Silent Voices

had survived without much social-services support while her child was a toddler. She took her baby to the Sure Start nursery close to her home. He had regular check-ups at the clinic. If anything, the records showed, she was an over-anxious mother, neurotic even. Compared with the drug-taking, irresponsible teenage mums with whom the health-care professionals often dealt, she was a doddle. A delight. Not the sharpest tool in the box, they said, but a devoted mother.
    Then Mattie fell in love. Connie never discovered quite how the couple met. She asked, but Mattie blushed and stammered and said: ‘Oh, you knaa, we just kinda bumped into each other.’ And the man, the object of her worship, was never really around for Connie to ask. Maybe a dating agency? The small ads of the local paper? Though Connie had never seen Mattie read, except a picture book in a stumbling way to Elias, because at the Sure Start she’d been told it was a good thing to do. Perhaps Michael Morgan had seen her in the street and picked her up. She’d grown into a bonny young woman, if you liked your females helpless and waif-like. And if Frank was anything to go by, many men did enjoy that sort of look.
    Everyone agreed Michael was weird. But harmless, everyone had also agreed that at first. Connie was only assigned the case because Jenny was careful, and had a personal interest in Mattie and because, as Jenny said, All the research shows if you bring a strange man into a family you change the dynamic. Best just keep an eye until things settle down. And probably because she thought Connie could do with an easy caseload on her return from maternity leave.
    Jenny had frowned again when Connie said Michael was weird. ‘In what way weird?’ Maybe it was because the word was so loaded with judgement and Jenny was a good liberal, or maybe she always frowned when she was puzzled, and she genuinely wanted Connie to explain.
    Connie had struggled to articulate her feelings. ‘He’s well educated, works in that complementary-therapy centre in Tynemouth. Acupuncture. I wondered why he’d take up with Mattie and the baby.’
    ‘Someone looking out for lost souls?’ And Jenny had laughed. ‘We social workers know all about that.’
    ‘He hardly speaks.’ Connie had felt the need to continue, to express her unease about the man. Making it sound as though she’d done an in-depth assessment, when she’d only met him the once. ‘He just sits there, smiling. I wondered if he was on something. Or if he’s ill. Mad.’
    ‘No criminal record.’ And Jenny had frowned again. ‘But let’s keep an eye on the situation. Trust your instinct, eh?’
    So Connie had continued to call, glad of the excuse to go actually, because Mattie’s flat provided an oasis of calm in the round of visits to swearing parents, flats that smelled of piss and worse, babies whose bums fell out of stinking nappies. These days Mattie made herbal tea in big mugs with sunflowers printed on them. Her home had always been tidy, but now there were books on the shelves. No fiction, but volumes on religion and complementary medicine. And there were rugs on the floors, flowers in a vase. But no toys, Connie noticed. No mess. By now Alice was a toddler and their house looked as if a hurricane had passed through. She mentioned it to Mattie, who’d looked unflustered. ‘Michael doesn’t like clutter,’ she’d said. The next time Connie went, she chose a time when Elias would be home from school. He was sitting at the table doing homework, looked up when Connie went in, but didn’t smile. Still no toys.
    Frank had left six months after Alice’s second birthday. His departure was completely unexpected to Connie. Recently there’d been no rows. He was occasionally irritated by the chaos into which their domestic life had descended, but knew better than to blame her solely for that. She’d thought things were fine, was even starting secretly to plan another baby. Perhaps he’d managed to live with her reasonably harmoniously because he knew one day soon he’d leave, because the skinny designer consoled him during the long Saturday afternoons when Connie played with Alice and did the ironing, the afternoons when he told her that he was rehearsing the cast. Rehearsing, she supposed now, for a life of conjugal bliss.
    Connie had held things together for the sake of Alice and to keep up appearances at work. No way was she going to break down in Saint Jenny’s office. She didn’t