by S. E. Lynes
‘I’m afraid not,’ Christopher said. ‘Nothing personal, you understand. It’s just that I don’t know you and one can’t be too careful. Really, if you can write something down and post it through the door, that would be better.’
‘No need,’ Ben said, digging in the back pocket of his jeans and pulling out an envelope. ‘I figured this might happen. I’d sure appreciate it if you could pass this on as soon as possible.’ He handed it to Christopher. The envelope was pale blue; it looked like it was from a hotel writing set. ‘Do you mind me asking, are you related to Mrs Griffiths?’
‘Yes,’ Christopher said, tipping his head back a little. ‘I’m her son.’
Again Ben spread his big cream American teeth. ‘Wow,’ he said. ‘That’s awesome.’ He stared at Christopher for longer than was comfortable before adding: ‘Listen, Christopher, the note’s confidential, of course. I’ve left the number for my hotel. I’m staying at a place called the Crest. Room 152. It’s beyond the Beechwood—’
‘I know it.’
‘She can call me there.’
‘Marvellous.’ Christopher put one hand on the door now. ‘I’ll make sure she gets it.’ He made to close the door, but Benjamin threw out his hand – another handshake. What was he, a politician? Pretending not to see, Christopher closed the door and pressed his forehead against it, exhaling heavily before running through to the living room and watching the man walk away. His gait was relaxed, almost a roll, as if he walked for the sheer pleasure of it. He got into a red Ford Fiesta parked at the end of the drive, fired the engine more than was necessary and drove away.
Once he had gone, Christopher went into the kitchen and held the envelope over the steaming kettle. His hands shook. He eased open the flap and pulled out the letter. It was handwritten, as Christopher’s own letters to Phyllis had been three, maybe four years ago now.
Dear Ms Curtiss,
You don’t know me and there’s no delicate way to say this so I’m going to come right out with it. My name is Benjamin Bradbury but you knew me as Martin; it’s the name you gave me. I am your son. Enclosed is a photocopy of a photograph of me as a baby.
Christopher dug the photo out of the envelope. It showed a nun, standing in front of a bookshelf, holding a baby in her arms.
You may remember this picture being taken. I have had this photo my whole life. It was taken in the convent over in Railton, which is where I have been today. The lady in the picture is called Sister Lawrence. She is now the mother superior, and after a lot of persuasion, she allowed me to see their records.
I have not gone through the official channels – please forgive me for that. Only I didn’t have much time – I don’t have much time, as I am over on vacation from the US with the sole purpose of tracking down my birth parents. The sisters at the convent were very obliging.
I grew up in Virginia and am settled in San Francisco with my fiancée, Martha. I am a graphic designer by trade and before I get married and have kids of my own, I wanted to find out where I come from and to have seen my own mother at least once and maybe even have a cup of tea with you. I am not here to make trouble. I don’t need money; I don’t need anything at all. I just want to say hello and ask if we can correspond a little as I go forward in my life.
I don’t want to put pressure on you, but I have only a few days left of my stay here, and I would sure appreciate it if you could meet me even for a short time. It would mean a lot to me.
Your son,
Benjamin Bradbury
Christopher felt himself fold – collapse forward. There had been a mistake, that much was clear. It was he, Christopher, who had gone through the correct channels; he, therefore, who was right, who was Phyllis’s son. He could not be wrong – how could he be? He had found Phyllis four years ago! He had come to her and they had both known from the very beginning that she was his mother – that it was meant to be. Didn’t he close his eye in that way she did? And her nose was broad, like his, and her eyes brown, also like his, not green like the American’s. Didn’t they share the same sense of humour? Didn’t they… Whatever, they were close, had been since that first day. He had seen nothing of Phyllis in Ben, nothing at all.
And besides, it was too late. He and Phyllis had fallen into their routines – they were practically colleagues. She had helped him so much with his teacher training, helped him plan lessons, shown him how to criticise without discouraging. She was always there when he’d had a tough day, listening to him, advising him, galvanising him to go forward. Now that he too was at work, they would come home at a similar time and sit together at the kitchen table to mark their books and plan their lessons in companionable silence. A companionable silence that had taken years!
