Mel - Chapter 2

Sundays were the worst. The weekdays were better.

  On the school wall, under the sign Inner London Education Authority, William Watt Comprehensive School, some long-ago joker had sprayed the word COLDITZ. Mel knew that many of her fellow pupils felt school was like a prison camp or torture chamber, but they were the lucky ones who had somewhere better to go and something better to do. For a few, including Mel, it was a refuge.

On Monday morning it was a relief to push through the glass doors into the cheerful noisy chaos, sniffing the harsh, clean smell of disinfectant on vinyl tiles. Over the years she had trained herself to concentrate on her school work, no matter what happened at home, finding to her surprise that she actually enjoyed it, enjoyed getting good results, enjoyed stretching her brain. After school she stayed on to play badminton, joined the drama group and the sewing club, ran discos and helped Home Economics cater for the PTA's frequent bingo sessions and other fund-raising activities. She would do anything, in fact, that kept her from going home until the last possible moment. But the summer holidays would start soon, and the school would be closed.

Mel stared out of the window. The art room was at the top of the building, its huge windows giving spectacular views of a red and black rooftop mosaic patched with green trees. Row upon row of buildings, all shapes and sizes, crushed together, stretching away as far as the eye could see to the heat haze on the horizon. Six interminable weeks trapped in Cowcross Street. She did not think that she would be able to stand it this year. Her pencil, moving over the drawing paper, stopped, as she thought again of the embankment wall.

'Mel!' shouted Keith Edwards, her new young art teacher, across the room. 'Mrs. Green wants to see you.'

He came and looked over her shoulder at her drawing of two crumbling houses. 'That's really good. I like that detail of the broken plaster and the smashed windows.'

'The people are awful though.'

'Mmm. A bit stiff. Where are these buildings?'

'Just down there. You can see them. I pass them on my way home.'

'You've got a nice little sketch there. Looks like you've got a feeling for architecture. You might think of doing something about houses for our Special Study theme, if you haven't chosen anything else, that is.'

'Not yet. I'm not thinking very well just now.'

She had given up Art in the Third Year in favour of more academic subjects. It had seemed a good idea to pick it up again in the Sixth, to get an easy extra exam pass, along with her A levels in English Literature, French and History, but it was proving more difficult and more absorbing than she had thought.

'Who did you say wanted me?'

'Mrs. Green. Don't go in your art shirt.'

Mel grinned, but her heart had started to bang unpleasantly. Something serious. Everyone knew that Mrs.Green, the pernickety Deputy Head, dealt with the most important matters in the school, while the Head played with the timetable boards and school governors.

By the time she reached Mrs. Green's office, her sense of foreboding was acute, and she felt physically sick. There was a visitor sitting in the armchair across from Mrs. Green's desk, a tall young woman with a cheerful, freckled face and a halo of frizzy red hair.

Mrs. Green said, 'Mel, this is Miss Tracey from the Social Services Department.'

'Hello, Mel.' Her voice was too sympathetic, too professionally cheerful, like a doctor's. Mel stiffened. She saw that under the jolly smile, Miss Tracey was watching her carefully, and that the smile had not reached her eyes.

'Come and sit down, lovey.'  She patted the chair next to her. 'You can call me Dee if you like.'

Mel did not move. She said stiffly, 'What is it? What's happened?'

Dee Tracey stopped smiling. 'We have some rather bad news for you, I'm afraid, lovey. Your mother...'

The sense of impending disaster broke over Mel. Suicide, she thought, she's committed suicide. Briefly, the room swung darkly.

Mrs. Green's cool voice penetrated, discouraging hysteria.

'Sit down, Mel. It's all right. She's not dead. She's been taken to hospital.'

'Hob's Green, the hospital for mentally disturbed patients,' Dee Tracey said quickly. 'Sorry about that, Mel. I didn't mean to give you a fright.'

