A Mother Never Lies

by Sarah Clarke

  Almost pure liquid, the sick has seeped into the carpet by the time I get back. I rub at it vigorously with the towel but I’m not sure I achieve much. After brushing the broken glass into the pan, I rip a few pages off the newspaper and scrunch it up to create a makeshift container that I can pour the glass into. As I fold the package away, I look down at the newspaper – now exposed at page seven.

  And that’s when my chest clamps shut.

  Because it’s him.

  The picture of the boy holding an award.

  Absolutely no question, it’s him.

  Then suddenly my chest releases and my heart starts racing. But it’s excitement I feel this time, not fear. Struggling to focus, I desperately try to read the small article accompanying the picture.

  Local student Ben Moreton (17) was recently awarded first place in the 15–17-year-old category of the Wandsworth Young Artist of the Year competition – beating five hundred other talented artists to win the top prize. Ben is currently a pupil at Wandsworth College, where he is studying Art, Geography and Chemistry A-levels. Congratulations to Ben from all of us at the Wandsworth Times.

  A Wandsworth Young Artist of the Year exhibition will be held at the Battersea Art Centre from 7th to 10th November where all finalist pieces will be on display.

  Ben Moreton. I roll the name around my mouth over and over, trying to make it sound familiar. Ben Moreton. Charlie Taylor. So different, but still one and the same. My son. And at Wandsworth College, so close to where I stood today.

  After all my earlier doubts, just like that, I’ve found him.

  Chapter 6

  JUNE 2000

  Phoebe

  I try not to catch Richie’s eye as I push my chair underneath the desk and reach down for my bag. Saskia Reeves’ new contract, confirming her role in the new Witches of Eastwick musical at the Theatre Royal, is still strewn across it, my scrawled notes in green biro adding some colour to the otherwise dull legalese. I know I should file it away before leaving for the evening, but I’m in too much of a hurry for that.

  ‘Got plans?’ Richie asks with genuine curiosity. It’s past the official end of the day, but that doesn’t mean much in this office, and I’m usually here until at least seven, unless I’m going to watch a client in a show.

  ‘Emergency love sickness call, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Eurgh, really?’ Katie pipes up. ‘It’s been two years now. Isn’t it time you guys gave that love stuff up?’

  I could remind her that marriage is actually classed as a permanent thing, but I know that her husband lasted a lot less than two years after their son Dylan was born, so I move the conversation on instead. ‘Apparently he’s got news – and needs me and wine in equal measure.’

  ‘I’m not sure that’s a compliment.’

  We all smile at that and I know I’m forgiven for my early departure. ‘See you tomorrow,’ I shout as I make my way up the stairs from our basement office and out onto the well-heeled streets of north-west London. I make it to the tube station in under ten minutes and the first train to leave is going in my direction. My luck even extends to a seat being available, so I settle in for the journey south with the review section of Time Out. I’m always on the lookout for new talent to add to my list, so I’m still working really; at least that’s what I persuade myself.

  When I get to Southfields tube station, five minutes’ walk from our flat, Dan is waiting at the top of the stairs.

  ‘Hi, babe.’ He leans in for a kiss and I’m happy to oblige. I can taste the day of a junior solicitor – multiple cups of coffee, chicken sandwich washed down with Perrier water, a square of chocolate cake in recognition of someone’s birthday – and I take it in with the rest of him. ‘That was exactly what I needed,’ he says as we pull away from each other.

  ‘So I came a notch up from wine in the end?’

  ‘Only just. Let’s go.’ He grabs my hand and we run across the road, dodging the slow-moving traffic, and into our favourite bar. Set in a typical Victorian terrace, Lexi’s is narrow and deep with its bar on the right side, and a slim table ledge with stools running down its left. There are little round tables further towards the back, but we’re creatures of habit so I don’t say anything before climbing onto one of the nearest bar stools in the line while Dan makes his way to the bar. I watch him chat easily with David, Lexi’s manager and other half, as he orders two glasses of Chablis and a dish of green olives.

