The Other Mother

by J. A. Baker

  ‘What the fuck do you think you’re playing at?’ I wail at him, brandishing the paper in his face.

  He takes a step back and lets out a low whistle. ‘Whoa there, tiger! I’m not sure what’s going on here but I think you need to calm down a bit.’ His smile is warm and it stops me in my tracks. But not for long. An iron fist in a velvet glove is what it is. His wily charms won’t work. Not with me, not this time.

  ‘Don’t pretend you don’t know,’ I hiss at him and feel my blood pressure rise even further as he steps to one side and motions for me to go through. Go in there with him? Not a chance in hell.

  ‘I don’t know what it is you think I’ve done but I am not prepared to stand here on the doorstep and have you scream at me like a fishwife. I am, however, more than prepared to do it inside in the privacy of my house over a cup of tea. Your choice.’ He glances at my clothes, my snarl of hair and softens his voice, ‘Look, I can see you’re really upset. If it’s because I moved the fox, then yes, I admit I did move it. I’m pretty sure you would have wanted me to, wouldn’t you? But as for this?’ he stares down at the letter that is hanging limply in my hand, ‘I’m afraid I have no idea what it is. I can see that it’s obviously causing you a great deal of distress so can I just suggest you just throw it in the bin?’

  I stare at him, my anger slowly dissipating as his words gradually sink in. I try to think clearly, to work out what to say next. Of course, he is going to deny it. He would, wouldn’t he? He is not about to admit his culpability in all of this.

  ‘Look,’ I say, the fury of fog beginning to clear from my brain, ‘I know what you are up to, and no, I am not prepared to go in there and sit with you while you pretend you don’t know anything about what is going on. We both know that you know, OK? What I am telling you this, don’t fuck with me and my daughter or I will come down on you so hard, you won’t know what hit you.’

  I turn and start to walk away then stop when I hear his laughter , a bellowing growl that takes my breath away. What sort of man is he? This Rupert guy who seems impervious to my screaming accusations? I have pointed the finger of blame at him, shouted and sworn at him, and threatened him and all he does is offer me tea and laugh. Spinning round on my heel I am incensed to find him still standing on the step, head thrown back as laughter spits out of him like machine gun fire.

  ‘What the hell is wrong with you, anyway?’ I holler, my voice no more than a whisper above the sound of his guffaws. I watch as he wipes his eyes and runs his long fingers through his mane of glossy, thick hair.

  ‘Sorry,’ he says, shaking his head and rubbing his face, ‘it’s just that you’re what five feet four and weigh probably about eight or nine stone. Nine at a push. Am I right?’

  I say nothing, all too aware of where this is heading, what it is he is about to say.

  ‘And I’m over six feet tall and weigh thirteen stone. Now I don’t want to blow my own trumpet or anything like that, but I’m also a bit of a fitness freak and probably lift more than your body weight every day at the gym. I’m also a kick boxer and am partial to a bit of jujitsu. Lots of time for fitness workouts when you work away from home. Not much else to do, I’m afraid. So, when you make idle threats like that, make sure you can see them through.’

  His voice suddenly sounds very serious and has an edge to it; a hint of menace. I feel my face flush and start to scurry away, stones and dust kicking up in small clouds beneath my feet.

  ‘Look, I don’t want to scare you,’ he shouts after me, ‘but you can’t blame me, can you? You turn up here, yelping at me like a hysterical fishwife, accusing me of all sorts of mad stuff. I’ve every right to defend myself, haven’t I?’ The edge has gone now, replaced by the usual gentle tone he adopts.

  I consider stopping but feel too washed out, marginally delirious even, by the day’s events. Instead I continue walking back home, feeling hollow, as if my insides have been scooped out. I am at a loss as to what to do next. It’s as if the world is conspiring against me and forcing me to spend my entire life running. And I am too tired for it all. I don’t want to do it any more; living my life looking over my shoulder. I promised myself we would stay here, and we will. I owe it to Rosie, the stability. There will be no more running away trying to escape my past. It seems that wherever I go, it will always find me.

