At nursery, I let go of Poppy’s hand and she raced into the melee of small bodies in the playground. I looked after her for a few seconds: her red tee shirt, bright hair and small, strong body; that boisterous, throaty laugh. I realised that I was watchful and tense, as if waiting for something to happen. Would Poppy shout some obscenity, would she push someone, would her merriment slide into something dark and even violent?
I turned away and went into the classroom, where Poppy’s teacher, Lotty, was eating her sandwich. She seemed alarmingly young to me, in her early twenties perhaps, with the smooth skin of a child, but she was always cheerful and calm and Poppy adored her.
It was suddenly hard to find the words: saying it out loud made it seem grimly real, as if I was bringing something dormant to life. I told her everything and Lotty listened without interruption, her head to one side, her sandwich uneaten.
‘This must be upsetting for you,’ she said when I came to the end.
I couldn’t trust myself to speak. I looked away and nodded.
‘First of all, I have to say I haven’t noticed anything out of the ordinary, but of course I’ll be extra attentive now that you’ve told me this.’
‘She’s been fine?’
‘She’s bright, she’s energetic, she’ll join in with anything. She can be excitable and boisterous and loud, but that’s nothing to worry about. As far as I’ve noticed, she’s been fine.’
I swallowed. ‘I assume you’ll report this to the safeguarding lead?’
‘It’s policy,’ she said. ‘As you must know.’
‘So who will be informed about it?’
‘Apart from her, then it’s the head, the deputy head, and that’s about it.’
‘And you’ll keep an eye on her?’
‘Of course.’
‘And tell me if there’s anything I should know?’
‘I will. But I’m sure she’ll be OK.’
I gritted my teeth: how could she be sure? ‘Thanks.’
I stood for a moment in the schoolyard, in the silky warmth of the day. In the playground, Poppy raced past, unaware of me watching, her face radiant with purpose.
I turned away. Although both Alex and Poppy’s teacher had been calm and reassuring in their different ways, I felt that I had set something in motion.
But what had I learned? Nothing, except there was probably nothing to worry about. Poppy was fine and I was a fretful single mother, the kind I often met in my job, the kind Jason complained about.
What had they said I should do? Nothing, except wait and watch and see and try not to worry too much.
I had three hours before I collected Poppy and Jake and I didn’t know how to fill the time. Normally I would have gone home, done some yoga or had a run, and then continued with Poppy’s witch outfit. Or I would have wandered round the second-hand shops in search of things that I still needed for the flat. Or met up with a friend. Once or twice I’d even gone to see a movie, sitting in the back row in the dark with the illicit pleasure of solitude. What I should really do was attend to the mounting pile of bills and reminders.
But I didn’t want to do any of those things, because I was filled with a churning disquiet that made my limbs twitchy. If I’d still been a smoker, I would have smoked a cigarette and then another, lighting one from the tip of the previous one. Killing time.
I walked slowly down the street towards my flat, past the magnolia tree in sumptuous bloom, past the junkyard and boarded-up shops, then I stopped. I thought of the drawing, of Poppy’s words and of the way that she had clung to me. What had she seen and what had she heard? What was she trying to tell me?
I turned round. I made my way onto the high street. I went up to the door of the police station and without giving myself time to think, I opened the door and stepped inside.