Mother

by S. E. Lynes

  Something along those lines, perhaps, though Christopher was no expert in these matters. Adam was an expert. He appeared to have no problem with issues of the body, talked openly, proudly even, of his bowel movements and his sexual conquests as if they were no more embarrassing than eating a sandwich. He had finished with Alison now and had taken up with a language student called Rosemary, a very tall woman who made him look like some sort of garden gnome. These disparities didn’t faze him. He wore his charm as if it were the most comfortable old cardigan and took what came to him as his right. He was lucky. Like the first man on earth he often joked about, he had claimed his place in the world. His name fitted him perfectly.

  Christopher sighed, locked in his private, interior world where such thoughts looped, dived and dissolved – looped again infinitely. There were things he would never tell anyone, not even Phyllis. For her, he would be everything she was hoping for in a son. He would be a boy she could not refuse. For Phyllis, he would be normal.

  Chapter Eleven

  Between 12 January and 11 February 1978, Christopher and Phyllis wrote a total of ten letters each. During this time, the Ripper killed again: Helen Rytka, an eighteen-year-old prostitute from Huddersfield. Christopher cut out the relevant newspaper articles, stuck them in his scrapbook and returned to his letters to Phyllis. Writing to his birth mother, he told me, became his favourite way to wind down after an evening lost in medieval studies or the horrors of the Holocaust. With each letter came the momentary appeasement of his all-pervading desire to be in constant communication with her. But barely a day, sometimes barely minutes after he had written, the need to reach for her renewed itself, stronger still. It moved me to hear him say this. Love is where the idle mind travels.

  And so, when the InterCity pulled into Warrington station at 2.25 p.m. on Saturday, 11 February 1978, Christopher found himself, rigid with tension, at the window of the train door. He had stood there since Manchester Piccadilly, unable to sit a moment longer, staring out of the window as if she, Phyllis, might appear skirting along the hedgerows like a phantom.

  The photograph she had sent was indeed blurry. In one of her letters she’d mentioned that she hated having her photo taken and always looked a fright. She was, he thought, saying that out of modesty, but I know she didn’t have a high opinion of the way she looked. Despite the poor focus, Christopher thought the photograph showed a pretty young woman not too much older than him. She was holding an ice cream, though the sky at her back was grey, and her light brown hair blew up and across her cheeks in the wind. She was smiling, and when he looked into the photo, as he had done every day since, he imagined her smile was for him.

  He had tied all her letters together using the scraggy tinsel from Adam’s miniature Christmas tree and stored them in a shoebox under his bed. A nightly routine had become to unwind the glittering thread, pick one at random and read it before he went to sleep, a routine that almost always finished in him taking out every one of the letters and reading them from first to last. He would close his eyes and think of her and him together, always sitting or lying close, hands clasped, heads bent in a soft apricot light. He wondered sometimes where this light came from, and what it meant.

  He stepped down off the train and waited for the crowd to thin. One by one the horde dispersed until only one remained: a young woman in a burgundy wool beret, a woman once blurry brought suddenly and shockingly into focus. She was standing in front of a blow-up image of Jimmy Savile – InterCity. This is the age of the train – her face the very picture of anticipation.

  ‘Phyllis? Phyllis Curtiss?’

  But she was already walking towards him. She wore bell-bottomed jeans like his and a long black woollen coat. She could have been another student, maybe a PhD student. Her arms flew out like wings, but almost immediately she clapped them to her sides as if she did not know whether or not to fly.

  ‘Christopher?’ Her hair was fair rather than brown as she had said, but her eyes were dark – brown, like his. Margaret’s eyes were blue – he shook the thought away. ‘Christopher, is it you?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, almost too choked to speak. ‘Yes. It’s me.’

  Her eyes shone, a rim of tears at their edge; her mouth pressed itself into a tight smile. She took a deep breath, her nostrils flaring, her shoulders rising, her chest seeming to inflate. When she exhaled, she gave a short gasping laugh – of surprise, of joy, of something neither of them could identify but which filled the air, the sky, and on.