  I trudge back home, bolt the door, and ignoring Rosie’s weeping and wailing, protests of innocence and her questions about the note. I climb the stairs to my bedroom, fall on to the bed and close my eyes, only too happy for the darkness to engulf me and keep me safe in its clutches.

  Beverley

  She saw me. I just know it. It was obvious by the way her face crumpled and her body practically folded in on itself. And the timing was perfect too. I had just sent a message to Erica telling her all about it, about how she was in the office next door, her daughter in trouble yet again. I didn’t actually have to go in. I had no need, but simply couldn’t resist it. All these years I have waited. As if I am going to allow a situation like that slip out of my grasp. And I had the perfect excuse. I had forgotten to take the documents through that Anthea had asked me for earlier, so it seemed like the ideal opportunity to present myself to her; to subliminally say to her, Remember me? Here I am, back in your life once more …

  Her expression was priceless. That alone was worth waiting for. And that daughter of hers … well now the world knows exactly what sort of family they are; how you can’t rub out the past no matter how hard you try. It will always be there snapping at your ankles. Sooner or later everybody’s sins catch up with them, don’t they? And now hers have. There is no way she will be able to scurry away and hide again. I will make sure of it. Soon enough everyone will know what kind of family they are, what sort of daughter she has reared. They will see that evil is in the genes, running through their veins. There is no escape route when your mother is a murderer. It will follow you for the rest of your life.

  A frisson of excitement surges through me as I think of what lies ahead, the plans I have mapped out. Such a sensational feeling and one I have waited for, for so long now I never actually thought it would ever happen. A part of me no longer cares about Erica and her sudden cowardice and lack of allegiance to our cause, but then there is another part of me that is furious with her. We talked about this for so long, formed what I thought was a deep and lasting friendship and then out of the blue, she turns against me, leaving me in the lurch. And I don’t like being let down. It’s not that I can’t do this on my own. Of course I can. I’m not an idiot. It’s more to do with the fact that she has chosen to ignore me, to lead me on and then swat me away like a fly. I am suddenly a nuisance to her, an annoyance, an intrusion in her life that she can do without. Well, I’m afraid that doesn’t sit easy with me. We have come too far to break our pact. She is in on this whether she wants to be or not. I’m doing this for Greg, for Pamela, for all the forgotten children out there who deserve to live on, who deserve better than the paltry sentences our justice system doles out on a regular basis. A three year old and a six year old whose lives were snatched away from them. Somebody has to pay for such crimes. I will make sure of it.

  Excitement clutches at my stomach as I log on to my computer and wait for Shirley to leave for lunch. I watch as she scurries about, picking up her bag then putting it down again, rummaging around for her cardigan even though it’s warm outside. As lovely as she is, Shirley is a real old fusspot, dithering about, taking an age to do the smallest of tasks. Her retirement will be welcomed in the school. She has been here for forty years but the time has come for her to let somebody else do her job; somebody younger, somebody far more competent. I’ll have the office to myself when she finally goes for her sandwich, leaving me free to print off her particulars ; full name, address, contact details. Even her daughter’s dietary requirements and medical details are at my disposal; the name and address of her doctor and any conditions we may need to know about. Delicious stuff I have waited years to get hold of, and
now here it is, at my fingertips. All I need is for Shirley to stop dawdling and start being more time efficient. These are the sort of things that rankle with me. Truth be told, I’ll be glad to see the back of her when she retires.

  ‘Is this what you’re looking for?’ I ask, trying to keep the irritation out of my tone as I spot her purse down the side of the desk.

  ‘Ah yes! Of course,’ she says in that childish tone of hers that makes my skin crawl. ‘I have no idea how it got there. Never mind, it’s here now. Are you sure you’ll manage on your own? I’ve got a doctor’s appointment straight after lunch but I’ll be back as soon as I can.’

  I wave her away, giving her a hundred assurances that everything will be fine in her absence. She rubs my hand softly and just stops short of giving me a hug.