  ‘Cheers?’ I say it as a question because the look on Dan’s face is a long way off cheerful, but he clinks my glass anyway and even manages half a smile before taking a large gulp. I join him; the cool citrusy liquid tastes delicious and I pop an olive in my mouth to add a salty twist. I love these simple pleasures. Before I met Dan, my life was littered with big moments – meeting celebrities, going to premieres, celebrating new client wins on glamorous nights out. My friends would listen to my stories with wide, wishful eyes and I’d feel quite smug about the life I’d carved for myself. But looking back, I’m not sure how much I enjoyed all that fun. What I have now – Dan, this bar, our little routines – this is what makes me happy. Except Dan isn’t looking exactly joyful now. ‘Bad day?’ I ask.

  ‘It actually started quite well. Had my review with Henry first thing and he was uncharacteristically positive. He reckons I could make partner in ten years if I put enough hours in.’

  ‘That’s amazing, honey.’ I’m not sure it is; working night and day for some vague dream of future riches isn’t really the life I want, but I sense that now isn’t the right time to bring up my opinion on work-life balance. ‘So what changed?’

  ‘My dad called.’

  ‘Oh.’ That explains Dan’s bleak face, and his already empty glass. Dan was 10 when his mum died of an undiagnosed heart condition, running for the bus on her way to pick him up from school. Of course he blamed himself, even though she picked him up practically every day of the school year. But Tony – Dan’s dad – had more of a reason to feel guilty. It had been a Thursday, so Dan was finishing late after football club. It was cold and rainy, and Tony had offered to pick his son up on his way home from work. But then a client had dropped by, stayed for longer than anticipated. The whole confusion had knocked Anne off her normal routine, hence running for the bus.

  ‘Actually, let me get another drink first. You want one?’

  I look at my half-full glass of wine and hesitate for a moment before answering with a nod. We do things together, and if tonight requires a two-drink preliminary, then so be it. The bar is busier now and I watch Dan waiting patiently to be served. I love his fondness for rules and order, but sometimes I wonder if he’d felt the same way before his mother died.

  ‘I’m going to be a brother.’ Dan puts a new glass of wine in front of me.

  ‘What?’

  ‘At the grand old age of 31, I’m getting my first sibling.’

  My brain finally clicks into gear. ‘Trudy’s pregnant?’

  ‘For twenty years my father hasn’t shown anyone an ounce of commitment. Then he meets someone half his age and gets all starry-eyed. And now, what? We’re meant to believe he’s ready to become a father again? I don’t buy it.’

  ‘Did he sound happy when you spoke to him?’ I first met Trudy last summer, when we took a road trip to Cornwall and stopped en route for a cup of tea. It was a flying visit, but I noticed instantly how smitten Tony was with his new girlfriend. I remember wondering whether he’d finally decided to forgive himself.

  ‘Of course he’s happy now, but what about when the baby comes and it’s all smelly nappies and sleepless nights?’

  ‘He’s done it before.’

  ‘And look how that turned out.’

  I pause for a moment, loyalty and reason sparring. ‘He never abandoned you,’ I finally say. Tony might not have been the perfect father, but I feel an urge to defend him; he brought Dan up on his own after all.

  ‘Not physically maybe, but in every other way. I reminded him of her. It was easiest to
pretend I wasn’t there. Whatever I did, however much I achieved. He was oblivious.’

  ‘I’m sure he’s proud of you.’ I instantly regret my words, my empty platitudes. Flora doesn’t notice my successes, so why should Tony be any better? It’s true that he’s never shown an interest in our lives or congratulated Dan on his journey up the career ladder. Perhaps he really is the selfish prick that Dan describes.

  ‘He doesn’t give a shit about me – we both know that.’

  ‘Maybe that’s why we get on so well. Equally shit parents.’

  Dan’s face opens up into a wider smile, and I return it quickly. I pick up his hand and kiss each one of his neatly trimmed fingernails. ‘Maybe he’ll be a better father this time round, without the burden of grief hanging over him.’

  ‘So he gets a second chance at being a good father, but I don’t get another childhood. Dan the reject, make way for the new and improved version.’