'But I don't understand.' Mel drew a deep breath and tried to steady her voice. 'She was all right when I left this morning. That is...I mean she was just as usual. I know she's ill but...'

'Yes, well, very ill, I'm afraid. She's had what's called a mental breakdown, and it is rather serious.' She sounded as though she was explaining to a child, Mel thought angrily. As if she didn't know what was wrong with her mother. 'She should have been seeing a doctor regularly,' Dee Tracey went on, kindly. 'She might have been okay with tablets. But of course, you weren't to know that.'

Tablets, thought Mel, bitterly, remembering her mother's hysterical screaming when she had said she was going to make the doctor come. 'They'll take me away! Put me in an asylum. Your own mother. You want to get rid of me. You're trying to kill me..' She had leapt at Mel, clawing, screaming, and Mel had fled to her refuge on top of the embankment wall, creeping back very late when she knew her mother would be in bed. The next morning her mother had been passive again, dazed, and Mel had made sandwiches and tea before going to school. But she had begun to wedge her bedroom door at night as the temper attacks grew more violent.

'Anyway, you'll be able to visit her in the hospital soon. In the meantime we have to get you fixed up, so if you'll get your coat and things, we'll be on our way.' Dee Tracey closed the folder on her lap, and got to her feet, smoothing her narrow black skirt down her thighs. Her long oval fingernails were the same dark orange as her lipstick. Mel felt rumpled and grubby. 'But where are we going? What's happening? I don't understand.'

'Your aunt down in Stockwell. You'll have to stay there until your mother comes out of hospital. And we have to fix you up with a new school today.'

'My mother's aunt,' said Mel, automatically. Great Aunt Edie, who spat in the sink and smelled of diarrhoea. She had stayed there three years ago. 'How long will my mother be in hospital?'

'Not long we hope.' Dee Tracey smiled encouragingly. She had large white teeth. Like a chimpanzee, Mel thought resentfully.

'One week? Two weeks? A month?'

'Perhaps a little longer than that.'

'Six months?'

Neither of the two women would Mel's eyes.

'Well, as I said, lovey, it is a serious breakdown. It all depends on how she responds to treatment. This is her second breakdown after all.'

Mrs. Green said, 'Now if you'll just go and get your coat...'

'No,' said Mel. Feeling had begun to come back, and with it, a growing anger. They were trying to push her around. 'No!' she said again, her voice hardening. 'First I want to know exactly what happened to my mother.'

'You know your mother is mentally ill, lovey. What else is there to say? One of your neighbours, Mrs. Miller, phoned for an ambulance.Your mother was running up and down the road in her nightdress, crying and shouting.

Mel, ashen, said, 'I want to see her.'

'There's no point at the moment, lovey. She won't know you. She got violent. Several people had to hold her down. It's a pity you didn't think to get a doctor to her before it got so bad. It must have been very difficult for you though.  You could have come to us, you know. There's all kinds of help available. We could have provided support, a family caseworker maybe, a health visitor, a home help to clear up all that mess in the house...'

'You say that now,' said Mel, the anger and bitterness choking her throat, 'But you didn't help. You did nothing! Nobody helped.'

'You've had a rather bad time, Mel,' said Mrs. Green soothingly. 'But you must put it all behind you now. Once you're with your aunt in Stockwell...'

'No,' said Mel. She could feel her voice rising out of her control. 'I'm not going to Great Aunt Edie's. She hates having me. And I'm not changing schools in the middle of my A levels and mucking up my chances of passing.'

Dee Tracey said doubtfully, 'Well, I suppose you could stay in your own home. But the conditions...I mean it's not exactly...' She glanced at Mrs. Green.

'You need someone to look after you, Mel,' said Mrs. Green coming to the rescue.

But Mel had seen the significant look and felt the blood burning her cheeks. She stared at Dee Tracey. Patronising, conceited cow, with her silly Sloane Ranger voice. Lovey. What did she know of the way people like Mel had to live?