  After a moment’s hesitation, she came forward. Her hands flew up and dropped and flew up again, and when she was close enough, she reached and touched him lightly on the arm, as if to check he was really there. He found himself unable to move, filled with a kind of burning. She stood back, straightened, gave another half-gasp, half-laugh. Her hair was not black like his but her nose was not thin at least, perhaps a little like his own, and her eyes were definitely brown and carried a smudge of grey beneath. He reached for where she had touched his arm and held himself there, as if injured. But he was not injured.

  ‘Here you are,’ she said.

  He nodded, all ability to speak quite gone.

  She reached up and placed a forefinger under the inner corner of his eye, then traced her finger down a little, the way a tear might run. As if suddenly aware of what she was doing, the intimacy of it, she withdrew her hand and placed it flat against her own flushed cheek.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Just … my dad used to say that my eyes had been pushed in with sooty fingers. And yours have that too…’ She covered her mouth with her hand. Her eyes brimmed, overflowed at last. ‘I can’t believe it.’ She laughed that small gasping laugh again and took a step back. Her eyes did not leave his.

  ‘I…’ he began but could not continue.

  ‘Let’s get you home,’ she said gently, reaching into her coat pocket for a tissue and dabbing at her eyes. ‘To my house, I mean – if I can manage to drive. I don’t know if I can, mind you, I’m shaking like a leaf here.’

  With her arm at his back, she ushered him out to the car park and then walked a little ahead. Every other step, she turned and gave a laugh, as if embarrassed or as if to apologise for something.

  ‘This is our chariot,’ she said, and stopped.

  They had reached a bronze-coloured Austin Princess. The bodywork had rusted in patches and the black vinyl roof had started to peel. ‘Bit of a banger, but she goes.’ She unlocked the passenger door first, touched his arm again, the lightest tap, before making her way around to the driver’s side. In her wake, he smelled flowers, though he could not have said whether it was perfume or soap.

  ‘Get in,’ she called over the top of the car. ‘Excuse the mess.’

  Inside, in the footwell, were six or seven green toy soldiers of the type he himself had played with as a child: no bigger than a thumb, their feet moulded to small flat rectangles so they could stand and fight. He guessed they belonged to the twins, whose names he had learned off by heart from her letters: Darren and Craig. Despite being messy, the car was comfortable, with soft rust-coloured velour upholstery. It smelled of sports kit, of trainers. There was a box of Kleenex tissues on the dashboard, four or five tapes in the square recess next to the gearstick, what looked like a woman’s handbag of tan leather on the back seat.

  Phyllis started the engine. A blast of music came from the cassette player – French: Blondie, ‘Denis’.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said, turning down the music. ‘David tapes the charts every week for the car.’

  ‘I used to do that,’ he said, filled with inexplicable joy. ‘Every week.’

  ‘So you like music, then?’

  ‘Yes, very much. Do you?’

  ‘Love it. I like Fleetwood Mac, do you like Fleetwood Mac?’

  ‘I love Fleetwood Mac. I like the song… what is it… the one from the new album… “Dreams”? I like that one best.’

  ‘That’s my favourite too!’ Her voice had risen both in pitch and volume. She
flapped her hand in excitement, her engagement ring flashing next to her wedding band. She turned to him for a second and smiled. One of her front teeth crossed the other – he had not noticed that until now – and it was all he could do to stop himself from reaching over and drawing his thumb down the squint line made by the overlap.

  She grasped the steering wheel, laid her arms around its rim and rested her head against her hands.

  ‘I’m not sure I can drive,’ she said, and laughed. ‘Just give me a minute.’

  ‘I understand,’ he said. ‘I don’t think I could drive now either.’

  ‘Thanks.’ After a moment, she pulled herself upright and rubbed her forehead. When she spoke again, her voice shook. ‘Dig around in the glove compartment,’ she said. ‘I think the Fleetwood Mac’s in there. I need Stevie Nicks to calm me down, I think.’