  ‘Be angry with Tony sure, but don’t be jealous of a baby.’

  Dan looks up at me, instantly chagrined. ‘You’re right, I’m being pathetic. I’ve got you; I don’t need anyone else.’ He leans in for a kiss and I return it.

  The bar is busy now and I can feel a few curious eyes looking over. ‘Let’s go home, maybe we can practise some baby-making of our own.’

  ‘As long as it’s only practising,’ he warns with a low chuckle. ‘Remember, three’s a crowd.’

  I smile as we walk out of the bar together, but still, a small sense of unease forms in my belly.

  Chapter 7

  NOVEMBER 2019

  Ben

  Ben shivers against the cold wind and swears at his stupid decision not to bring a jacket. The warmth generated by his rucksack is good for his back but does little to improve things for the rest of his body. Bittersweet officially closed at nine o’clock and even the last few stragglers had left by twenty past, but Marco then offered to open a few bottles of craft beer and Ben hadn’t been in a hurry to get home. As it turned out, Hana’s flatmate had recently moved back to Poland, so she was looking for company too, and the three of them happily worked their way through a crate.

  Hana is small and feisty with wild curls and curvy hips. Ben’s never properly fancied anyone before, so it’s hard to tell what he thinks of her, but he did feel jealous – a more familiar emotion – as he watched Marco flirt so easily. The beer helped Ben behave less awkwardly around her, but he still struggled to think of anything interesting to say. It’s all pretty theoretical though; there’s no way Hana would be interested in him.

  Traffic on East Hill has shrunk to the odd car cruising past, so Ben doesn’t change his pace as he walks across the wide road. He’ll be home in five minutes and, with any luck, his family will all be tucked up in bed. He can grab a bowl of Rice Krispies, his all-time favourite meal, and head upstairs. It’s been a long day and he’s exhausted. He prays silently that the late hour and four beers he’s drunk will give him the uninterrupted sleep that he craves.

  But as he opens the front door, his plans disintegrate. The kitchen light is on and his father is sat behind the island unit, facing Ben. His laptop is open, but he slides it to one side, a silent invitation for Ben to join him.

  Fuck. This is the very last thing he needs right now. He decides to try his sister’s tactic of dodging an unwanted conversation by unleashing his own torrent of words.

  ‘Hey, Dad, you’re up late. I’m done in. Just going to grab some cereal and head upstairs.’

  ‘I waited up for you.’ Greg’s upbeat tone does little to disguise his own weariness. ‘Eat it down here, Ben. It gives us a chance to talk, and your mother doesn’t like you having food in your room anyway.’

  Ben looks at his father. What is it with people constantly picking at him?

  ‘Look, the truth is, we’re worried about you,’ his dad continues, filling the silence. ‘Hiding in your room all the time. Refusing to engage with the rest of the family. The whiff of tobacco, or that sweeter smell, that follows you around.’

  ‘Dad, I just need to get to bed.’

  ‘Come on, mate, I waited up for you. Can’t you give me five minutes?’

  He can’t stop it now. He’s avoided this all day but he’s tired and his dad’s loaded air of companionship fires up his belly. ‘For what?’ he hisses.

  That patronising sigh again. ‘We found your geography essay … saw the grade.’

  ‘You’ve been in my room, through my bag?’ he asks incredulously.

  ‘We think your job might be impacting your studies, Ben. We want you to consider giving it up.’

  The fury spills out. ‘So first you want me to get a job – which, by the way, is actually about making you feel better about being so freakin’ rich, and jack shit to do with my work ethic. And now you want me to walk away from it? And just so that Mum can finally admit to having two children at those dumb coffee mornings instead of just Perfect Rosie!’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Your A-levels are important.’

  ‘Not to me! I don’t give a shit about my grades, my qualifications, my fucking future!’ Ben likes the sound of his shouting, the release it brings. ‘Jesus, just surviving a day in this family is an achievement!’ He can’t remember feeling this good in ages. But he needs to draw breath.

  ‘Have you finished?’ his dad asks, far too calmly for Ben’s liking.

