The Spark

Some of our clients had already been in the system for a few weeks when they came to us and this was a halfway house while they were waiting to be housed. Once they left we provided ongoing support along with the social workers. Others arrived having fled literally hours before with nothing. ‘Not in great shape’ meant the latter.

‘No problem. I haven’t got anything on today. I’ve got a TAF meeting tomorrow.’ We use a lot of acronyms at work. I was referring to a Team Around Family meeting, which involves lots of different agencies involved in supporting our families. ‘I can settle them in.’

I often wondered about how the children felt about their fathers. Not having had one of my own for the key years of my life it was something that I spent a lot of time thinking about. Would the children ever see them again? Would they want to? How would the things they’d seen affect them in the future? Had Mum got away before psychological harm had been done?

I knew that my dad leaving had definitely influenced my job choice. Although he hadn’t been violent or abusive he had definitely inflicted a terrible wound on my mother’s life. When I was eight I hadn’t been able to help her when things had spiralled out of control. There had been no safety net for my mother, no one to help. This job, although far from perfect, was about us picking up the pieces and it made me feel that, in a very small way, I was making up for not being able to help my own mother.

‘Hi, I’m Jess,’ I said, introducing myself to the tired-looking woman with grey shadows dappling her petite, fine-boned features. ‘Would you like some coffee or tea?’

‘Tea, but I don’t want to be no bother.’

‘Well, let me show you the kitchen and then you can help yourself any time you like. It’s Cathy, isn’t it?’

Nodding, she cast a fearful look over her shoulder at the little mound in the bed. ‘I can’t leave our Jakes.’

‘Is he still sleeping?’

‘No.’ Her worry-filled eyes darkened with fear.

‘Perhaps he’d like some juice and a biscuit,’ I suggested. Many of the women that came here had been bullied, coerced and told what to do for so long that making choices was often difficult. They didn’t like to upset anyone. Our job wasn’t to rehabilitate them or make any judgements; it was to provide unconditional support and a safe haven. Holly and I were not counsellors or legal experts; we were there to provide the infrastructure of the refuge, to make sure that the place ran smoothly, help facilitate access to a new life and ensure that the women felt safe.

‘I can ask him.’ She padded in her battered slippers to lean over the huddled lump. ‘Jakes love, you want something to eat?’ I noticed the scratches around her ankles.

A muffled ‘No’ came from the pile of bedclothes.

‘It’ll do you good, love,’ she coaxed, flashing me a desperate look.

‘There’s no hurry,’ I said, giving her a gentle smile. ‘Why don’t I bring a tray up and you can come down to the kitchen when you’re ready? There’s a bathroom just through here.’ I pointed down the corridor. ‘Towels are in there. And there are some clothes and things you might need in the cupboard over here. Help yourself to whatever you need for the time being.’

The women in the house had to do their own cooking, buy their own food and keep the place clean and tidy, but we helped out with food and clothing when they first arrived, as sometimes, like Cathy, they arrived with absolutely nothing. I guessed from the state of her ankles her slippers were the footwear she’d left in.

By the time I left work, it was after six. My tiny flat felt hot and stuffy and I dragged myself around opening every window, trying to get a through-draught, yawning as I went.

Dear God, it had been a long day. I peered at the inside of the fridge and pulled out the last can of Coke. I didn’t feel like eating and the fridge and cupboards held slim pickings. I went out onto the balcony where I sat at the little two-person bistro table, staring at the second empty chair and letting myself brood. I couldn’t get little Jake’s face and its black eye out of my head. How could someone do that to a child? Let alone a father? Parts of my childhood had been scary and chaotic but at least no one had ever intentionally hurt me.

The view is probably what sold the miniature apartment; it’s a conversion at the top of an older building and the balcony is built into the eaves of the roof, looking out over trees and fields which slope up towards the Chiltern Hills. It’s the perfect thinking spot, although I don’t normally let the job or the past get to me. We’ve been trained to have resilience – the ability to bounce back – which, as Holly told me regularly, was why I was so good at my job. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not so thick-skinned that I don’t care, it’s just I know that for me to help and make a difference, I have to be practical and pragmatic. The women that came to us had all too familiar stories. Although stories is the wrong word. They aren’t stories; they’re real. You never get used to the harrowing accounts, but you do learn to manage your own response.

