A Mother Never Lies

by Sarah Clarke

  Even though I’ve been on my feet since lunchtime, the walk home is almost a pleasure. People talk about floating when they’re happy. It’s not quite that, but I do feel a bit anaesthetised as I make the familiar journey back to Battersea. It’s past ten when I get home, so I’m surprised to see the light on in the front room. Even more surprised to see Flora and Paul sitting next to each other on the sofa, watching the BBC News as though they have a genuine interest in the state of British manufacturing.

  ‘Darling! How was it?’ The TV is promptly switched off. ‘We wanted to stay up for you, welcome you home after your first day.’

  I think back to yesterday. Letting myself into a dark house, exhausted. Slipping into bed gratefully. They’ve missed a day, but I’m actually surprised they remember at all – I only told them as an offhand comment on Tuesday evening, my instincts telling me not to say too much. It’s touching, this newfound interest in my life. ‘Exhausting, but I loved it.’

  ‘Loved it?’ Paul asks. ‘Serving coffee?’

  ‘It’s amazing how satisfying it is, making the perfect cappuccino.’ Did I just say that?

  ‘Well, I think it’s wonderful! I always wanted to have a little teashop by the sea. Where was it, Paul?’

  ‘St Ives.’

  ‘St Ives! Imagine, Paul. Do you think we still could?’

  ‘Maybe,’ Paul responds vaguely – he knows that neutral works best with Flora – then he returns to the subject of my job. ‘Nice people?’

  ‘A good team, yes.’

  A small smile forms on his face. He’s decided it’s good news. ‘I’m so pleased for you, Phoebe. You deserve to be happy, to start rebuilding your life.’ His eyes look different too. Not love exactly, but maybe fondness. He hid so much during those dark days that I never knew what he felt, but I had plenty of time to fear the worst. I feel a rush of elation that I might have got that wrong.

  I should tell them. I realise it in a flash but with an intensity that almost knocks me over. They deserve to know. And the truth is I want to celebrate finding him; talking to a rose bush isn’t enough, I want to shout it from the rooftops. I think about Flora’s continued friendship with that social worker, of Paul not being able to hold my gaze for years; their willingness to go along with the adoption. But that’s all in the past now. Even if they only feel a tiny proportion of the excitement that I do, surely it will be enough?

  ‘I do feel like I deserve to be happy again,’ I start, gauging their reaction.

  ‘Oh, Phoebe, you absolutely do! All that unpleasant business was years ago now.’ Flora flaps it away. ‘And you weren’t, well, thinking straight back then. Dan’s death and everything. That lovely lady at the clinic put you back together, didn’t she, darling?’

  Now it’s Paul’s turn. It’s amazing how good they still are at this, the double act. ‘Phoebe, you’ve been away from us for a long time, but you’re back now. There’s nothing we want more than to see you happy again.’

  It’s not true, of course. The booze and the fags will always come first. But the sentiment sounds genuine, and I’m grateful for it. It spurs me on. After all, he’s their relation too, their grandson. They deserve to know.

  ‘I’ve found him, Dad.’ I whisper it, but it sounds louder.

  ‘Found him?’

  ‘Found who? What are you two talking about?’ Flora can sense the thickening atmosphere, but her brain hasn’t caught up.

  Paul chooses to ignore his wife, continues staring at me. ‘You mean Charlie, I presume?’

  I just nod; I can’t speak now.

  ‘What do you mean you’ve found Charlie?’ Flora squeals. She’s flustered now. ‘Oh, Phoebe, what have you done?’

  ‘He’s my son,’ I throw back. How can they both be so blind to what really matters?

  ‘But it’s not allowed! He’s not yours anymore,’ she continues.

  ‘He’ll always be mine. He’s part of me. Surely you of all people can see that?’

  ‘It’s been a long time, Phoebe. People change.’ Paul’s calm voice sounds so convincing. I stifle the urge to stick my fingers in my ears.

  ‘No! He might be called Ben now. And go to a posh school. And live in an expensive house. But he’s still my son, my flesh and blood. And no one – not you, not that social worker, not that la-di-da fake mother of his – can ever change that.’

  No one speaks for a moment and all I can hear is my heavy breathing stabbing at the silence.