So no. No. This man – Ben – could not simply walk into this house and claim he belonged here instead. He could not. Ben wouldn’t help Phyllis prepare the dinner the way Christopher did. Ben wouldn’t be able to sit at this table and eat and trade the day’s tales, jokes, insults. This was not Ben’s family. This was not Ben’s mother. This was not Ben’s life.
No. No. Christopher would go to the hotel; he would call this Ben Bradbury, this cocky interloper, down to reception and tell him to sling his hook. Go and steal someone else’s life, he would tell him. Go through the correct channels and don’t come back here unless it’s to apologise for the distress you’ve caused.
The key banged into the lock. Phyllis. He knew her every sound, her sigh as she hung up her coat, the groan as she pulled off her shoes. He knew these things, and more, because he loved her more than his own life.
‘Hello?’ she called.
‘In here.’ Christopher put the letter and the envelope in his pocket.
‘Hello, love.’ She was at the kitchen door, clothes shop bags in both hands: Miss Selfridge, C&A, Dolcis. She bustled through, oblivious. ‘I got some shoes,’ she said, since that is the kind of thing people who have no idea how happy or how safe they are say to one another. ‘I got three tops and a skirt too – don’t tell David!’
‘Good,’ he croaked through the sharp sting at the back of his throat. ‘That’s good.’
‘Tea?’
‘Actually no, thanks. I’ve… I’ve got to pop upstairs a second.’
He left the kitchen before she could see his face and ran up the stairs. A second later she called up: ‘Christopher?’
On the dark landing, he halted. ‘Yes?’
‘Are you OK, love?’
‘I’m fine.’ He did not move. Waited in the darkness to hear the pad of her feet retreat into the kitchen. Once he was sure she had gone, he went into his room and for the first time sat at the desk with the intention of writing something. From the pot in the corner he took out the fountain pen Margaret had given him. Margaret, whom he had abandoned. Jack too, Jack Junior, Louise, even David and the twins… all of them he had to a greater or lesser degree rejected, all for her, all for Phyllis. There was no one more important, not even himself. That was love. That was how a son loved his mother. If she weren’t his mother, he would have known. He would feel it. She had to be his mother. Without her, he had nothing. He was nothing. He was no one.
He wrote: Dear Benjamin, and stopped. If he contested this man’s claims, that would create an argument. Benjamin Bradbury would most likely return to the house and confront Phyllis. There would be a scene. He would press charges; the Americans were a litigious bunch. Liverpool Council would get involved, the whole lot. No. Far better to reject him. There was little one could argue against rejection. He bent to his task:
I am glad to have received your letter. I understand why you would want to come to the house, however I think it was perhaps better that I wasn’t there. My son Christopher gave me your note this evening so I am replying as soon as I can, as Christopher mentioned you are short of time.
I appreciate your wish to see me, but what you need to realise is that I have a complete family now. I have twelve-year-old twins, and my eldest, Christopher, whom you met, also lives wi
th us. Whilst for me it would be wonderful to meet you and to welcome you into my home, you will appreciate that for the rest of my children, this would be extremely unsettling. We are a very close family.
I wish you every success in your career and in your marriage. I am delighted things have worked out for you, and believe me, finding love is the greatest ambition there is. Please understand that I have moved on from what was a very painful time for me but that this is no reflection on you. I didn’t want to give you up, but I had to. It was a long time ago and is something I wish to leave in the past. Please accept my apologies. I am sorry not to be able to give you what you came for. But at least you know where you were born and that I gave you up against my will. I wish I could rewrite the past, but I can’t. I hope you understand.
Wishing you all the love and luck in the world,
Your mother, Phyllis
He sealed the letter in an envelope and wrote Ben’s name on the front. He crept downstairs and lifted his coat from the hook. Silently he slid open the hall table drawer and took out his car keys.