Today I’d not managed very well. I lifted the can of Coke with a heavy sigh. I couldn’t get Cathy and Jake out of my head. What they’d been through and what life now held for them.

So yeah, I was moping. Not something I do very often.

I pushed at the second chair with my foot. Sometimes it would be nice to have someone sitting there, a man who would listen to me have a mini rant, a quick weep, and then tell me I was doing OK and give me a cuddle.

Oh dear, I really was feeling sorry for myself this evening. Good job I had a Pilates class at eight with Shelley and Bel, a bit of a treat as Bel was rarely around during the week. As an auditor for a big accountancy firm, she often spent weeks at a time working away.

I pushed myself to my feet. Enough brooding. I would go and see Aunty Lynn and scrounge tea there. She was bound to feed me and just being at her house always comforted me.

‘Mum.’ I squeaked the word as I sauntered into Aunty Lynn’s big kitchen-diner, having opened the front door with my own key and yelled, ‘Hello, it’s me.’

‘Jess.’ My mother’s face was a cross between disapproval and hurt. I wouldn’t have dreamed of letting myself into her house. I wasn’t sure I still had a key.

What was she doing here? Usually she only deigned to visit on high days and holidays.

‘Hello, Jess,’ said Aunty Lynn, deliberately not commenting on what a nice surprise it was to see me, as she usually would.

‘Hey cous, come to scrounge tea. You’ve timed it perfectly,’ said Shelley with a smirk, relishing the awkwardness.

‘I thought I’d call in on my way to Pilates,’ I said, not daring to look at the clock, the hands of which would have mocked me. The class didn’t start until eight o’clock, it was ten to seven.

‘Have you eaten?’ asked Lynn, already looking at the damn giveaway clock. ‘You’ve got plenty of time, your class doesn’t start until eight. I’ve made a lovely niçoise salad.’ She was already laying an extra place at the table. ‘Why don’t you stay as well, Joan? There’s plenty. Richard, my beloved salad dodger, won’t want any, far too healthy.’

‘I heard that,’ called an indignant voice from the other room and we all grinned at each other. My mother’s mouth tightened.

‘I’m afraid I can’t stay,’ she said in that prissy tone, which we all knew meant, I know when I’m not welcome.

‘Oh, do stay, Joan. You can spend some time with Jess.’

Inside I winced. Wrong thing to say, Aunty Lynn.

‘I can spend time with Jess whenever I want without your permission, Lynn.’ And with that my mother flounced towards the front door. I raced after her.

‘Mum, don’t be like that. Lynn’s just being hospitable. I came to see Shelley really. Why don’t you stay?’ I pleaded, although I couldn’t begin to imagine what the atmosphere would be like if she changed her mind.

‘I’m not being like anything. I need to go home. I’ve got a perfectly good supper waiting for me at home.’ There was no arguing with the straight, affronted back now presented to me. Mum had taken umbrage and I felt horribly guilty. Me marching in unannounced just underlined that this house had always been and still was my sanctuary. As a child it had offered the light and colour lacking at my mum’s house.

‘I’ll see you soon,’ I said desperately.

‘I’m sure you’re busy but when you can fit me in. You know where to find me.’

Ouch, I really had upset her.

Could my day get any worse?

‘Blimey, why did I let myself in for this?’ asked Shelley. Pilates didn’t count as proper exercise, she’d decreed, because, allegedly, it didn’t involve sweat, which just went to prove she wasn’t doing it properly.

‘Because it’s good for us,’ I said, actually feeling a lot better than I had earlier. All that breathing, contorting myself into the right shape and using muscles that were usually left to their own devices meant that there was no space in my head to think of other things.

‘It’s good for you,’ she groaned. ‘With your taut, bendy body, and tiny boobs. Mine just get in the way.’

‘Stop boasting,’ said Bel. ‘You know we’d both love to have a cleavage.’