  ‘You know a lot about him,’ Paul finally observes. The most level-headed amongst us.

  ‘He’s an artist, won an award.’ I want them to see the connection, to feel excited by the creativity he inherited from them. But my plan backfires.

  ‘Wait a moment.’ Flora sounds more composed now, and there’s a new steeliness to her voice. ‘Our day out. The art exhibition. Is that why you suggested going?’

  ‘I know you love art.’

  ‘Don’t lie! You let me think it was about me, but it was just about you getting your fix of him.’

  ‘He’s so beautiful, Mum. He has your spirit.’ My face is wet with tears.

  ‘My grandson’s art was there, and you didn’t say a word.’ She drops her face into her hands and lets out a cry of anguish.

  ‘You see what you’ve started, Phoebe?’ Paul’s voice is louder now. ‘Flora and I said goodbye to Charlie over a decade ago. Do you know how hard that was for us? For him?’

  ‘For me too.’

  ‘But it wasn’t our doing, was it, Phoebe?’

  His words sting. I can see that he instantly regrets saying them, but it’s too late. How dare they tell me what to do? Things may have fallen apart between Charlie and I, but I was a better parent in our short time together than Flora and Paul ever were to me.

  ‘I’m not giving it up. You’re not taking this away from me.’ I’m shouting now.

  ‘Giving it up?’

  ‘I need this job. Don’t you dare ruin it.’ Again, I’ve given away too much; I need to control my temper.

  ‘Charlie works at your café?’ This time it’s Flora who works it out first.

  ‘He doesn’t know who I am.’

  ‘You talk to him?’

  ‘We just work together.’ I hear the apology in my voice. The pleading. But it doesn’t work.

  ‘So you’re lying to him too.’

  ‘It’s for the best. For now.’

  ‘For you maybe, but not for Charlie.’ Paul sounds so reasonable, I can’t stand it. ‘For his sake, Phoebe, you need to walk away.’

  ‘I can’t, Dad, please,’ I whisper.

  ‘You were a good mother, I know that.’ His voice is gentle now. ‘But when you signed those adoption papers, you knew what that meant. If Charlie wants to find you, he’ll have every opportunity when he turns 18.’

  The social worker’s final comments reverberate around my head. He has absolutely no memory of you. ‘And what if he doesn’t?’ I demand.

  ‘Then it’s proof that he’s not yours after all.’ And with that, Paul helps Flora off the sofa, and then the pair of them turn towards the door and shuffle out of the room.

  Chapter 18

  Ben

  ‘Fam, you’ve got to see this.’

  Ben turns to look at Jake. He was deep into his painting, and the interruption is annoying. ‘See what?’

  ‘C’mon, quick. Or we’ll miss it.’

  ‘Miss what?’ he repeats, irritation starting to surface. It’s not often he gets the art studio to himself and he was right in the middle of his latest project, a landscape painting of Barnes Bridge over the Thames. At first it was just another A-level piece, but the more time he’s spent on it, the more important the painting has become. The traffic on the bridge, boats on the river, cyclists dodging runners, kids and dogs on the towpath. Gradually he’s creating chaos, and he loves it.

  ‘A fight. Year 11, I think. Over some girl. Everyone’s down there, but no teachers yet.’

  ‘You came all the way up here to tell me
that?’

  ‘Look, I promise this is going to be good. It’s that medal kid. You know, the one that wins everything.’

  Ben plays dumb but he knows exactly who Jake means. He shouldn’t. The kid is two years younger than him. But some people just stand out. It’s one of the many lies that parents tell, that everyone is good at something; that talent is handed out equally. The reality is that some people are brilliant at everything while plenty of others don’t shine at all. Chris Thorne plays scrum half for the rugby team, striker for the football team and opening batsman for the cricket team. He’s an academic scholar and his band played at the last school disco.

  ‘Against who?’ Ben can’t help warming to the idea of watching Chris Thorne get a kicking.

  ‘Dunno, but he’s a big lad. Come on.’

  Fuck it. Ben wipes his paintbrush on the nearest rag and drops it into a beaker of cold water. Now he’s made the decision, he’s suddenly in a rush to get there, so he throws his apron on the side and the two of them race down the stairs and out onto the playground.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Behind the sports hall.’