  Christopher opened the glove compartment. Three cassettes fell from the jumble onto his lap. They were mostly BASF, all copies, all with labels scribbled in black felt-tip pen: the Best of Motown, the Bee Gees, Billy Joel. Phyllis had let down the handbrake and was now edging out of the car park, into the traffic. All the while, she drew in short breaths, making a soft whistling sound, blowing out those breaths again as if after a shock. Though all he wanted was to drink her with his eyes, he made himself look away, wanting to leave her some privacy in the height of emotion seemingly too raw, too powerful to conceal. He understood – more than she could know. He’d had to flatten his feet to the floor to stop his legs from trembling.

  He busied himself with the tapes and found a grey TDK with Rumours scribbled on the label.

  ‘This is only just out, isn’t it?’ he asked. ‘You’ve got hold of a copy very quickly.’

  ‘That’s David does those,’ she said. ‘A right old pirate, he is. Terrible.’ She was negotiating a roundabout, glanced at him as she turned left and onto a dual carriageway. She had taken off her hat, and against the sun her hair spun a wispy halo.

  ‘I can’t believe you’re in my car.’ She seemed to have recovered her voice and her tone had levelled. ‘I just… I can’t believe you’re here. My baby. My baby, Martin.’

  ‘I can’t either,’ he said. ‘But I am.’

  ‘You are.’

  They had been together less than fifteen minutes and already happiness had flooded into him, warmed his insides like wine. He wondered if he had ever felt so happy. He doubted it.

  ‘I think we have the same nose,’ he said.

  ‘Do you? You know what they say about noses. Run in the family, don’t they?’ She laughed, and he laughed too, conscious still of keeping himself in check, aware that if he didn’t, he might howl for the near pain of such joy.

  Minutes later, they came to a bridge: pale green, industrial looking – steels, rivets, arches. It held the road that they drove over now, another bridge to their right, its sandstone blackened with soot. To their left, what looked like a town; beneath, a river shone brown.

  ‘That’s the railway,’ she said, gesturing at the blackened stone bridge. ‘The Leeds train doesn’t stop there. The road we’re on now is called the Runcorn–Widnes Bridge,’ she said. ‘David’s grandfather had a hand in it. Literally. Lost his hand when one of those beams hit him. T’other side is the estuary, and that’s the old town further on. We were in Widnes just now, and when we reach the other side we’ll be in Runcorn.’

  ‘Is that Runcorn?’ he asked, nodding towards the town.

  ‘That’s what I meant when I said the old town, sorry. But yes it is, love.’

  Love.

  They drove off the bridge and onto another dual carriageway.

  ‘The Mersey,’ she said, anticipating his question with, he thought, a kind of telepathy. ‘The Runcorn–Widnes Bridge is like the Golden Gate Bridge except with twice the fog and half the sunshine. Just kidding. The canal’s down there, did you see it? One of the teachers where I work lives on a barge somewhere along here. I’ve never been on it though. The barge, I mean.’

  ‘Do you live near?’

  ‘Not too far now.’

  In the wing mirror, the pale structure of the bridge shrank behind them. They left the dual carriageway, turned right and right again – Christopher lost track until Phyllis turned left into a road of semi-detached houses, about the same size as his parents’ but with leaded bay windows and larger front gardens, dwarf walls, hedges. She pulled into a driveway, at the end of which was a garage, set back from the house.

  ‘Home sweet home.’ She turned off the engine and opened her door.

  He got out and followed her back up the drive and around to the front of the house. Phyllis chattered as she let them both in. Inside, it was warm, almost hot after the cold of the outdoors.

  ‘I left the heating on,’ she said. ‘Take your coat off and hang it with the others.’

  He did as he was told, putting his jacket over a child’s anorak since there was no free hook. His hat and gloves he stuffed into the pockets. She was already in the kitchen; he could hear her clanking about, the flush of water.

  ‘Tea?’ she called to him.

  ‘Thank you, yes.’

  She was singing to herself: ‘Dreams’. The song had stuck in her mind, no doubt after they’d listened to it together in the car. He sang it too, softly, while he took off his ankle boots. On the floor underneath the coats were a pair of men’s walking shoes, two pairs of boys’ football boots and a pair of women’s tan leather boots with a heel. His own boots he placed neatly on the end, in the row.

