It was unnerving, spooky. I’d read an article in the paper that inevitably made me think of her, and five minutes later I had a message to say she’d phoned the office and could she come in for a coffee.
For a moment I was afraid that they’d made the link. All it takes these days is a bit of Googling and the whole sorry story might be scrolling blackly, bleakly down the screen. Obviously there are all sorts of things that make me think of her: she was my first recruit in the company, she is my friend, I guess. I only see her occasionally nowadays but sometimes being a part of someone’s life at a critical time creates a bond that endures. Stories like this one, headlines like that, bring it all back to me with a sick jolt, so heaven knows what it must feel like for her.
I was down in town and couldn’t meet her, so I rang to arrange for next week. She remembered a couple of books we had at the office, wanted to know if she could come in and borrow them. A reason? Or an excuse? I didn’t ask on the phone. Didn’t say, “Are you ok? How do you cope with all that stuff in the papers, on the TV?” I didn’t ask, because I didn’t want her to think that’s the only thing about her. I didn’t ask, because I don’t know what to say.
It’s easier, sort of, to talk about it now than it was at the time. “How are you getting on? How’s the job? How is your daughter getting on at Senior School?” Lots of ways to ask whether things are ok. But of course they will never be completely ok, after something like that.
I haven’t Googled her, the case, the discussions in the papers. I already know everything. I have the press cuttings, in her personnel file. It’s the only one that I keep locked in the safe, in an envelope sealed with security tape. I wouldn’t read about it again, it was hard enough the first time. My fear now, every time there’s a similar story in the papers, is that someone will decide to write an in-depth feature, dig everything up, drag it all out, talk about her story, track her down.
She and I both know that she lied on the application form for the job she has now as a top flight secretary in a well known firm, and I lied on her reference. I said she worked for us for longer than she did. So did she. And in that other part of the form, I told her: just lie. Tick no. Take a chance. She joined them before the days of Google. It happened in a different town. She’s probably not the only person in Britain with that name. She’s been there twelve years now. It doesn't affect her ability to do her job today. It’s none of their damn business.
I don’t think they’d see it like that though. It’s a hard thing to get to grips with.
When I’d interviewed her, I saw straight away there was a gap in her CV. What happened here? “I had a baby”, she looked down, “and the baby died”. Embarrassed, upset, I moved swiftly on to skills and experience.
She was a great PA. Calm, confident, capable. A sweet girl, kind and friendly, smiley and gentle. So when she phoned me, on her day’s leave, and asked me to come into the office for a meeting with her that evening, I was a bit confused but wandered down about 6pm.
She was there with her partner, both all suited and booted. That worried me. I thought perhaps she was going to make some sort of complaint. “There’s something I want to talk to you about”. I had that feeling, when you know that whatever is coming isn’t going to be good, isn’t going to be something I want to hear. In a small company there’s no HR department to pick up this stuff, unfortunately.
I sat down. “We’ve been at the Old Bailey today”, she said. Oh shit. I waited.
“I told you I had a baby, and my baby died”. Oh god. “I was ill with post-natal depression and I killed my baby, and I’ve been on trial today”. Oh fuck.
I realised my mouth had literally fallen open so I closed it, gulped. I knew enough to ask the next question. “What was the charge?” “Infanticide”.
Small mercies. Not murder.
“I was on bail when I came to work here. I should have declared that when I applied, but I knew no one would employ me and I needed a job. I love this job”.
The trial was over. She had been convicted of infanticide. The judge said it was one of the saddest cases he had ever seen. She had been put on probation. I had the right to terminate her employment. Firstly because she had lied on her application, secondly because she had been convicted of a Category A offence.
“ I needed to tell you straight away because it will be in all the newspapers, tonight and tomorrow. I won’t come to work tomorrow, I’ll wait to hear from you, tell me what you want to do. My solicitor said you might want to prepare a statement in case the press get in touch”.
I felt utterly out of my depth. She went home. I went home. She was the first item on the news. She was the front page of the Standard: Baby Killer Walks Free. An unrecognisable photograph, her face twisted in pain but it looked like a sneer.
She had a complicated pregnancy and a long difficult labour ending in an emergency Caesarean. These are factors in the development of post-natal psychosis. She had never suffered from any mental health problems or depression before. She was a successful, top-flight international PA, longing for a baby. After the birth, she felt weird straight away. Odd, detached, as if she was at the bottom of a deep dark well. She tried to explain this. She asked to see a psychiatrist. She saw her GP. She took the baby back to hospital and said she couldn’t look after it. She took the baby to her GP’s surgery and left it there, because she was afraid she didn’t know what to do, and she felt like she was having a breakdown. A health visitor came to see her, and she couldn’t speak, just cried silently. The health visitor told her husband not to worry, it was just the baby blues and organised a prescription for Prozac to be collected the next day.
He went to the pub with a colleague, one drink, half an hour, wet the baby’s head. While he was out, she killed the baby and then tried to kill herself.
I wanted to feel sympathy, to understand. I wasn’t a parent myself at the time, but I’m a kind person, she’s a nice girl...... I couldn’t believe it. I tried to picture her, pressing a pillow to quieten her crying baby.
But when I read the press cuttings it wasn’t like that. She had picked him up by the feet and swung him hard into the wall, several times. Severed an artery in her wrists. Thrown herself down the stairs.
She was in a secure hospital for a few months. She can’t remember much about it. When she surfaced, she couldn’t understand what had happened. Neither can anyone else. The judge said there was no need for the court to impose further punishment beyond that which she already suffered. He still writes to her now.
I think I cried for the whole weekend without pause.
I spoke to her psychiatrist. Someone who has recovered from post-natal psychosis is no more likely to be dangerous than anyone else. It could happen to anybody. She was ill, not evil. I kept her on in the job, I guaranteed I would keep her until her probation was completed. No one contacted us, they didn’t seem to track her to our town.
She has another daughter now. She’s a lovely mum. Her little girl is eleven.
I don’t want it all to come back up for her.
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