Shelley cheered up and pushed up her double Es with both hands. ‘I’ve got a body made for lurve, that’s my problem.’

We both burst out laughing.

‘Obviously, that’s where I’m going wrong,’ I said. ‘My body’s not even built for dating.’

‘I know someone who was very interested and he’s young, free and single, now.’ Her eyes gleamed with sudden delight and a sly smile lit up her face.

I ignored her, I refused to take the bait. It wasn’t the first time she’d attempted to fix me up with one of her random and completely unsuitable mates-of-mates.

She arched an eyebrow. ‘Don’t you want to know?’

‘No.’

‘Not even if it’s someone you really, really like.’

I glared at her. What? We were thirteen? Did she mean Sam?

‘You do know he’s broken up with his girlfriend?’

I didn’t need any more information. She did mean Sam. A rush of adrenaline crashed through me so unexpectedly that I dropped one of my trainers.

‘H–he has?’

She nodded, gentle for once, as if she knew it mattered. ‘Yes, sorry, I assumed you’d know.’ She lifted her shoulders in mute apology. ‘Mum was talking over the fence to his mum; she mentioned it.’

‘Wow,’ I said. For some reason I felt totally numb. Sam had finished with his girlfriend. I think I was too scared of what it might mean to dare to feel anything. ‘Do you know when?’

Was it before the weekend? After Sunday?

Shelley shook her head. ‘Mum didn’t say. I can ask her if you like.’

I gave her the look.

‘Uh, maybe not.’ Her quick grin was sympathetic. Given ammunition like that, Aunty Lynn would be straight round to Sam’s mum like a secret agent on a mission.

But now I was confused. Sam hadn’t made deliberate contact since he’d sent the Facebook friend invite. There’d been no further texts. Maybe I was imagining the mutual attraction, wishing it to be so, like some sort of reverse denial. People did that sort of thing all the time, didn’t they? Stalkers who were fixated on people, believing their victims returned their affection. Maybe I’d just read too much into those feelings? Maybe he was one of those guys who was incapable of not flirting? Maybe Sam was like that with any girl who gave him so much as the flutter of an eyelash and let slip a flash of attraction? A complete man-whore, who tested the waters but never went in deeper because he had a steady relationship that kept him safe. The more I thought about it, the more convinced I became.

Bel and Shelley both kept quiet, for which I was extremely grateful. There were too many questions and thoughts churning around my head to make sense of anything.

As the sky was still cloudless and the sun blazing brightly, even though it was after nine, we walked home in our T-shirts and leggings. The pretty High Street was quiet, as if everyone had stayed home to enjoy the rare evening warmth. We walked along in near silence and I could feel Shelley and Bels shooting me concerned glances.

As we walked up the slight hill to the mini roundabout where Shelley would peel off, I put out my arms, catching both of them on the forearm. ‘Guys, can you stop worrying about me. Shels, I can almost feel you plotting. And Bels, you can stop fretting about me.’

‘Well, it’s just not like you to be…’

‘Quiet.’

‘So serious.’

I laughed as they spoke at the same time. ‘Well, you can quit worrying. I’m fine. Sam hasn’t even been in touch, so he’s probably not interested.’

That thought didn’t stop me going straight on to Instagram and Facebook as soon as I walked through the front door and my phone picked up the Wi-Fi signal.

Sam had posted nothing since Saturday on his Facebook newsfeed, where he’d shared a video which featured him hitting a cricket ball with an almighty thwack that seemed to reverberate around the pitch. In his uniform he looked official and business-like, and the determined, predatory stance as he faced the ball made him appear quite different to the laughing golden man I’d met several times. I watched the video a second time, taking in the slow, deliberate step out to strike and the flash of power unleashed when he hit the ball. I knew bugger all about cricket, but I knew damn sexy when I saw it. My mouth went dry.

His Instagram feed hadn’t been touched for over a week. Knowing I shouldn’t, I tapped Victoria’s name into the search box.