  No, he hasn’t finished. ‘I BET YOU REGRET PICKING THE FUCKED-UP KID NOW, DON’T YOU, DAD!’ he screams at his father, spittle flying in every direction.

  Ben knows he’s gone too far when his father propels upwards, the bar stool crashing loudly against the tiled floor. Greg is on him in a second, grabbing Ben around the neck and pushing him against the shiny American fridge. ‘Don’t you dare say that!’

  A primal fear suddenly grabs at Ben’s insides and he feels his legs weaken, his bladder loosen.

  ‘You are my son and I love you. But stop pushing me, Ben.’

  Ben realises his legs can’t hold him up. His knees shake as his Dad’s hands unknowingly keep him upright. He freezes in fear. His mind starts shutting down.

  Suddenly there’s a scream.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?!’ His mother’s hair is dishevelled, but her eyes are alert as she races into the kitchen. ‘Get your hands off him!’

  With that command, the pressure against Ben’s skin suddenly disappears. He falls to the ground.

  ‘Oh my God, Greg. What were you thinking?’ She’s whispering now, as though Ben might not be able to hear her from his new position. Or perhaps the neighbours have returned to being her first concern now that imminent danger has been averted.

  ‘I don’t know. He just … I just … Oh God, I don’t know.’ Ben hears his father’s voice crack and muffle as his head falls into his hands, but he doesn’t care. All Ben feels is relief flooding through him, and a desperate urge to escape.

  ‘Ben, darling, are you okay?’ His mum reaches out, but he bats her arm away. He can’t bear her touching him.

  ‘I’m fine,’ he spits out. ‘Just need some air.’ He drags himself up, then lurches out of the room and towards the front door. As he opens it, the burst of night air reminds him how cold he felt on his walk home from work, so he grabs the first jacket he finds on the row of pegs. As he runs down Milada Road, the terror gradually leaking out of him with every new step, he realises he’s holding his dad’s prized Barbour. He removes his rucksack and puts on the jacket. The heavy material makes him feel hemmed in, claustrophobic even; a bit like its owner, he thinks with a scowl.

  The adrenaline has worn off now and Ben’s body is pleading for rest. But his mind is still racing, and he knows he needs to calm down if he’s going to stand any chance of sleeping tonight. When he first felt the urge to pick up his rucksack, before he even left for work, was that a premonition for how things would turn out? He pulls a flattened packet of cigarettes out of his jeans pocket and lights one up with the bright green plastic lighter stuffed inside.

&nb
sp; With the anger gone, and the memory of his intense fear shut away, Ben can’t stop regret forming. His dad just wanted to talk. That’s what dads do. Why does he have to get so angry about it? His parents have been caring about Ben for over twelve years. They do treat him differently to Rosie. And he hates that. But they do it with the best intentions. He was a broken 5-year-old boy when they picked him up from that foster home, and they offered to fix him. Why can’t he be more grateful?

  The problem is, Ben can’t remember why he became that broken kid in the first place. He knows that his real dad died, and his real mum couldn’t look after him anymore. And of course any child would be broken after that. But his first memory is of the intense fear he felt living with a gaggle of rowdy strangers – his foster family – and the confusion of all those women talking over him in concerned whispers. When he met the Moretons all those months later, it was their calmness, the order of their home, that he was drawn to. Ironic really, because it’s that same order that suffocates him now.

  Of course, in February he’ll get the chance to learn more. Once he turns 18, he’ll be able to find out his real parents’ names, where his mother lives, everything about them. But actually, the thought horrifies him. If he can’t make things work with Greg and Lucy, two reasonable people who were prepared to love him when no one else would, how the hell would things go with a grief-stricken fuck-up who clearly has zero maternal instincts?

  Ten minutes later, Ben crosses onto a narrower, winding road. If he walks to the end, he will pass Wandsworth Prison, an imposing Victorian period building that appears much more civilised from the outside than it’s reputed to be on the inside. But, instead, he stops when he reaches the slightly ramshackle bridge that carries traffic over the railway line. As he stares out over the tracks, adrenaline starts to work its way back into his system.