Playing Nice

I stirred my cappuccino. “But why have they suspended you? I mean, I get that they have to investigate what happened, but how does the finger of blame end up getting pointed at you? There were two babies, after all, and you were only responsible for one of them.” I was hoping Bronagh’s suspension wasn’t anything to do with me giving Miles her name, but since he seemed to have an almost magical ability to make things happen the way he wanted, perhaps it was. Or was I simply becoming paranoid about him?

“Sure, and they’ve suspended Paula, too.” Bronagh looked weary. “The thing is, they could have gone for any of us if they’d wanted. The first thing they did was run a security audit—comparing the number of tag-off incidents recorded by the system with the number each nurse had reported to Security. Well, surprise surprise, we didn’t always report them, even though every time a tag comes off you’re meant to initiate a lockdown, call Security, and check every single baby on the ward. If we did that, we’d never get any nursing done—a tag comes off almost every day, for Pete’s sake.” She smiled. “Sorry—not Pete’s sake, but you know what I mean. Prem babies are small and the tags are designed for regular-sized infants. Never mind that in this case, it wasn’t even a tag slipping off that was the problem—that would have meant two tags coming off at the exact same time on the exact same day, then somehow getting from one incubator to another, right across the unit, and why would that happen when it was two separate nurses dealing with those cots? This most likely happened before the tags even got put on.”

I remembered Don Maguire saying much the same thing. Mind you, he’d also said there was no reason for all this to end up in the courts. “In which case, it’s hardly your fault, is it? It could have been the paramedics, or one of the doctors who dealt with both babies.”

Bronagh nodded. “That’s what I reckon. Most times, when a preterm baby is delivered in a hospital that isn’t equipped to deal with it, they’ll call the neonatal ambulance service and request a transfer while they’re still doing the C-section. Then, rather than hang around fiddling with tags after they’ve pulled the wee thing out, they just put it straight in skin wrap to keep it warm—that’s like a little plastic bag with a ziplock—”

“Our baby was in one of those,” I interrupted. “I remember because it was so unexpected, seeing him inside a bag like that.”

“Well, there you go. And then they either pop the tag inside, or—more likely, because they don’t want to unzip the bag and let the heat out—just put it inside the mobile incubator, next to the baby. This is a paper tag we’re talking about, not the electronic ones we have, because different hospitals have different systems. So when a baby arrives, we transfer it from the mobile incubator to one of ours, and transfer the tag information to our software at the same time.”

I thought. “And if there were two loose paper tags like that, they might have gotten mixed up when the mobile cots were next to each other on arrival.”

“Exactly.”

“Then you’re in the clear, surely?”

Bronagh shrugged. “It all depends when the electronic tag got put on, doesn’t it? If I put it on as soon as the baby was stable, I followed protocol. If I had a cup of tea and did it at the end of my shift, they’ll try to hang this whole thing on me. I’m already looking at a disciplinary for not reporting every tag-off incident, so if they choose to decide I left it too long, I could be out on my ear.” She sighed. “And I bet there’s plenty of high-ups who’d prefer it to look like a mistake by an individual who didn’t follow proper procedures, rather than admit their whole expensive tagging system is shite in a bucket.”

“Ah,” I said, thinking through the implications. “Because St. Alexander’s has been downgraded, you mean? Management wants this done and dusted and swept under the carpet. Don’t worry, we’ve fired the person who messed up. Lessons have been learned, et cetera. Nothing to see here anymore.”

She leaned forward, her blue eyes fixed on mine. “The thing is, Pete, they’re obviously going to ask you for your recollections of that day.”

“I guess so, yes.”

“If you could…I mean, I don’t want to put words in your mouth, but…” She stopped. “Sorry. Bad choice of phrase. And I’m absolutely not saying that you should do it as a favor because of…you know. Just that the earlier you saw that tag on Theo’s leg, the less this shitestorm is going to fall on me. Or Paula, for that matter.”