'Who do you think has looked after me for the last three years?' She sucked in thin streams of air as the fury blocked her throat again. 'I'm not a little girl. I'm seventeen. I do the cleaning, the washing, the cooking, the shopping. I handle the money. My mother hasn't cooked a meal in two years. She didn't know what time of the day or night it was. She didn't know if I was in or out or dead or alive. And she didn't care. And nobody else did either, lovey.'

'I'm sure you coped fantastically well, but...'

'Can't you put me in a foster home? Find me a place in a hostel?'

'Take you into Care, you mean? Oh, there's no need for that, Mel. We hardly ever take Care proceedings for seventeen-year-olds. Not unless there are reasons to think they are in moral or physical danger. Believe me, in this area we aren't looking for problems. The whole of the social services are stretched to breaking point. There aren't enough foster homes anyway, or hostel places. We assume that if you are seventeen you are capable of looking after yourself - as you just said. The only thing is, you might be a bit lonely all by yourself in the house, so that's why I think you'd be well advised to go to your auntie. Sorry, your great aunt.'

Mel stared at her disbelievingly. They were still not going to help her. Even now, when almost the worst disaster of her life had struck, they still weren't going to do anything. No foster parents. No hostel. The lovely dream, which she had hardly acknowledged even to herself, of the clean, suburban home with fitted carpets and flower-printed duvets, the friendly jokey foster dad, and an understanding mum who would cuddle her sometimes when she felt low, that lovely impossible dream, faded away, leaving harsh, gritty, real life.

She felt sick. Great Aunt Edie again with her dark, furry teeth, and disgusting, rumbling cough.

All this time they had ignored her, let her struggle on without raising a finger to help. She had always imagined that help must come one day. The doctor or someone at school, would notice the bruises maybe, and see she was looked after. But nobody was going to help her. Nobody cared. Although she had told herself so many times, deep down she had never really believed it.  But now, suddenly, she felt she had stepped on a ladder rung, which was not there and plunged off into empty space, falling, with the dark abyss opening all around her.  For a moment she hung there, then a flood of wild fury poured through her.

She jumped to her feet and stared at them accusingly, hiding her clenched hands against her sides. 'You're not going to help me at all, are you? I'm just a nuisance. Not a person - a problem. Something to tidy away like a dirty crisp bag in the playground.'

'Now then, Mel,' said Mrs. Green, disapprovingly. 'There's no need for all the high drama. You're usually such a sensible girl. And you did well by your mother.'

'Not well enough,' said Mel, bitterly. 'Miss Tracey said so, didn't she? I didn't get the doctor. I didn't keep the place clean. I didn't get all the marvellous help she says is available...It's all my fault my mother's raving mad, isn't it? Isn't it?'

Dee Tracey was appalled. 'Oh no, Mel, that's not at all what I...'

'Well, let me tell you, Miss Tracey,' Mel spat the words. 'I went to the doctor - my mother wouldn't take the tablets. I was trying to poison her, wasn't I? And I tried to get help from the Social Services. Your office, Miss Tracey. You know what they said? 'It's a medical problem. Get the doctor to her.' No help. No home help. No family caseworker. Nothing. The doctor said she'd have to go to the surgery in person, but she wouldn't go. And all the time she was having these violent attacks. Nobody wanted to know!'

'That's enough, Mel.' Mrs. Green got up briskly, and patted Mel's shoulder. 'You've had a hard time. No one is blaming you for anything. You aren't responsible for your mother's illness. You tried to do your best. Now go and wait outside for a few minutes. Miss Tracey and I will try to sort something out.'

Mel's control began to go. She tried to breathe deeply, but her voice was shaking. 'I never realised. One day, I thought, someone will see. They'll start to look after us and it will be all right.' Her voice broke. 'Well, today I realised. Nobody really cares. You only have yourself.' She took a long, shuddering breath. 'Well, all right, Miss Tracey, Mrs. Green. I'm not stupid. I've learned my lesson. From now on I'm taking care of myself. No more waiting for help to show up. No more waiting for a fairy godmother. Now get this. You are not tidying me away to Great Aunt Edie. You're not ruining my chance of a decent future. I'm finishing my A levels here and I'll stay in my own place and look after myself!'