  They start to hear the sound of kids jeering when they’re halfway across the rugby pitch; a blanket of noise rather than a collection of individual voices, like fans at a football match or animals in a field. As they walk around the back of the building, the volume rises.

  Ben stares at the scene. Any urge he had to see Chris Thorne paying for his talent dissolves in an instant. How can so many people be enjoying this? There’s close to fifty kids watching and almost all of them have their phones out, recording the event.

  The main attraction isn’t even much of a fight. The two boys are just shoving each other in the chest rather than throwing any punches. But Ben sees that their faces don’t match up. The bigger kid – Ben pulls the name Adam from somewhere – has an expression of pure rage on his, while Chris’s face is mainly fear, and maybe some regret. Whoever the girl is, Ben can see she was just a conquest to Chris. While to Adam, she’s the one. Another powerful shove and Chris falls backwards onto the ground. The crowd surges forward, phones get angled down.

  Acid forms in Ben’s mouth. ‘Let’s go,’ he says to Jake. ‘It’s not even a proper fight.’

  ‘Ah man, it’s just getting good.’ Jake pulls his face into a comedy grimace. ‘Ouch! Did you see that?’

  Ben didn’t see the boot connect with Chris’s ribcage, but he heard it. And again the second time. He doesn’t really care whether it hurts – people get too dramatic about pain anyway. But watching it feels wrong. He understands how ridiculous that is, the boy who walks headfirst into trouble not being able to stomach a playground fight. But being on the sidelines gives a different perspective, and not one he likes.

  ‘You need to get out more,’ he says casually. He’s become pretty good at acting cool while his insides fight some phantom enemy.

  ‘And I will, when you stop working every weekend. But for now, I have the downfall of a perfect specimen to watch.’

  Jake’s grin leers over him and sweat beads on Ben’s forehead. He knows he can’t walk away. That would single him out as different and he couldn’t stand being the target of that kind of school chat. So he steels himself against the noise and waits for it to be over. Surely the teachers will notice the huddle of goading children soon.

  Except it’s not a teacher who disrupts the fight. A girl in uniform suddenly rushes up, crying and begging for them to stop, like a scene from some low-budget melodrama. Ben feels a strange mix of disgust and sympathy. Does she not realise how many people are watching, filming? It’s horrible to witness, but he can’t drag his eyes away from her. However, the girl is clearly too upset to care about her audience because she drops to the ground, to Chris Thorne’s side. The timing is unfortunate though. Adam’s foot connects hard with her head.

  Ben screams. Without warning, without the chance to pull it back inside. Heads turn in his direction, surprised looks from boys who know him, smirks from those who don’t. For once, Jake doesn’t say anything. Just stares at him.

  What has he done? Why did he scream? He doesn’t give a shit about that girl, two-timing bitch that she is. He doesn’t care about any of them, or Jake for that matter. He turns away from all their mocking looks and starts walking, arms pumping. He wants to leave this place forever. Ben feels the familiar throttling at his throat, the oppressiveness of the buildings around him. He knows he needs to calm down, but he can’t. He keeps walking, past the refectory, the Fives courts, the science block, until he reaches the two temporary classrooms on the school perimeter, erected during the recent building work but unused now.

  Finally he pauses. Out of sight, he rests his forehead against the pre-fabricated building. Then he pulls it back and drops it once more. Harder this time. The pain feels good so he does it again. And again. His vision swims as the nerve endings in his forehead send danger signals to his brain. Except that’s where the real danger lives of course.

  He knows he needs to stop thumping his head against the wall. He can’t let bruises form on his face, allow the whole world to see his shame. But it’s so addictive. Too difficult to stop.

  With a half-muted cry of anguish, he turns away from the wall. But the urge to destroy doesn’t go. He can feel it surging down his arms like electricity. There’s a brick on the ground; the last of the builder’s rubbish, hidden rather than cleared. He picks it up and hurls it at the window. The sound of smashing glass is magnificent. Exactly what he needs. The laughter bubbles at first, then spills out in huge roars. He knows he sounds crazy, but he doesn’t care. He’s alone, no one here to film this madness.

