When You Are Mine(2)
‘Despite everything,’ I scoff, skipping to the next message.
Philomena, darling, please come. Everybody will be there. Bring Henry, of course. Is that his name? Or is it Harry? I’m terrible with names. Forgive me. Oh, let me check. I’ve written it down … somewhere … yes, here. Henry. Bring Henry. No presents. Two weeks on Sunday at four.
Constance has a posh braying voice that makes every utterance sound like, ‘yah, rah, hah, nah, yah.’ She is the granddaughter of a duke or a lord, who gambled away the family fortune a generation ago and ‘doesn’t have a pot to piss in’, according to my uncles, who call her ‘the duchess’ behind her back.
Henry stirs. His head appears. ‘What time it is?’
‘Nearly six.’
He raises the bedclothes and peers beneath, ‘I have a present for you.’
‘Too late.’
‘Please come back to bed.’
‘You missed your chance.’
He groans and covers his head.
‘I love you too,’ I laugh.
Outside, a dog begins furiously yapping. Our neighbour, Mrs Ainsley, has a Jack Russell called Blaine that barks at every creak and cough and passing car. We’ve complained, but Mrs Ainsley changes the subject, pointing out some act of vandalism or petty crime in the street, which is more evidence that society is unravelling and we’re not safe in our beds.
It’s an eighteen-minute walk from Marney Road to Clapham Common Tube station, along the northern edge of the common, past sporting fields and the skate park. I am wearing my ‘half blues’, with my hair pinned up in a bun. We’re not allowed to wear our full uniform when travelling to and from work. Periodically, a politician will suggest the policy be changed; arguing that police officers should be more visible as a deterrent to crime. Cops on the beat. Boots on the ground.
I can picture my morning commute if I was in uniform. Random strangers would complain to me about schoolkids putting their feet on the seats, or playing music too loudly. I’d hear how their neighbour doesn’t recycle properly or has a dog that keeps crapping in their front garden. If trouble did break out, how would I call for back-up without a radio? And if I made an arrest, where would I take the offender? Would I get overtime? Would anyone thank me?
I catch a Northern Line train to Borough, which is six stops, and walk two minutes to Southwark police station, stopping to buy coffee at the Starbucks across the road. The skinny barista is called Paolo and he keeps up a constant patter as he presses, steams, froths and pours. He offers the ladies ‘extra cream’, or a ‘sticky bun’, making it sound like a sexual proposition. His brother works the sandwich press and occasionally adds to the banter.
While I wait for my order, I think about my father and his sixtieth birthday party. I haven’t spoken to him in six years, and haven’t been in the same room with him for nine. I can remember that last meeting. Jamie Pike, the coolest boy I knew, was fumbling in my knickers in our front room. One moment he had his hand down my pants, acting like he’d lost a pound coin, and the next he was flying backwards and slamming into an antique sideboard, where a William and Kate wedding plate toppled from a stand and shattered on the floor next to him.
My father marched him out of the house and spoke so sternly to Jamie that he never so much as looked at me again. A few years ago, I bumped into him at a cinema in Leicester Square and he literally ran away. He might still be running, or hiding under his bed, or checking his doors are locked. My father has that sort of reputation. He is steeped in myths and stories, many of them violent, hopefully embellished, but all of them spoken in whispers in dark corners because nobody wants to discover if they’re true.
Jamie Pike isn’t the reason that I’m estranged from my father. My parents’ divorce set us on separate paths. I chose to live with my mother; and Daddy chose not to care, or care enough to fight for me. Yes, he sends me birthday presents and Christmas gifts and makes overtures, but I expect more from someone who broke my heart. I want him to grovel. I want him to suffer.
When I applied to join the Metropolitan Police, I had to list my connections with known criminals. I named my father and three uncles. I watched the recruiting inspector read my application and felt as though the oxygen was being sucked from the room. He laughed, thinking it was some sort of joke. He looked past me, searching for a hidden camera, or whoever had put me up to this. When he realised I was serious, his mood changed and I went from being an applicant with a strong CV and a first-class degree, to a fox asking permission to move into the henhouse and set up a barbecue chicken joint.
His face changed colour. ‘Money-laundering. Extortion. Racketeering. Theft. Your family is a pox on this city. Are you seriously suggesting I allow you to join the police service?’
‘I cannot be held responsible for the past actions of my family members,’ I said, quoting the regulations.
‘Don’t lecture me, lassie,’ said the inspector.
‘I’d prefer not to be called “lassie”, sir.’
‘What?’
‘That’s the name for a dog or a young girl.’
My mouth, running off again.
My application was rejected. I applied again. Another rebuff. I threatened legal action. It took me four attempts to gain a place at Hendon, where the instructors were harder on me than any of the other recruits, determined to have me fail, or drop out. My classmates couldn’t understand why I was singled out for such brutal treatment. I didn’t tell any of them about my father. McCarthy is a common enough surname. There are twenty-eight thousand of us in England and almost the same number in Ireland. A person can hide in a crowd that big. A person might even disappear, if only her father would let her.