“I understand,” I said slowly. “The fact is, it was all such a muddle that day…I don’t know exactly what I’ll say yet. But I’ll work something out. And whatever happens, I’ll try to make it clear it couldn’t have been down to you.” After all, I reasoned, if it was me who put Bronagh in the firing line, the least I could do was to get her out of it.

“Thanks Pete. You’re massive. Oh Jesus, there I go again.” Bronagh blinked back tears. “I could tell you were a good’un as soon as I saw you with Theo. I see a lot of new dads, you know, and I can always tell.” She gently touched the top of my finger with hers. “I hope Maddie knows what a lucky woman she is.”

55

MADDIE

I GET THE CALL from CAFCASS while I’m at work. There’d been an automated text earlier, saying a family court adviser would call me at three unless I replied to say it’s inconvenient. It is inconvenient, very, but I feel an obscure urge to comply, to be a model respondent, even though the call is clearly being arranged by a computer and changing the time can’t possibly make any difference.

At quarter to three I find an empty office and set out a bottle of water, a pen, a stack of paper, and a list of pertinent facts. At two minutes past, my mobile rings, the ID listed as UNKNOWN NUMBER.

“Hello, Maddie Wilson,” I answer formally.

“Maddie, it’s Lyn from CAFCASS here. Is now a good time to chat?” The voice is soft, with a slight Welsh lilt to it.

“Of course.” I note that word “chat.” Somehow I doubt we’re going to be having a cozy natter and a gossip.

Lyn has clearly been trained to use a gentle, soothing voice. She explains that this call isn’t about the issue the courts are dealing with, only to establish whether the child—“Theo, is it?”—is at any risk of harm. “That could be physical harm arising from abuse or domestic harm, Maddie. Or it could be emotional harm arising from the behavior of the adults. It could even be neglect, do you see?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Basically, I have a checklist here I’ll go through, and then at the end I’ll make sure you’ve had time to cover the issues you want to raise. There are no trick questions, so it’s best just to answer honestly, Maddie. Because if you weren’t completely honest, and we found out about it later, we would have to tell the court, and then the court would have to take that into account, Maddie, do you see?”

“Right,” I say, wondering how many times Lyn is going to say “Maddie” and “do you see.”

“So I’ve run your name through the police database and social services, and I’m pleased to say there’s nothing there. But is there anything we might have missed, Maddie? Have you or anyone in the family had any contact with police or social care before now?”

“No.”

“Rightio. Has there been any domestic violence at all?” Lyn might have been asking whether I’d prefer to pay by direct debit or card.

“No.”

“Have you ever taken any nonprescription or illegal drugs?”

“No, never.” Obviously I have, but the last time was three years ago, in Australia, and there’s no way they can possibly find out about it.

“Do you drink alcohol?”

“Sometimes, yes.”

“How often?”

“I sometimes have a glass of wine in the evenings.”

“And how many units would you say you drink a week? If a bottle of wine is, say, ten units?”

“Twenty units?” I know I’m grossly understating, but I suspect that if I tell the truth it might count against me.

“Has any family member been convicted of violence, or had an allegation of child abuse made against them?” Lyn’s questions are speeding up now.

“No.”

“Is the child exhibiting any concerning behaviors, such as poor performance at school, bedwetting, sexualized behavior, or being clingy?”

“No. Well,” I clarify, “there have been a couple of occasions where he’s been a bit rough with other kids—grabbed their toys, that kind of thing. But he’s two, so it’s to be expected to a certain extent. And he’s the very opposite of clingy.”

“Of course. These are just standard questions, do you see, so I have to ask them all. Has the child ever reported any abuse or harm to you personally?”

“No, never.”

“And finally, what do you think the child’s wishes are in this situation? Do you think he would rather stay with your partner or yourself?”

“I don’t think you understand,” I say, baffled. “Pete and I aren’t separating.”

“Are you not?” Lyn sounds surprised.

“No, it’s much more complicated than that.” Briefly I explain what’s going on.

“Well, that does sound tricky,” Lyn says when I’ve finished. “And yes, I see it does say something about that here, but I must have missed it.”

Or didn’t bother to read the paperwork properly in the first place, I think cynically.