  ‘Go on,’ I say to her quietly, ‘off you go or you won’t even have time to do anything.’

  She nods in agreement and finally scurries away. I breathe a sigh of relief and lean back in my chair. Jesus. How can something so simple be turned into such a gargantuan task? I wait until she is out of sight then quickly switch seats and take over Shirley’s computer. I stare at the screen, scroll down to Rosie’s details and smile. There it all is, just waiting for me. I take a couple of different screenshots and then print them off before stuffing them in my bag. My computer isn’t connected to a printer yet so I’ve waited for what feels like forever to be able to do this, to get a hard copy of her details. So far, I’ve had to hold it all in my head. Shirley practically lives in this office. No matter how early I get in or how late I leave, she’s been here, watching my every move, making sure I complete each and every task properly and to her liking. A noise behind me sends my senses into red alert. I need to be careful here. Can’t have anyone thinking I’m doing anything wrong. I turn around to see Laura, one of the dinner staff, rummaging through the cupboard behind me.

  ‘Sick bags!’ she shouts as she pushes a mountain of stationery aside and dips her head deeper into the darkness. ‘Little Robbie’s just spewed up everywhere. Right over his dinner and all over the table.’

  ‘Sounds like it’s all a bit late for sick bags,’ I say as I move her aside and grab a box full of them, pushing them into her hands. ‘I think you’re more likely to need a mop and bucket.’

  She shakes her head despairingly and mouths, ‘Kids, eh?’ at me before dashing off to the canteen, her long, blonde ponytail swishing about behind like a huge, white pendulum.

  The afternoon passes quickly and I am relieved to be out of the place. My back is aching and my eyes are sore from staring at the computer screen for too long. All I want to do is get home and read through the printout again.

  Tired as I am, I can’t resist having a drive past the house after school. Her house. This Peartree Lodge where she lives. Sounds idyllic; smack bang in the middle of the North Yorkshire countryside. How is that fair? She should be in a tiny flat somewhere, scrubbing floors to try and make ends meet, working as a waitress in a greasy cafe as a second job, not in a big house in a glorious location. Initially I googled it, her home, this Peartree Lodge, and then I couldn’t resist a visit. It’s an amazing place, set up on a grassy mound in a tiny hamlet, surrounded by the hills and fields and a long streak of blue sky and fluffy, pearl white clouds where the swallows and doves and blackbirds fly. She doesn’t deserve that. She definitely doesn’t deserve that kind of life.

  I say goodbye to Shirley, leave the office and sling my bag into the car, suddenly furious at it all. Driving much faster that I usually do, I swerve out of the car park and head over there. Just a quick look. That’s all I want. Just to get an idea of how she lives. I won’t hang around long. I’m not that stupid. Just long enough to get a glimpse into her life. The one she doesn’t deserve to have. Then I will be on my way. Back home to my plans.

  Erica

  She is looking old. She is old. And yet for a lady in her eighties, she has such a young soul. I take my mother’s hand and stroke it lightly. Her skin is crisp and dry. Her nails are long and slightly yellowed with age and her hands are dotted with liver spots, and yet I still think she is an utterly beautiful lady. Never cross or sulky. Never does she ever claim to be hard done by. Always with a ready smile and words of wisdom. I wish I could be more like her. I have spent the last few years of my life almost crippled with anxiety and hate. So much loathing and bitterness. And for what? It hasn’t made me a better person or brought Pamela back. And it certainly won’t cure my cancer or save my marriage. Only effort and time and love can do that and who knows, in the end, even all of that may still not be enough. None of us really know what the future holds. All we can do is work at it, give it our best shot and hope that lady luck is smiling down on us.

