Kate. Stronger than anyone I know, to have shouldered what you did just to keep it secret from the kids. I admire you greatly.’
‘I didn’t feel like a strong person, quite the opposite, even now.’
‘Well you should. Most people would not have been able to function, let alone put on that brave face and make things “normal” for everyone else. You are amazing.’
Kate smiled, unused to discussing her feelings in this way, let alone taking a compliment.
‘How are you doing now?’ Natasha looked concerned.
‘I’m…’ How was she? It was hard to phrase.
‘I’m okay. I like the peace I have in here, I can read. But obviously I miss… I’ve had a couple of letters from Lyd, but I haven’t heard from Dom. She said they might… I thought they might…’ Kate’s eyes stung, her nose ran, and her mouth twisted into the ugly angle of one in distress.
‘I’ve seen them.’
Her friend’s words cut and soothed in equal measure.
‘Oh! Oh, Tash!’
She had so many questions that bubbled on top of the jealous bile that rose in her throat. They are my kids, my kids! How come you’ve seen them and not me?
‘They are alternately angry and confused, as you would expect, but they are doing great. Lydia is expressing her thoughts through her art and is very centred, determined; she has your strength. Dominic is more of a loose cannon, but then he always was.’
Both women thought briefly of their time at Mountbriers.
‘It will not always be this way, Kate, and your sister is doing a great job. She keeps you present every day in little ways – the odd comment, and an easy patter about your childhood, that sort of thing.’
This was good to hear. ‘Thank you.’
Her words slid between mucus-smeared lips. Her heart ached with longing. My babies, my children…
* * *
Kate fixed her smile and entered the classroom. Eighteen months into her sentence and with a record of model behaviour, she had been asked to run an English Literature class for her fellow inmates. Incarcerated English graduates who were willing to teach were thin on the ground.
Her fellow convicts were a varied bunch, but largely came from backgrounds that were quite alien to Kate. Over eighty per cent were addicts, jailed for crimes they’d committed to feed their habits. These women often wanted to tell her their stories. They ranged in age from eighteen to sixty, but their tales were remarkably similar. All spoke of the vice-like grip of addiction that meant scoring the next hit took precedence over every aspect of their lives. They would sell anything, including themselves, and stop at nothing to get their hands on their drug of choice. Most had been in and out of prison so many times they may as well have fitted a revolving door with heroin or crack on one side and their cell on the other. Prison seemed to give them the respite they needed, enabling them to think clearly and make promises they knew they would be unlikely to keep.
Kate felt especially sad for the younger women, most of whom seemed to have been dealt a losing hand. She felt certain that with a little more direction and a lot more kindness, they could have been heading off to study art or design hotels like her own children, rather than watching mind-numbing TV for twelve hours a day and sneering at their lookalikes from the other side of the room.
The first time Kate taught a class, she felt an overwhelming sense of achievement. It wasn’t quite the environment she had envisaged when she qualified twenty-odd years ago, but nevertheless, she was now a teacher, she was finally a somebody. Her class had grown in popularity and was now at full capacity. She entered the room with gusto.
‘Right, girls, Hamlet beckons! If you would like to turn to where we left off last week, where Ophelia is very sadly starting to lose her marbles, we can crack on!’
The assembled ‘girls’ all had a thirst for learning and escape, needs that Kate understood only too well.
‘What do we think of Ophelia? Do we think she is mad? Or is there something else going on here?’
‘I think she’s mad, yeah – to put up with all Hamlet’s shit!’
This succinct summing-up caused a ripple of laughter around the room.
Kate laughed too; there were no right or wrong answers in here, only sound opinion.
‘I like that, Kelly. You are right, of course. Ophelia seems to be at the mercy of all the