate charade, something seemed to die in her. That was when she started buying sherry instead of wine. She lost her job. Sometimes she’d be virtually insensible when I came in from school, and I’d have to take off her outer clothes and tuck her up in bed. One day I came home all excited, bursting to tell her I’d won the second-year art prize. It was one of those moments when life feels full of promise and shiny, like a present just ready and waiting for you to unwrap. But my mother was snoring on the sofa, the front of her blouse hanging open, and there was no one to tell. Sometimes she’d be coherent but maudlin, full of platitudes, weeping and saying again and again how she’d tried to give me a good life but it had all gone wrong, and eating Hellmann’s mayonnaise from the jar with a tablespoon. I started taking money from her purse, to buy food. I spilled nail varnish on her skirt and she hit me with a clothes hanger. When I got into a fight at school because someone had called me a lesbian — the usual schoolgirl term of abuse, I shouldn’t have got so upset — she turned up drunk and belligerent in the school office, demanding to see the headmistress, and had to be seen off the premises by the caretaker.

  That was when the social worker started visiting. The third time she came, she told me to pack and took me out to her car.

  The Poplars. It’s the smell I remember: disinfectant, cabbage, adolescent sweat. And the texture of it: everything rough, worn, frayed. Lino, and thin blankets, and flabby white bread and corned beef, and having to ask for every sanitary towel. The sofas had springs sticking through, and when Darren Reames in one of his moods ripped off some of the wallpaper, it stayed like that for months, with a great gaping tear. There weren’t enough electric points: You had to unplug the fridge to watch the television, so the milk was usually sour. There was never enough to eat. Once I said I was hungry and Brian Meredith told me not to talk because talking wasted energy.

  Brian Meredith ran the place; he’d been in the SAS. He was short, dapper, smart in his red or blue blazers; he was pleasant to visiting social workers, who liked his ready handshake and his poster that said “I’m the Boss” with a picture of a gorilla, and his friendly yellow Labrador stretched out on the floor by his desk. He looked like everyone’s favorite uncle — and he knew how to hit w
ithout leaving a mark on you. Looking back, I can see why he got away with it: He took the really difficult kids that nobody else would touch. Girls with shiny, sequiny names — Kylie, Demi, Sigourney — and wrecked lives. Boys who set fires, who used knives. All of them lashing out at the people who tried to help them with what I see now was the terrible rage of those who have nothing to lose: children who couldn’t be consoled. Like Darren, who’d set fire to his school and then to his house with his grandfather in it. Or Jason Oakley, who said his dad had interfered with him, who kicked a pregnant care worker in the stomach, so she miscarried; though in the end even Brian Meredith couldn’t cope with Jason, and he was sent to Avalon Close, an adolescent psychiatric unit with a grim reputation. Girls like Aimee Graves, whose father had held her head in the loo and flushed it, who came into Care and had seventeen foster placements: Aimee, who was so misnamed, for no one loved her. Except me, for a while. Except me.

  Brian Meredith solved some big problems for the council. He did what he liked, and his methods were all his own. Two rooms on the second floor. The secret of his success. Pindown. Each room with a bed, a table, a flimsy electric fire, and the glass-paneled door, the glass screened with brown paper. There were no locks, no keys, but saucepans were hung on the outside of the door handle, and someone was always there, the other side of the door. If you misbehaved or ran away, that’s where they put you. They took your clothes and shoes: You had to wear your pajamas. If you wanted to go to the toilet, you had to knock on the door. They set you writing to do: You sat at the table and wrote down the wrong things you’d done. The rules were stuck on the wall, a list with lots of no’s: no smoking, TV, radio, books; and no communicating out of the window without permission — because you could see the woman who lived in the flat next door, her sitting room was level with your window, you could see right in. You’d watch her dusting, watching television, sitting on the arm of the sofa and having a quiet smoke, and you’d want to bang on your window, to see if she might wave to you. Sometimes you felt she was your only friend.

  Most of the staff were young. Some were doing it for experience; they wanted to get on courses and become proper social workers, the kind who sat in offices and went to case conferences, and visited places like The Poplars then drove away in their cars. Some of them just couldn’t get anything better. Most of them wanted to help, really. They wore denim and had piercings and said how much they liked the music we liked and tried to get us to talk about our feelings. You could see when they talked to you, trying to get near you, how they longed for some kind of revelation — for the gift of some confidence, a disclosure or confession about your family and what had been done to you — longed for your trust, though they didn’t know what the hell to do with it if you gave it. They were OK, most of them. Only Brian Meredith hit us. But they did what he said: used Pindown.

  Lesley was the nicest. She arrived soon after I did. She was perhaps ten years older than me, twenty-three to my thirteen. Lesley became my key-worker. She was different from the others: rather awkward and clumsy, with feet too big for her body, but her eyes were quiet when they rested on you.

  Lesley was very conscientious. She took me off for individual sessions. We sat on the square of carpet in the staff room — the only bit of carpet in the place — and did exercises from a ring-bound manual she had called “Building Self-Esteem.” She drew a self-esteem tree on a big piece of paper with felt tips: There were fruits on the branches, and you had to write something about yourself that you liked in each of the fruits. I remember the dirty cups on the coffee table and the smell of Jeyes from the corridor where someone had been sick. I couldn’t think of much to write in the fruit. She turned a page of her book. “If I could wave a magic wand, what would you wish for?” she asked. “When you’re grown up and all this is behind you, what would you want to have?” I sat there in the smell of cabbage and disinfectant. “Close your eyes,” she said. I closed my eyes, and saw it all, clear, vivid. Perhaps it was the tree she’d drawn, triggering something in me: I saw lots of trees, a garden; I saw a house and children and a husband, all these images welling up in me, precise as though I’d drawn them. “I’d like to have children,” I said. “I’d like to have a family of my own. And a place to live, just us and nobody else.” I saw, heard it all in my head: a lawn, a lily pool, the splashing of a fountain in the pool, the laughter of children. In a moment of hope that warmed me through, there on the thin, frayed carpet: I will have them, I thought, these things.