  Minutes later, he and Phyllis were sitting at the small Formica kitchen table, hot tea in ivy-patterned china mugs before them. He had imagined this moment so many times but had not been able to envisage the sight of her until now, smiling at him as she was through the lazy steam, her hair a little fuzzy from the damp air. There were fine lines at the edges of her eyes. Her skin had pinked a little, making her look like a schoolgirl. She put her hand over the mug to warm it. The house smelled sugary, as if she had been baking. He could feel his toes throbbing as they warmed up.

  ‘David’s taken the boys to the football. It’s Liverpool at home, not sure who they’re playing. I thought it’d be better if it was just the two of us today.’

  Phyllis sighed. For a moment neither of them said anything. As if synchronised, both placed their lips to the rims of their cups, despite the obvious fact that the tea was too hot yet to drink.

  ‘Can you tell me?’ The question came out before he had a chance to stop it. ‘I mean, do you think you can talk about it – about me, that is?’

  She put her tea down and smiled at him sadly. ‘I can.’

  ‘I shouldn’t have asked,’ he said quickly, feeling himself blush. ‘I shouldn’t have asked like that. I’m sorry.’ He stood, took off his sweater, sat down again. ‘Sorry, I’m overheating.’ He reached for his drink, but she caught and held his hand.

  ‘What did I say about apologising? You should save it for when you’ve done something wrong. And you’ve done nothing wrong.’

  ‘Sorry. For apologising.’

  She laughed, cocked her head as if to study him. ‘You’re shyer than your letters.’

  It was his turn to laugh, out of embarrassment. ‘I was hoping you wouldn’t notice.’

  He turned his hand in hers, flattening the back against the cool tabletop. Their hands lay palm to palm, the tips of her fingers at his wrist, his fingertips at hers. Her hand was much smaller than his, her skin pinker, her nails longer. Her watch was a blue Timex. It looked like a boy’s watch and he wondered if it belonged to one of the twins. Beyond the strap, her pale arm vanished into the burgundy wool sleeve of her sweater.

  ‘What do you want to know?’ she asked him.

  He made himself meet her eye. ‘Everything you can tell me, but only if you can. I don’t want to upset you.’

  She took his hand in both of hers and lifted it as she stood. She led him through to the living room and told him to sit down.

  He sat on the sofa, felt
it sink beneath his weight. The fabric of the cushions was velvet – green, the colour of wine bottles. The carpet was paisley – greens and yellows, thick under his stockinged feet. Although the room was warm enough, she crossed to the opposite wall and lit the gas fire all the same, as if the merest chill could not be allowed, as if she were in fact trying to keep him warm forever now she had brought him in from the cold. Above the fire were photographs in frames. He wanted to go over and look at them but did not.

  Phyllis returned to him, took his hand once more in hers and laid their knotted fingers on her leg. Normally such a gesture would have filled him with angst, but it didn’t, not with her.

  ‘When I got your letter…’ She stopped and inhaled deeply. She was dressed much like the girls at university – a casual sweater and jeans. Not like Margaret – not like a mother at all.

  ‘You don’t have to tell me right away,’ he said. ‘It’s enough just to be here for now. It’s a miracle to be here with you.’

  ‘It is.’ It was barely a whisper. Her fingers tightened around his. ‘It’s an absolute miracle.’

  He could feel the warmth radiating from her. Human warmth. A human bean. The line where their thighs ran down to the sofa’s edge was dark. He could not see the cushion beneath. He wondered if he had ever sat this close to his mother, Margaret.

  ‘You don’t have to explain yourself to me,’ he said. ‘That’s not why I came.’

  ‘I want to.’ She looked up into his face and smiled. Her eyes were wet – they had not dried in all the time they had been together – and she reached up and tucked his hair behind his ear. The tenderness of the gesture was almost unbearable. He closed his eyes a moment and opened them again.

  ‘You’re Christopher now,’ she said.

  ‘Yes. But I was Martin. Your baby.’

  On the mantelpiece, a carriage clock ticked. The gas fire hissed. A car passed by, though he wasn’t sure if the noise came from the road in front of the house or the one behind.