  I don’t tell my mother of my diagnosis. She has had enough heartache to deal with over the years. To give her something else to worry about, another thing to dent her small but peaceful life, would be unutterably cruel. So, we talk about Freya instead. We talk about her studies and aspirations to become a journalist. We chat about my mother’s weekly visit to the library, and the coffee morning she attends every other Thursday at the nearby community centre. We even speak about her love of crosswords and how she is convinced that such activities can stave off dementia. Perhaps she is right. Who knows? One thing I am sure of, however, is that I will never, ever let myself become bogged down the way I have done in the past. Life goes on. Pamela is gone and no amount of vengeance or retribution will bring her back. It is what it is and I was a fool for not seeing it before now. My life was a vicious circle of blame and revulsion, one feeding off the other until I couldn’t see a way out. No more. From now on I will look to the future. Do what I can to support Arthur, and be the best patient I can be, by looking after myself and staying healthy both physically and mentally. One is as important as the other.

  ‘I’ll make us another cup of tea, shall I?’ I say and carry our used cups through to the kitchen. It’s strange how this house seemed so huge when I was a child, yet if I spend too long here as an adult, it feels as if the walls are closing in on me; the dated, striped wallpaper, the heavy, jacquard curtains they all seem so small. Everything about this house has shrunk with the passing of time.

  I wait for the kettle to boil and drag my hands across the worktops. Clean as a whistle. Age hasn’t allowed my mother to become one of those people who doesn’t see the dirt and the dust. Everywhere is immaculate. I have offered to get her a cleaner but she won’t hear of it, claiming she would get bored if the cleaning was done by somebody else. I personally think it is more to do with the guilt of watching somebody else do all the chores and take care of her house, but regardless, she insists on doing it herself and from what I can tell, she is doing a sterling job despite her advancing years.

  The kettle boils and I refill our cups then head back into the living room where she sits, regal and graceful, her face suddenly the picture of concern.

  ‘I saw her a few weeks back,’ my mother says, narrowing her eyes in concentration as she speaks. ‘I think it was a few weeks anyway. Perhaps longer,’ she says contemplatively.

  I place her cup down on the table in front of us, making sure the coasters are in place. ‘Who did you see, Mum?’ I ask as she picks her cup up and blows over the rim, a wisp of steam curling up around her slightly puckered mouth.

  ‘The other mother.’

  I freeze at her words. That’s how they often referred to each other, how folk in the neighbourhood spoke about them. The other mother. It became a well-known phrase around these parts. There was Vera and then there was Anne my mum. And when one was spoken about, the other lady was referred to as ‘the other mother.’

  ‘You mean Vera?’ I ask, a little too brightly, my voice taking on a new and much higher tone.

  ‘Yes, of course. Greg’s mum.’

  That’s the other thing. After it happened, they didn’t speak of their living children. They, along with everyone in the neighbourhood, used their murdered children’s names
as a bond that seemed to tie them together, a way of cementing their strange and unwanted union. I have never heard my mother being called ‘Erica’s mum.’ Not once. Not when I am back here in my childhood town. Strange, really. I may well be the living child but I am definitely the forgotten one. Perhaps it was the little things like this that fuelled my anger and hatred and filled me with a need for revenge. Or maybe I am just a bitter person at heart. I sincerely hope not. I like to think I am better than that, but life has taught me that we often have no idea what we are capable of until we are truly put under duress.

  ‘How is she?’ I ask, simply because I have no idea what else to say. Her statement required a response and at this moment in time, this is the best I can do.

  ‘Oh, as well as can be expected, really. Under the circumstances …’

  We leave it at that. There is no need to mention her husband’s suicide all those years ago and her daughter’s drug habit. Some things are better not said.

  Right on cue my phone vibrates and beeps, saving us both from the awful, uncomfortable sensation that has settled between us.

  I reach into my pocket and drag it out, expecting it to be Freya asking what time I will arrive. I told her to text me mid-afternoon before I caught the train into Sunderland.

  Beverley’s name jumps out at me. I ready myself and open the message. Her words are laced with such revulsion and animosity, they take my breath away. I did the right thing, refusing to go ahead with this thing. I re-read the message, each word sending a wave of fear through me. I am so relieved to be out of it. And yet, I’m not out of it, am I? She is determined to keep me embroiled in it. I read the message again, unable to comprehend what I am seeing, unable to link these words to the middle-class, middle-aged lady I spoke to all those months ago.