  Except he’s not quite alone.

  ‘Moreton? What the hell is going on? Why did you just smash that window?’

  *

  Ben stares at his parents across the kitchen table. His mum looks tired, her eyes still carrying the residue of tears she pretended weren’t shed. His dad is angrier, ashamed of having to sit opposite the head teacher yet again and apologise on Ben’s behalf. Of having to repeat the adopted child excuse, the tired explanation of Ben’s difficult start in life.

  Mr Shawbridge had been understanding. Like he always is. Talked about normal circumstances, suspension, about how Ben’s situation wasn’t normal of course. Abnormal then. At least someone has the balls to admit it. He brought up the subject of therapy, how Ben might benefit. This wasn’t new. Every time Ben got into trouble at school, he’d give the same spiel. Greg even suggested he was on the Priory’s payroll once, before Lucy’s sharp stare had cut that joke dead.

  His parents had never liked him having therapy, so those visits had stopped as soon as he became a Moreton. He didn’t mind. He couldn’t remember much about that place he went once a week when he lived with his foster family, but he knew he never felt comfortable there. The woman was too nice, all sympathy smiles and reassurance. She’d get him to draw or play with toys, pretend it was all about having fun. But then ask him stuff that was none of her business. It was a relief when he didn’t have to go anymore.

  ‘Well?’

  His dad wants an explanation, but what is he meant to say? Who smashes a window rationally? ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Won’t happen again.’

  ‘Now where have I heard that before?’

  Lucy seems to decide that Greg is too angry for this conversation. She leans forward, rests her hand over his fist, takes the baton. ‘Ben. We love you. Nothing will ever change that.’

  Ben squirms in his chair.

  ‘But we don’t always understand you.’ A pause. ‘We don’t understand why you’re so angry.’

  Ben’s got nothing to say; neither does he.

  ‘You’re nearly 18, Ben.’ Greg’s turn again. ‘This is crunch time. We’ve given you all the tools – home, family, good school, fair boundaries – now you have to decide what kind of adult you’re going to be.’

  ‘There’s no glory in destruction, Ben.�
��

  ‘It’s childish, just throwing your toys. You need to grow up, take responsibility.’

  ‘You should talk to us, Ben. Hiding in your bedroom isn’t healthy.’

  ‘We’re not monsters, for Christ’s sake.’

  Like the stereo from hell, their two voices pound at his head. One whines, the other judges. Why can’t they just back off? It was just a window of a disused pre-fab. Shawbridge was willing to let it go. Why can’t they?

  But he can’t lose his temper again, not today; the fallout isn’t worth it. He looks square on at his parents sitting across the table and tries really hard to appear genuine. ‘I know you’re not monsters and I am really sorry. I’m not angry with you, or anybody else. It was just a dare from a mate. A stupid dare that I should have ignored, and next time I will, I promise.’

  It’s an impressive performance and Ben watches Lucy fall for it. Greg isn’t so gullible, but he looks defeated. He knows he’s lost this one.

  ‘And you’ll talk to us more?’

  ‘I will.’ That’s when Ben realises his acting is too good. Lucy is moving towards him, arms reaching out. ‘But not now,’ he adds quickly, trying to hide his rising panic, ‘or I’ll be late for work.’ With that, he attempts a Marco-style pirouette and races out of the room.

  *

  The quick exit means he’s actually early for work, so he takes his time to walk down the hill, sucking deeply on a cigarette and enjoying the sensation of nicotine permeating through his lungs, into his brain. He hopes the extra few minutes will help him shed the day’s events from his mind; he needs to lock them away if he wants to function properly tonight. It’s Friday, which means the early part of his shift will be busy with stay-at-home mums starting their weekend cooking bans early. Then from about 7 p.m. the place will empty quickly. Plenty more exciting places to be on a Friday night than Bittersweet.

  Marco and Hana work full-time Monday to Friday, so Ben tries to let them finish early on their last day if it’s quiet enough. It’s a bit of a ball-ache clearing up without their help, but the gratitude on Hana’s face when he offers to cover her last hour helps with his motivation. Of course, there’s that new woman too now – Fiona – so it should be easier tonight.