‘Chris?’ Phyllis called from the kitchen. There was a smell of chocolate cake – she must be baking, he thought, for the Easter service. ‘Love?’
‘It’s OK, Mum,’ he called back to her. ‘I’ve just got to nip out for something.’
‘All right. Tea in an hour or so, once I’ve finished these fairy cakes, all right?’
‘Yes. Yes, OK.’
‘Oh, Chris?’
‘Yes?’
She had come to the kitchen door and was wiping her hands on a tea towel. ‘Did anyone come to the house today?’
‘Anyone? Like who?’
‘A chap. Only Mum said an American had called round, saying he was the son of a friend of mine from school. Said he was going to call and say hello apparently.’
Christopher felt for the latch, aware of his heart beating. ‘No one came,’ he said, shaking his head, turning away from her, opening the door.
‘All right,’ he heard her say. ‘Maybe he’ll come tomorrow.’
‘Yes.’ One foot on the step, he paused. ‘Maybe tomorrow. I’ll… I’ll see you in a bit, then.’
‘Rightio,’ she said. ‘See you in a bit.’
He closed the front door without a sound, as if stealth could protect him from his own roiling insides. He drove up the steep hill of Heath Road, turned left and continued past the playing fields, past the golf course and the larger detached houses, past the bus station, beneath the expressway and through Beechwood Estate. He turned right, drove a little further through yet more houses and parked, finally, at the Crest Hotel. An anonymous place, of brown brick and smoked glass, somewhere people hired for functions: weddings, christenings, funerals.
‘Could you please make sure Benjamin Bradbury gets this letter as soon as possible?’ he said to the girl at reception. ‘It’s extremely important he receives it tonight.’
‘Of course, sir,’ said the girl. ‘I’ll take it to his room now.’
Chapter Twenty-Five
On the way back to the hotel, Ben’s head is spinning like a washing machine. That guy, that tall geeky guy, is his half-brother. A half-brother around his own age. Christopher, like Christopher Robin, standing there in his cardigan and slippers like a university professor or something.
‘Man,’ Ben says to no one, hitting the steering wheel as he drives through the housing estate. ‘Man, oh, man.’
This Christopher guy would have to be younger, wouldn’t he? His mother wouldn’t have given away a second child, not for any reason Ben can see, so his half-brother must be younger, maybe a year or two, lucky enough to be born when Phyllis could look after him.
The whole thing is a trip. Ben can’t wait to tell Martha. And this is only the beginning. Wait till he meets Phyllis – that will blow what is left of his mind. What will she look like? She might be tall like Christopher, with black hair and tortoiseshell glasses. She might wear contact lenses. Maybe Christopher wears contacts too sometimes. Or maybe he works the whole bespectacled billionaire vibe on purpose for the girls, like Tony Curtis in Some Like it Hot. Christ, this is all such a rush. It’s all he can do to concentrate on the road.
In his hotel room, he lies down on the bed.
A sliding sound wakes him and for a moment he has no idea where he is. The light outside is whiter, colder. He checks the time and sees that it’s a little after six. He must have fallen asleep on the bed – the jet lag is killing him. Still dazed, he gets up and switches on the television. It’s a local programme: Look North. They’re the same the world over, these guys: slick hair and skin, super-straight clothes – the thought makes him smile. On the floor at the door to his room there is an envelope – the source of the noise. His lungs fill at the sight. It is from her, it must be. Who else does he know in this town?
He grabs the letter, sits on the bed, opens it. It is from her, Phyllis; she is glad to have received his letter. He reads on, his heart sinking lower with every word.
I wish I could rewrite the past, but I can’t. I hope you understand.
‘Goddam!’ He screws up the letter and throws it against the wall. He checks his watch and sees that only a few minutes have passed. What time will it be in San Fran? Mid-morning. Easter holidays – there’s a chance Martha will be at the apartment. He dials nine for an outside line.
