‘I’ll pray for you, Sonya.’

Is that it?

After some moments of contemplation she says, ‘Actually, I think it would help to see your little boy. Tommy, isn’t it?’

How can she know that? Does she remember all the details about everyone’s lives in here?

‘I can’t promise anything, but I’ll see what I can do.’

‘Thank you, Sister. I’m really grateful.’ I whisper, ‘I’m afraid he’s been given away…’

They’re lovely people, by all accounts.

‘This can happen, Sonya, though usually not without the mother’s permission. Sometimes family members just can’t cope.’

How did my father get around needing my permission to place Tommy with strangers? I think of that poor manic kid I used to see running around barefoot on the road where I grew up, like an urchin out of a Dickens novel. The adults used to say things like, ‘Poor guy, God knows what’s going on at home,’ and yet no one ever did anything about it.

‘I need to go find him.’

‘I don’t recommend you do that, Sonya. I’ll find out what I can for you. If you leave now, Tommy will be deemed at risk. You need to finish the programme to get him back. You also need to finish the programme for you, so that you can be the best mother he deserves.’

I almost bless myself at this pronouncement and I don’t know if the impulse is about taking the piss or if it’s coming from a different place, a deeper place. I don’t fucking know.

‘Don’t you think it’s weird that his grandfather didn’t take him in?’

‘It sounds like relations were strained, Sonya. And maybe he felt he wouldn’t be able to cope.’

‘Bullshit. He has a cruel streak, hasn’t even got a message to me to let me know that Tommy’s doing ok.’

Sister Anne turns to me and looks me straight in the eye. ‘I can only guess at how that feels, Sonya.’

She gets up, touches me on the arm, scoops up the cups and the tray and leaves – a trace of something warm and reassuring in her wake, like the smell of the freshly baked scones, which I would dearly love to have now they’re gone.

17

Dear Dad,

I start to write a letter during a rare moment of alone time in the bedroom.

Dear asshole, motherfucker, shithead, lame-ass, twittlefuck, so-and-so…

I scratch that one out. Breathe, take my pen again, blow on its nib as if to cool it, and try again.

Dear Dad,

I hope you’re well. (Better than the sharks swimming beneath.) I am making great progress in here, and look forward to seeing you and Tommy very, very, very, very soon. (I scratch out three ‘very’s.) Visiting days are now every second Sunday between two and five, the second and fourth Sunday of every month (but then I’m sure you know this). I have tried calling you many, many, many, many times, but to no avail. I do apologise for how I spoke to Lara the last time (Sister Anne suggested this would be the best course of action, though I feel nauseous writing it) and hope you understand I was under considerable stress at the time. I was very very very very disappointed (the editing can wait till later, lest I lose my flow) to hear her voice, and not yours. I wanted (so very much) to talk to you and to hear all about Tommy. My writing is becoming increasingly jagged, that spidery, childish hand my father tried to straighten out. How much of my meaning is hidden in my hand? Father used to say it was an impatient hand. Nothing much changed there, then.