Her most recent post was last night; she looked gorgeous but there was a dangerous hint of black widow in her dressed-to-kill pose. A midnight-black lace dress skimmed the tops of her thighs, the endless legs accentuated by high, sexy sandals. The look was completed by the dress’s magnificent slashed neckline that dipped virtually to the navel, showing off high, full breasts. The picture had femme-fatale-on-the-prowl written all over it, as did the fifty comments below.

‘Show him what he’s missing, girl.’

‘He’s a fool.’

‘You go, girl.’

‘Shit for brains, that man. You deserve better.’

‘Can’t believe it, babe. Hugs.’

‘Aw hon, you look beautiful. Plenty of fish.’

I sat down with a thunk on my sofa. It was true. Sam had finished with Victoria.

Chapter Six

My phone rang as I was rushing for a train. I had exactly six minutes to run up the escalator and make a mad dash to the platform for the 17.34 to Tring after a rare midweek day’s shopping and lunch with an old university friend in London. I picked up my pace, ignoring the strident ring and after dithering with my oyster card and cursing when it didn’t seem to work, I managed to catch the train by the absolute skin of my teeth.

As I got into the nearest carriage with the beeping signalling the doors closing ringing in my ears, I slumped into the first available seat, breathing so hard I barely noticed my own feet, let alone who I was sitting next to, until someone laughed. So much for all those parkruns! They hadn’t prepared me for a sprint.

‘Jess Harper!’

‘Michael!’ A familiar face loomed into focus. Michael had been in my year at school and his girlfriend, Helen, had been in the same year as Shelley and one of her best friends. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘On my way back to Tring. I’m staying with the folks at the moment. I’ve been working down in Southampton since finishing uni, and then a job came up in London and I fancied a change … and Mum and Dad have downsized. And,’ he looked a touch embarrassed, ‘helped us out with a deposit to buy a place.’ Then his eyes lit up. ‘Me and Helen have just got engaged.’

‘Oh wow! Congratulations! Shelley didn’t tell me.’

‘She doesn’t know and Helen’s going to kill me for telling you first. Please don’t say anything. They’re going out for a drink tomorrow.’

‘I won’t say a word.’ I gave him a cheerful wince, easily able to imagine Shelley’s excited shriek the minute she spotted the engagement ring. ‘We should all get together sometime for a drink.’

The rest of the journey was spent catching up with news of old schoolfriends and passed so quickly that I completely forgot my missed call.

It was only as the train slid into the station that I pulled out my phone.

Sam’s name on the screen left me suddenly dry-mouthed and I swear my heart stopped for a second.

‘Bad news?’ asked Michael, looking worried.

‘No, just … an unexpected call.’ It had been three weeks since I’d heard that he and Victoria had split up.

I’d spent a week and a half tormented by the ridiculous hope that I might hear from him. This was followed by a forlorn week and a half realising that he was obviously no longer interested, if he ever had been at all, and that I’d imagined that spark between us.

I must have looked shell-shocked. Even though stray thoughts of Sam managed to creep through every now and then, I’d filed him under O for ‘out of bounds’ and locked the filing cabinet as tight as a bank vault. I’d stopped peeking at his and Victoria’s Instagram accounts and noticed that his Facebook posts had dwindled to virtually nothing. This was a complete bolt from the blue. Even though I wanted to call him straight back, the peculiar geography of Tring station being a mile and a half out of town and the constraints of politeness meant that I had to offer Michael a lift home.

As soon as I walked through the door I pulled out my phone. My hands were shaking as I pressed the bold black letters at the top of the recent calls list. He’d called twice but neither time left a message.

Wah! I’d pressed the screen too soon. What was I going to say? You were supposed to prepare for these things. Did I look too eager? Too desperate?

‘Hey, Jess.’

‘Hi, Sam.’ I was shy? What the hell? I’m never shy. I walked into the flat and perched on the edge of the sofa.

There was a silence.

‘Sorry, have I called at a bad time?’ I asked, picking at a loose thread at the bottom of my shirt. I desperately didn’t want it to be a bad time.

Sam laughed and all the silly trifling innate worries – like maybe he’d regretted calling me, or maybe it was an accident – vanished as I pictured his blue eyes crinkling, his face coming to mind as if I’d seen him yesterday.