She wrenched open the door and turned back. 'And you two - you can piss off!'

She spun around and bounced off a solid, immovable body standing just outside the door.

'And what kind of language is that, Mel Calder?' asked Mrs. Miller, sternly.

Mel glared at her wildly, incredulous. Mrs. Miller again? She must get away; already her legs were buckling under her. She tried to push past, but Mrs. Miller was gripping her shoulders firmly, comfortingly, holding her up.

'There, there, baby,' said Mrs. Miller. 'Everything is going to be all right.  Everything is coming right now. You'll see...' She folded Mel closer, holding her head against her shoulder, rocking her rhythmically. Mel stopped struggling and quieted, like an animal gentling under careful hands. For a moment she was tempted to surrender, to cling and howl childishly begging for comfort. She made a supreme effort, pulled herself away and stumbled to a chair.

She turned her back on them all, humiliated and ashamed. She had lost control so badly. All her dignity gone, screaming and raving like a lunatic. A wave of horror brought the perspiration out on her forehead. Screaming and raving like her mother. Was she going mad too?

Mrs. Miller said, 'What is going on here?'

Mrs. Green smiled. 'The Secretary's office is next door.  I'm afraid you've come to the wrong room, Mrs...er...'

'Miller. You know me, Mrs. Green, I have had three children in this school. My son Ben is in the fifth form. But today I have come about Mel. It looks as though I have arrived just in time.' She trod forward purposefully and closed the door behind her. 'I am not at all happy at the way this business has been handled.'

Dee Tracey coloured. 'Mel is a little upset. Her mother...'

'I know all about her mother,' said Mrs. Miller. 'More, I think, than those who ought to know. We meet again, Miss Tracey. I am the neighbour in Cowcross Street who sent for the doctor, the police and the social services this morning. I stayed with Mrs. Calder and packed some things for her. Now I am concerned with Mel.'

'Yes, I'm sorry I didn't recognise you,' said Dee Tracey. 'We are all concerned about Mel, Mrs. Miller, but we have a little problem. We are trying to persuade her to go to her aunt.'

'No problem,' said Mrs. Miller, firmly. 'Mel can come to us. Just across the road at Number Seven. I have a spare room since my daughter got married last year. That's what I came to say.'

'Yes, but...well...I mean, it's not as easy as that.'

'We are respectable people. You can make inquiries. I am a Ward Sister at St. Joseph's Hospital, and my husband is in the building trade. I have fostered two babies for the Social Services. I have known Mel since she was eleven years old. We would look after her properly.'

'I can look after myself,' said Mel, angrily.

'I know that,' said Mrs. Miller. 'I have seen that over the years. You can think of yourself as a lodger. A paying guest. You'd rather go to your great auntie like last time?'

Mel swallowed. 'You know I wouldn't. I'd rather stay with you.' She hesitated and then said, awkwardly, 'Thanks.'

'That's all right,' said Mrs. Miller, dryly. 'Nobody's expecting you to fall over yourself with gratitude.'

Mel flushed. 'Look, I'm sorry. I know you're always trying to help me, and I'm grateful, honestly. It's just that...'

'It's so long since anybody helped, that you've forgotten how to say 'thank you' properly.'

'The thing is,' said Dee Tracey quickly, apologetically, 'we try to arrange that children should stay with people of their own ethnic group...'

Mrs. Miller snorted. 'White folks foster Black babies. This is a Black family helping a white girl. You have a white foster family for Mel?'

'Well, no, I'm afraid not. But there's her aunt.'

'I'm not going there,' said Mel, standing up.