The ringtone in California sounds distant, but after three or four she picks up.
‘Martha?’
‘Ben! How’s it going?’
How he loves her. He pictures her, there in the apartment. Her smile. He tells her about the convent, about Christopher, about the letter.
‘She can’t dismiss me like that,’ he says. ‘I’m her son, for Chrissakes – what does she think I am, made of clay? It’s goddam heartless. It’s cruel. I didn’t ask to be born. And I certainly didn’t ask to be left in some goddam convent.’
‘Benjamin Bradbury, calm down,’ Martha says. ‘Take a deep breath.’
He does as he’s told.
‘And another,’ she says. ‘It’s not me you’re angry at, OK?’
‘I know,’ he says. ‘I’m sorry. But she owes me a meeting. She damn well owes me.’
‘Ben. Hon. She doesn’t know you is all. If she knew you, she wouldn’t have written that letter. If she knew you, she’d trust your intentions. Maybe you need to write her one more time, give her more information, reassure her a little, huh?’
‘You think?’
‘Yeah. Besides, it’s not like you to give up so soon. That’s not the Ben I know.’
This time when he breathes the air reaches his lungs, swelling his chest. She’s right. The thing he’s learnt, the thing he knows above all else, is that with enough determination and persistence, you will get whatever it is you want. You decide what it is, you focus on it and you go get it. It is that simple.
‘I love you,’ he says.
‘I love you right back.’
After the call, he gets up, retrieves the letter from the floor and straightens it out. Wishes he’d stayed calm – his temper catches him out sometimes; Martha hates it. Calm, Benjamin Bradbury, calm down. His full name is their code for when his anger is getting the better of him. Some things are not easy, life is not easy – doesn’t mean you have to lose it, make the people around you uncomfortable. Doesn’t mean you have to quit. You have to keep on, dead straight; don’t let anything stand in your way. Aim – fire.
Moments later he has begun another letter, stronger this time. More persuasion is all he needs. An ultimatum. What mother can resist her own son? And if that doesn’t work, he’ll simply show up and not leave until she sees him.
He finishes the letter, leaves it in his room and goes down to eat in the hotel restaurant. He will post it in the morning. The timing has to be right. It’s better if she has time to think it over, regret her words. Who knows, she might even show up at the hotel before the end of the evening.
* * *
‘That you, Chris, love
?’ Phyllis called as he closed the front door behind him.
‘It’s me.’ It was him, he thought. Martin Curtiss. Christopher.
She was at the sink, washing up, while on the hob a saucepan, its lid half-on, shuddered and steamed.
‘Hi, you,’ she said.
‘Hi.’ He kissed her cheek, went to inspect the contents of the other pan, where broccoli sat in cold water, ready prepared. The smell of bacon rose from under the grill. This turned out to be bacon chops – one for him, one for her.
‘Dinner smells good,’ he said and kissed her again. ‘Thought I’d better kiss that cheek too in case it might be jealous of the other.’
She giggled. ‘You are daft sometimes.’
And this was all he had ever wanted, he thought. For his mother to call to him as he came home, for her to be there doing something as ordinary and mundane as washing up while potatoes boiled in a pan. For her to say hello if he said hello, for her to giggle if he made the smallest joke. This was life. She was life. If he could have this, her, he had normality. He had everything.
He set the table then returned to her as if drawn by an invisible cord. He laid his head between her shoulder blades, wrapped his arms around her waist.
‘Hi again,’ he said.
She closed her wet hand over his. ‘Dinner’s two minutes. Open a bottle, will you?’
She brought the dinner and sat opposite him once again.
He touched his glass to hers.
She drank, as did he. He watched her over the rim of the glass. She was beautiful really. No one you would turn after on the street; her beauty came from being close to her, close enough to really see her.
‘You look beautiful,’ he said.
She sat back in her chair, her eyes wide. She had a mouthful of food and could not speak. Instead she waved her hand in front of her face, flustered by the compliment.