  My mother visited, occasionally, erratically, dressed up, but not for me. Always in a hurry, as though there was somewhere else she needed to be. Like someone at a party, looking over your shoulder for the person they want to talk to, and shifty, as though she was implicated in some guilt by merely being there. Sometimes she brought presents: exuberant cuddly toys, large fluffy rabbits with satin hearts on their chests. I put the toys on the windowsill of the room I shared with Aimee. Sometimes my mother was drunk when she came, sentimental and full of self-pity, saying over and over how she’d done her best for me, done everything she could.

  “When can I come home?”

  “Soon. Very soon, Trina.” Smoking her Marlboros, fiddling with her rings. “I just need to get myself together. You’re OK in here then, are you?”

  “I hate it.”

  “Oh,” she’d say. “They seem nice enough.”

  Afterward, Lesley would sit on my bed and talk to me.

  “How do you feel about your mum, my love? How does it all make you feel?”

  I never knew how to answer these questions.

  During the week, we were meant to go to school. The others mostly didn’t: They’d go off to the towpath, where they’d sit on rubber tires and inhale lighter fuel and throw stones in the water; or maybe to the Glendale Centre, where when they got bored they’d steal things from the shops. I was the only one who went on going to school.

  It was a sprawling comprehensive, full of children I envied, with homes to go to and trainers that were regularly replaced. I didn’t do well: I was always rather hungry and distracted. I went because of the art, because the art rooms were always open at lunchtime. You could mess about with pens and paints and do whatever you wanted and nobody bothered you. It was quiet, in a way that The Poplars never was — just Capital Radio playing, and a few other girls softly talking, and the drumming of the rain on the mezzanine roof: It always seemed to be raining; that’s how it is in my memory, the windows clouded with condensation so no one could see in. And there I discovered this sweet, surprising thing: that with a pen or paintbrush in my hand, there was a flow to my life, and I could draw things that pleased me, and the other girls would stop and look as they passed. However tired I was, however hungry, this flow and freedom still happened, till The Poplars faded away to a smoky blur on the edges of my mind, and I entered a different place, a place of shapes, of colors, viridian and cobalt and burnt sienna, where I felt for a while a secret, guarded joy.

  There was a teacher called Miss Jenkins who took an interest in me. She had an ex-hippy air — she wore hoops in her ears and liked embroidered cardigans. She never asked me how I felt or wanted to talk about me. She must have known where I came from: It didn’t seem to matter. She showed me things: a book of impressionist paintings; a postcard of a picture by Pisanello that I adored, of a velvety dark wood studded with birds like jewels; a book of botanical drawings she’d bought at Kew. She gave me pictures to copy, to explore, and suggested materials I could try — fine pens, oil paints, acrylics, and plaster to make a 3-D picture — which they only used in class at A-level. I was privileged, I knew: at moments like these, I felt rich. So I went on going to school, for the quiet hours in the art room and the complicated, sweet scent of acrylic paint that I could still smell hours afterward, and Miss Jenkins, whose first name I never knew.

  I didn’t get close to the other girls. I kept myself a little apart, not wanting them to find out about me. I saw this as a temporary thing. When things are OK, wh
en this bad bit is over, when I’m back with my mother, I thought — then I will talk to them, make friends, be one of them. Not till then. Aimee at The Poplars was my only friend.

  She was wild, Aimee: a sharp, knowing face, hair like fire, tattoos all down her arm. She had a razor blade sewn into the hem of her jeans. For emergencies, she said. She never went to school.

  Aimee got picked on a lot by the staff at The Poplars. They told her she was trouble. She wasn’t like me; she wouldn’t just go along with things and bide her time. I’d always been able to do this — blend into the background, not be conspicuous, not be seen — but Aimee couldn’t or wouldn’t: There was something in her, some flame that wouldn’t be quenched. Brian Meredith hit her more than the others: for nicking stuff and getting into fights and being lippy. She used to call him Megadeath. “He’s got it coming,” she’d say. “I’ll do him over. Just you wait. One day.” Once he kept her for three weeks in Pindown. When she came out she’d ripped all the skin from the sides of her fingernails and sometimes she’d shout in her sleep.

  She ran away often. Sometimes she took me with her. She showed me how to do it, how to travel on a train without a ticket by hiding in the toilet, how to steal. We’d plan it all together in the room we shared, the street light falling through the thin curtains onto the battered candlewick of our bedspreads. Each time it was like falling in love; each time we thought this was the day, the time, the Real Thing. Usually, we’d head for Brighton, where Aimee had heard you could live in a squat and find some people who’d help you. Brighton was our promised land. We knew how it would be. We’d sell jewelry, those little leather thongs with stones on, we’d live on chips, read fortunes: We’d be like the older girls you saw there on the seafront, with their impossible glamour, their ratty ribboned hair and Oxfam coats and thin, thin bodies and wide, generous smiles.

  We’d pack our bags with a change of clothes and Kit Kats we’d nicked from Woolworths or minipacks of Frosties, and put on our trainers and go. And maybe we’d get there, and sleep on the beach by the pier, and the police would come and pick us up, and we’d be put in Pindown.