'Mel's great auntie is not a suitable person to foster a teenager,' said Mrs. Miller, uncompromisingly. 'I have brought up four children and fostered two babies. You going to give me trouble, Miss Tracey?'

'Well, I'll see if...'

'I'm a busy woman,' said Mrs. Miller. 'Get it fixed before I find it necessary to have a word with Mr. Patel of the Community Relations Council.'

Dee Tracey said hastily, 'Naturally we are very grateful to you for coming to the rescue, Mrs. Miller. I'm sure we can come to an arrangement.'

Mrs. Miller laughed richly. 'That's what I thought, queenie.'

'I think we ought to have Mel's Group Tutor in on our discussion,' said Mrs. Green. 'We are rather proud of our pastoral care in this school. Who is your Tutor, Mel?'

'Mr. Edwards. But I don't want everyone to know about my mo...'

Mrs. Green had already picked up her telephone. 'If you'll just wait outside for a few minutes, Mel.'

Without another word Mel walked out of the room and sat huddled in the waiting area outside, icy cold, now the panic and anger had gone. She stared blindly at the anti-smoking posters on the wall. The voices rose and fell, clearly audible behind the flimsy partition, deciding her future. She didn't care. If it suited her she would go along with them. But she was on her own now, looking after herself.

After a while Keith Edwards came along, looking irritable. 'I've been summoned to the Presence. Doesn't she know I've got 5E up there with that idiot Ben Miller larking about, dropping his woolly hat into the paste bucket? What have you been up to Mel?'

Mel went red. 'Nothing.'

'What am I doing here then?'

'I'm in your tutor group. There's a social worker here...' She forced herself to go on, her voice hard. 'My mother went mad this morning.'

He ran his fingers wearily through his short fair hair. 'Oh God. More work. It never rains but it pours.'

Mel turned her head away, but not quickly enough and he saw a single tear escape and run down her cheek. She wiped it away with the back of her hand. He felt some compunction, and slid his arm around her, patting her awkwardly. 'Don't cry, Mel.'

Another tear followed the first. 'I'm not,' she choked.

'That's right. You're a big girl now.'

That was true. He felt the soft curves of her body against him, and stopped feeling like a father and a teacher. He moved away hastily, horrified. Just in time. Mrs. Green opened the door.

'We've been waiting for you, Mr. Edwards. Miss Tracey, this is Mel's Group Tutor. He's responsible for her progress and welfare here in school. You will be dealing with him rather than myself in future.'

Keith Edwards nearly groaned aloud. The Bitch. Buck-passing. As if he didn't have enough work to do in his first year of teaching, without all this so-called pastoral care garbage. He smiled insincerely, charmingly, at Dee Tracey and went forward to shake her hand. Mrs. Green closed the door again.

Mel went and looked out of the window, which overlooked the street. An old man hobbled along holding the railings of the school. What would he do when he ran out of railings?

She thought of her mother. The narrow face and demented eyes were there in her head all the time. Now, too late, Mel knew what her mother had been asking for last night. Help. Care. Love.

Everybody was asking and nobody was getting or offering.

Except Mrs. Miller, insisted her mind, inconveniently. Okay, except Mrs. Miller.

The old man had reached the end of the railings. Mel watched, tensely, as though it was an omen. He paused, straightened, took a deep breath, and moved on cautiously, making slow progress along the street.

Mel's shoulders relaxed. She had tried to look after her mother, hadn't she? Tried to do her best. Tried. No marks for trying. There was only right or wrong and she had been wrong. She was to blame, whatever Mrs. Green said. She ought to have done more, cared more. Surely there was some way she could make it up to her mother? Like, take a bunch of flowers to the hospital, her mind sneered cynically.

There must be something she could do, she thought desperately, some real way of helping. Some real way of shifting the heavy guilt which had settled over her heart like a lead blanket. Surely it wasn't too late?

Chapter 3

Copyright Liz Berry 2002. All rights reserved.

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