Page 47 of All Our Missing Pieces

Talk to Orla.

It was the obvious thing to do. Tell her what you know, and ask her for the truth – if she even knows it. If she doesn’t, then you know you were on a wild goose chase.

But that was the problem. The threat of denial, and not knowing whether that denial was true or a lie. The rejection that would compound every other rejection and leave Beatrice with nothing. And also – the thought hovered at the very fringes of her consciousness, too elusive to put properly into words – Beatrice wasn’t sure she was ready to know the truth.

It was easier, safer, to pry around the house, have tea with an old man, go to the library, than it was to ask a simple question.

‘Woah, steady there, Slate. You almost tipped that whole basin over, and then what would we have had for breakfast?’

‘You’d have made more.’ Cheekily, Slate stuck his tongue out at her.

‘I would not, because there are no more eggs and besides I’d have been too mad at you. And if you carry on with that attitude, I could still change my mind.’

Meekly, Slate returned to stirring the batter and Beatrice set a pan on to heat, adding a fat slice of butter that soon began to sizzle.

After breakfast, the morning dragged on. She took the kids out for a walk, but Parker cried and said she hated the park and wanted to go home, and Slate slipped on a dog turd and fell over, getting it all over his jeans, so Beatrice did end up taking them home.

Then Slate wanted to do drawing, but lost interest as soon as he’d scattered his crayons all over the table. Parker wanted to blow bubbles, but cried inconsolably as soon as the first one popped. Slate spilled his juice on the sofa. Parker vomited up her pancakes.

At last, order temporarily restored, Beatrice resorted to switching on the telly, which provided a bit of peace at least. But she was concerned about Parker. She gave her Calpol, but that didn’t seem to help. She offered her warm Ribena but she wouldn’t drink it. She put her down for a nap but the little girl wouldn’t settle, her nose too blocked and her lips too dry and the whole world too unpleasant for her to deal with.

By teatime, Beatrice’s weary resignation was beginning to crystallise into worry. Parker’s cold seemed to be settling in her chest. Her breathing was noisy and she gave occasional barking coughs. Her temperature remained stubbornly at almost a hundred degrees.

She fed the children mac and cheese and salad – one of their favourites – but Parker only picked unenthusiastically at it, chewing with her mouth open because she couldn’t breathe through her nose and saying everything tasted funny.

‘Okay, fine.’ Beatrice gave up. ‘You’re not hungry. Let’s have a bath and more Calpol and put you to bed, and I bet you feel better in the morning.’

But when Beatrice took Parker’s clothes off, she was alarmed to see the little girl’s belly hollowing as she struggled to get air into her lungs. Should she call Frances and tell her she was worried? But Frances had emphasised that she had a full-on day at work; it was Beatrice’s literal job to take care of things at home.

Steam, she thought. Hot water and steam will help. And plenty of fluids.

Parker seemed calmer after her bath and so Beatrice put her to bed, read her a story and took Slate into the living room to watch a bit more television before his own bedtime. Although she’d left the children’s bedroom door ajar, she and Slate were soon so engrossed in Little Red Tractor that she didn’t hear Parker calling for her at first.

When she did, the sound was so alien she almost didn’t recognise it – and then she did.

‘I’ll be back in a second,’ she said, as calmly as she could. ‘I’m just going to check on your sister.’

Parker was sitting up in bed, tears streaming down her cheeks. Her voice was so hoarse she could hardly get Beatrice’s name out, and her lips were purply-pale.

‘Bibi,’ she gasped. ‘Bibi!’

‘Shhh. I’m here.’ Beatrice sat down on the bed, panic coursing through her. She could hear the desperate whine of Parker’s breathing; her body felt floppy and far, far too hot.

Shit. She can’t breathe. She’s going to suffocate, right here, with me in charge.

‘It’s okay, honey,’ she soothed. ‘We’re going to get you to a doctor. You need to try and stay calm, okay? Slow breaths.’

The little girl’s ribcage heaved as she fought to get air into her lungs and when it exited again she made that terrifying barking sound again, like a dying seal.

‘Come on.’ Beatrice scooped Parker up and carried her through to the living room.

‘What’s happening?’ Slate asked, his eyes wide and frightened.

‘Your sister’s not well. I’m going to call your mommy.’

But Frances’s phone rang out to voicemail, and Peter’s went straight to voicemail without ringing at all. Beatrice left messages for them both, trying to sound calm, telling them their daughter had what she thought was croup – Is it even croup? It could be an asthma attack. It could we whooping cough. It could be just about any-fucking-thing – and Beatrice was going to get her seen by a doctor, just in case.

She couldn’t bring herself to tell them that she was going to call 999, but that’s what she did.