‘No, not at all. Any time is good.’ I could almost hear him grinning. I mean, I just knew he was grinning from something in his speech. Is that crazy? ‘It’s just that earlier when I called, I had it all prepared. You know, exactly what I was going to say and now … I’m a bit thrown because I’d convinced myself that you wouldn’t call me back and … would you like to come out for a drink with me?’

‘Yes,’ I said laughing, charmed afresh by his honesty.

‘You would?’

‘Do you want me to think about it?’

‘No,’ he said quickly before adding in a gabbled rush, ‘Istomorrowtoosoon?’

Chapter Seven

A bad day in the refuge is when one of the women decides that going back to the life they know is preferable to living with the uncertainty of if the council will find them a suitable home, if their children will settle in their new schools, and if they can cut it on their own.

Holly and I know it’s not our fault, we really do, but it doesn’t help with the numbing sense of loss and failure. Today was a bad day. The Slater family, for whom I’d fought so hard to get the three children into the same school, had returned home. Mr Slater’s texts promising to change, pleading with her to drop the charges, and photos of their spacious executive house in a nice part of Surrey had done the damage. You don’t expect domestic abuse in nice, middle-class families. The stereotypical image of fraught, poverty-stricken lives affected by the issue is a long way from reality. There are no stereotypes. These are real people, real families, from every walk of life.

It was tempting to cancel Sam. I wanted him to meet the nice, shiny, happy version of me, not the sickened and heartbroken version who hated the powerlessness of days like these, when you wonder over and over if there was anything you’d missed. Anything you could have done. The truth was that the Slaters’ immediate future was grim – a one-bedroomed council flat and living on benefits until the children were older. Mrs Slater used to drive an Audi four-by-four, shopped in John Lewis, and had lost a spleen.

I didn’t cancel him. I rocked up at the pub twenty minutes early and went and sat in the garden at one of the benches, with my back to the table, under a shady tree with a large glass of Coke, the condensation dripping down the side, which I held against my neck. It was another heat-searing day with the temperature hitting the high twenties, which I didn’t mind so much now that I was outside. I texted Sam to tell him where I was.

The pub was perfectly positioned, only a ten-minute journey from work for both of us, but I acknowledged, with a grim, unhappy smile, that wasn’t why Sam had chosen it. I looked around the garden; it wasn’t busy but even if it had been, I wouldn’t have known a soul here. The pub was far enough away from Tring that it was unlikely anyone would spot us. I winced, hating the feeling that we were creeping around. I guessed that Sam was being considerate of Victoria’s feelings; I got that, but it suggested things on too many other levels that I didn’t want to examine. Was this a proper date? Did it mean something? I’d not been able to stop thinking about Sam since the moment I’d met him, even though I’d tried really hard. Was it possible that he could feel the same about me? The thought that he could thrilled me as much as it filled me with terrible guilt. I’ve got a pretty well-developed conscience. I’d seen my mum when Dad had gone; she’d tortured herself wondering what the other woman had that she didn’t, what she’d done wrong, and whether there was anything she should have done differently.

I traced the condensation with my finger and tried hard not to think about how Victoria might be feeling. Even so, I couldn’t help feeling a little bit sick at heart. No one should go through the pain my mother had suffered.

Knowing it was the dumbest move I could make, I picked up my phone and carried on looking at the Instagram feed I’d succumbed to peeking at earlier that afternoon. It was clear that she and Sam breaking up had not been a mutual decision. Her recent feed featured lots of pictures of happier times with her and Sam among the same group of friends. The numbers varied, but the same faces recurred in different groupings: lounging on the field at a cricket match, dressed up and posing for the camera at a wedding, a group selfie on a sun-drenched beach that looked somewhere exotic and well above my paygrade, in Barcelona at the Sagrada Familia. It was a gloriously technicolour, detailed documentary of their history together and an indelible testament to how intertwined their lives had been.

I snapped off my phone and pushed it away. Instead, I gazed up at the leafy canopy above and wondered how the leaves managed to stay so crisp and green when the grass had given up the ghost. The hillside view was probably normally rolling verdant field; today it was brown scrub.